review

Takashi Yamazaki directs the best monster attacks in the multiplex: “Godzilla Minus Zero,” his follow-up to the 2023 period picture hit “Godzilla Minus One,” opens with a ground-eye view of the decimation of Matsumoto, a midsized mountain town that also happens to be where Yamazaki was born. One local calls its shellacking by winged, dragon-necked Ghidorah a “cruel twist of fate,” moaning that the village was never bombed during World War II. The moralistic film takes no pleasure in destroying Matsumoto; it’s pro-human to a fault. But boy, does the audience shiver with delight watching Ghidorah stomp buildings to rubble while the sound design rattles our seats.

The filmmaker François Truffaut once insisted that it’s impossible to make a truly anti-war film, since its images of combat simply pack too much of a visceral thrill. I’ll add to that: It’s impossible to make an anti-Godzilla film when we’ve all bought tickets to watch the big lizard smash.

Nevertheless, Yamazaki wants to try making a genuinely empathetic disaster movie and he’s earned the right. He’s the rare filmmaker to win his own Oscar for visual effects after Stanley Kubrick did so with “2001: A Space Odyssey.” This decent sequel works very hard to make us feel sad about its mass deaths; the only blood Yamazaki is willing to show is when the injured pack the hospitals. But he’s exponentially better at directing action sequences than he is at emotional ones, and as soon as composer Naoki Satô’s dynamic orchestral score crescendoes up, up, up into Godzilla’s theme music, I couldn’t wait to see the monster explode onto the screen to wreak more havoc.

It’s now 1949 and “Godzilla Minus One’s” core trio is back: reluctant former kamikaze pilot Kōichi Shikishima (Ryunosuke Kamiki) and his family of an orphaned little girl, Akiko (Sae Nagatani), and the woman he’s teamed up with to raise her, Noriko (Minami Hamabe), a prickly urchin who fast pivots to a sweetie pie. Noriko, you may remember, miraculously survived Godzilla’s rampage through Tokyo. This script justifies that lame happy ending with a clever idea about the radiation sickness that results from suffering a blast of the creature’s atomic breath.

The now-married couple are too wan to take up as much of the running time as they do. While they’re meant to be in love, their screen chemistry feels closer to roommates. That would be a bracing statement on their need to cling to their hastily settled home life if Yamazaki was actually making it. Instead, there’s just an awful lot of tears — and young Nagatani is by far the best at sobbing. When the small girl wails, “Something scary is coming again!” the intensity of her terror shatters your heart.

Naval engineer Noda (Hidetaka Yoshioka) also returns with a new promotion to director of the Large-Scale Disaster Response Bureau. There, he welcomes two more scientists: Aoyama (Masami Nagasawa), a plucky meteorologist, and Tanaka (Kanji Murakami), a vengeful biologist who comes with such a compelling backstory that the film would be more interesting if he was the lead. Tanaka also explains his reasoning behind Ghidorah’s name — it’s a Japanese portmanteau of the mythological Greek beasts Hydra and Chimera.

The post-World War II geopolitical landscape is reconstructing itself faster than the Ginza district, which was devastated in the last film and continues to look like a battlefield. The U.S. military has pivoted from fighting against Japan to helping the county fight the kaiju, as long as the Japanese are the ones risking their necks on the front lines. The United States prefers to team with Japan against Russia; Japan, in turn, would rather ally with Godzilla over Ghidorah. However, when the film begins, its characters sincerely think that Godzilla, last seen crumbling to smithereens in the Pacific, is dead. What fun it is to see people realize for the first time that the monster is going to keep coming back.

This is a war film in style and substance, emphasizing the mental exhaustion of a country that cannot handle any more carnage. Kōichi even describes Ghidorah in war terms as “a bomber with guns everywhere and no blind spots” — and that’s before the flying creature sprouts two more heads. One aerial fight is a dazzler with long takes of planes swooping through the clouds accompanied by the teeth-rattling clatter of lightning bolts that crash against your ears like metal trashcan lids. (The muscular cinematography and sound design are, respectively, by Kôzô Shibasaki and Natsuko Inoue.)

Yet a fascinating element of “Godzilla Minus Zero” — as well as director Hideaki Anno’s 2016 “Shin Godzilla” — is how they make a point of featuring saviors who are adamantly dull. The people trying to save the day are never macho or quippy. They wear drab suits and work out of drab offices; the dramatic montages are of people working intently at their desks. When their plans go badly, they take full responsibility. When they succeed, they pause to honor everything sacrificed in the effort, and would find it barbaric if anyone dared to pump their fists.

The focus on shared burdens over individual heroics extends even to the civilians who are forever being told how to stifle their feelings for the common good, whether that’s young Akiko lectured not to hug her adopted daddy in front of other orphans, or, conversely, the parents of a dead child who are asked to cry quieter.

At its core, “Godzilla Minus Zero” drills at the core difference between King Kong and a kaiju: A King Kong movie is about respecting nature while a Godzilla film is about confronting cold and indiscriminate death. Fittingly, the showdown between Godzilla and Ghidorah plays like a ghastly cockfight.

Still, the movie’s tone is so guilt-inducing and grim that when one character insists that there will be time to grieve later, I wanted to blurt out that everyone onscreen has been grieving the whole time. At the risk of sounding monstrous, can we please get back to the smashing?

Early in “Queen at Sea,” there’s a sex scene. It’s brief and shows little, but the fleeting moment will inform everything that happens in writer-director Lance Hammer’s crushing second feature. This movie about consent and dementia — and ultimately, far much more — hinges on a questionable act that provokes a hasty emotional reaction. In the process, a family tries to come to the aid of its ailing matriarch, presented with only a series of unappealing options, each more unbearable than the next.

Juliette Binoche is beautifully fragile as Amanda, the dutiful daughter of Leslie (Anna Calder-Marshall), who herself has been married to second husband Martin (Tom Courtenay) for 18 years. Amanda and her teenage daughter Sarah (Florence Hunt) visit the older couple’s London home one morning, shocked to open their bedroom door to find Martin on top of Leslie, thrusting away. But embarrassment quickly gives way to anger for Amanda: Leslie has advanced dementia and her doctor has told Martin that he can no longer have sex with Leslie because she doesn’t possess the mental acuteness to give consent. Furious at her stepfather, Amanda phones the police, hoping the authorities can put a scare into him.

But Amanda’s call has unintended consequences. When the police arrive, they arrest Martin, advising Amanda that she take her mother for a “forensic medical examination” — or, as Amanda puts it bluntly, a rape exam — to ensure she has not been injured. Amanda’s rage quickly morphs into panic because she knows how dependent the childlike Leslie is on her husband, who functions as her primary caregiver. She just wanted to teach Martin a lesson, but soon, social services intervene to determine whether the elderly couple has to be separated for Leslie’s safety.

Even before the police becomes involved, Hammer hints at his film’s tense tenor. You can feel it in how he shoots the house’s severely winding stairs — dangerous for Leslie and Martin to navigate — from occasionally vertiginous angles. The camera rarely moves as we spy charged conversations from a distance, sometimes from another room or from a floor above the characters. We’re intruders, stealing glimpses of a private domestic drama not meant for our prying eyes.

Unlike previous terrific pictures about dementia (such as “The Father”), “Queen at Sea” is less about the crippling condition than it is the fulcrum for a troubling exploration of several topics: mortality, love, parenting and the grim futility of everything. Similarly, although Hammer takes seriously the question of consent, he widens his narrative’s lens to provide a thoughtful, complex view of the issue. Martin adores his wife, insisting that their doctor is wrong and that Leslie, in fact, does understand her sexual urges. To back up his argument, he informs Amanda that, frequently, it is her mother who initiates sex. But is that because dementia has robbed Leslie of the ability to modulate her urges? “Queen at Sea” offers no answers, leaving the viewer as uncertain as Amanda, who wants to protect her mother but cannot deny how drawn Leslie is to her kindly husband.

At the film’s heart is a terribly relatable family conflict in which each character assumes that they know best. Binoche plays Amanda with a surfeit of tenderness for her mother, who goes from being lucid to infantile without warning. (Calder-Marshall poignantly channels the silent helplessness that consumes those with dementia, making her an unstable chemical compound always on the verge of explosion.)

Just as fiercely loyal as Amanda, Martin vainly advocates for his beloved, knowing that Amanda has power of attorney and, therefore, the upper hand. Courtenay gives a marvelous performance suffused with simmering rage: To Martin’s way of thinking, it was Amanda’s foolish overreaction to seeing them have sex that led to all these problems. That feeling of betrayal resides on his face for the rest of “Queen at Sea,” even as he and his stepdaughter negotiate a wobbly truce concerning Leslie’s future, which includes an unexpectedly fraught trip to a care home.

Hammer has not made a film since 2008’s “Ballast,” another spare drama about brittle lives. Eighteen years later, his formal command remains formidable. Eventually, Hammer starts cutting away from the central narrative to focus on Sarah as she hangs out with friends and spends time with a cute boy, James (Cody Molko). At first, these carefree interludes seem to be a welcome respite from “Queen at Sea’s” choking anxiety. But as Leslie’s situation grows increasingly complicated, Sarah’s emerging love story proves to be a bittersweet, ironic counterpoint. Maybe Sarah will find love and great sex — like her parents and grandparents before her — but the shadow of despair that has descended on her family will someday come for her. She’s still too young to know how impossible aging can be.

We’re past due for dystopian storytelling to train its lens on a creature in the here and now, one whose very survival speaks to consequential global change. Take the ice-dependent polar bear, rapidly losing its food-sustaining habitat and having to perilously adapt by nudging further and further into human spaces. And yet, as the moody, starkly beautiful documentary “Nuisance Bear” reveals, following just one wandering ursus maritimus in search of food will still ultimately tell you as much about the two-legged mammals who created its plight.

Broadening and deepening their acclaimed, same-titled short from 2022, directors Jack Weisman and Gabriela Osio Vanden have made a nature film turned on its head. They camped out in Churchill, Manitoba, along the Hudson Bay, where hundreds of polar bears migrate each winter, to capture their increasing encroachment into human communities. There’s an ironic disconnect when a town calls itself “Polar Bear Capital of the World” — it’s not like these creatures, who existed long before us, get to be in charge of anything. Their food source becomes town dumps, plus, in the interests of “conservation,” they get treated either like a roaming photo-op for tourists or, if too aggressive and needing to be reminded of their place, like a drunk vagrant consigned to a night in the clink. (There’s a holding facility for polar bears before they’re let loose again.)

Weisman and Vanden oversaw a crew of six cinematographers (including themselves) and built their visuals primarily around the perspective of one isolated, scavenging bear as it endures busloads of sightseeing visitors, brief incarceration from a patrol operation and, after an airlift, an even more conflict-ridden journey north toward the Inuit town Arviat, just in time for that hamlet’s annual hunt. With attacks on the rise, the people of Arviat harbor no delusion that polar bears are endangered.

Their experience with avinnaarjuk, an Inuit term for roaming bears without fear of humans, is the movie’s other carefully considered viewpoint, since the Inuit, too, have suffered under a system of control. Colonialism herded these Indigenous communities directly in the path of the bears’ ancient migration, and now hunting regulations hamper their ability to manage the population. “Nuisance Bear” is partly narrated by one such affected elder, Mike Tunalaaq Gibbons. His weary voice, describing with sympathy what this solitary, hungry rover is going through, details a broken relationship between human and beast, but more keenly and traumatically, between humans and humans. It’s as if we’re privy not only to hard-earned wisdom but something poignant and therapeutic about loss and change.

The bear, meanwhile, gets our empathy, as any creature would. Whether gazed upon in close-up (an intimacy made possible when it’s dosed with tranquilizers) or viewed from a distance as it’s chased across a landscape increasingly marked by human settlement — trash, fences, machinery, buildings — our ursine antihero is like some lost spirit, scrambling for purchase where claws no longer reliably grip. The steady, gliding images, part surveillance, part concern, suggest a de-evolution. When Cristóbal Tapia de Veer’s ethereal score is playing, “Nuisance Bear” evokes a sacred domain where the cosmic hymn that’s always undergirded it has begun to lose its melody.

If you’re a certain age — say, the generation most excited by the prospect of a “Rocky” origin story — you probably have spent a good few decades watching people imitate Sylvester Stallone. You might be able to pull it off yourself. Start with the gravely voice that rumbles and mumbles, make your eyes as heavy-lidded as possible, add a swaggering shoulder roll and then just brood, baby, brood.

Anthony Ippolito has the moves down pat in “I Play Rocky,” Peter Farrelly’s endearing crowd-pleaser, an underdog story about making the underdog movie that went on to win the Oscar for best picture in 1977. The title comes from Stallone’s repeated insistence that he portray the working-class fighter in the film that he wrote for himself. The studio wanted a star — Ryan O’Neal or Burt Reynolds, among others — and offered Stallone $360,000 for the script if he would just walk away. Stallone refused, even though his bank account was down to $106.

“I told my wife that I’d rather bury it in the backyard and let the caterpillars play Rocky,” he said shortly before the movie opened. “I would have hated myself for selling out, the way we hate most people for selling out.”

And that’s why the new film, written by Peter Gamble, has Ippolito say the title so many times that, by the end, you feel like you’ve gone a full 15 rounds with Apollo Creed and been pummeled into submission.

But as you’re watching this breezy movie as it slipstreams its way down memory lane, it starts to feel like Ippolito really is playing Rocky and not Stallone. The difference might be negligible, since “Rocky” was, in many respects, Stallone’s story: a sensitive palooka struggling for the chance to prove himself and earn a measure of self-respect, all the while supported by a woman who believes in his dream.

But the charming, softie Stallone we see in “I Am Rocky” seems like a character from mythology, a Hercules lacking the prickly complexities that Stallone himself detailed in his recent memoir. His tumultuous relationship with his father, Frank (Matt Dillon), is given little attention. Watching this movie, you might be reminded of the quote from “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance”: “When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.” And while the facts of this oft-told story are, for the most part, accurate, “I Am Rocky” feels too neat, a movie that relies on our love for “Rocky,” the movie and the character.

The film’s first half wastes no time laying the groundwork. It’s 1974 and Stallone is living in squalor in a New York flophouse. When he can’t even afford that, he takes to the streets, sleeping in an alley and adopting a stray bullmastiff that he names Butkus, the same dog that would go on to appear with him in “Rocky.” Desperate for cash, he accepts a part in a softcore porn flick. He eventually takes a job at a movie theater, where he meets Sasha (a lovely AnnaSophia Robb), who, growing weary of his frustrations and their precarious finances, tells him he should write a screenplay with a meaty part for himself.

Stallone soon does just that, cranking out “Rocky” in three and a half days after watching longshot Chuck Wepner (a.k.a. “The Bayonne Bleeder”) go 15 rounds against Muhammad Ali in a heavyweight championship fight. Producers Robert Chartoff (Toby Kebbell) and Irwin Winkler (P.J. Byrne) love the script and take it to brusque studio exec Sandy Maddox (Tracy Letts, gloriously cantankerous playing a composite character), who tells them to give Stallone $50,000 for the screenplay and send this complete unknown on his way. Stallone has a three-word rejoinder.

You don’t need a spoiler alert to know that he indeed does play Rocky, and the second half of the film re-creates the movie’s production, which, because of the shoestring budget, was arduous. The tight schedule forced Stallone to work even when he was sick and hurt. If he didn’t, he feared he’d be fired because the studio still wasn’t thrilled with him playing the lead.

There’s something for everyone in this section. Film nerds will glory in watching Steadicam inventor Garrett Brown (Michael Fuchs) sprinting up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, smoothly following Stallone, creating “Rocky’s” most famous scene with a fluidity that revolutionized moviemaking. Downtrodden directors will appreciate Jay Duplass’ knowing portrayal of John G. Avildsen, charged with making “Rocky” as quickly and frugally as possible. Avildsen brought the movie in on time and went on to win the Oscar for directing.

And longtime fans will appreciate that the film plays all the hits: the bare-knuckle beef pounding, the training sequences, the intimate ice rink scene with Talia Shire (Kiki Seto). Hollywood loves to celebrate its own scrappy mythmaking. (Ippolito’s biggest part prior to this was playing Al Pacino in “The Offer,” a limited series about the making of “The Godfather.”) Sure, it’s sentimental. And maybe you’d be better off just staying home and revisiting “Rocky.” What can I say? I put Bill Conti’s soaring “Gonna Fly Now” on repeat during the drive home. Nostalgia is a powerful drug.

Whether in Missouri or Bruges, an isle off the coast of Ireland or a speck in the Pacific Ocean, a Martin McDonagh movie whisks audiences someplace remote for a detached view of the mess we’ve made of civilization. Human society continually tries to organize itself around religion, politics, empathy and law. His whip-smart and violent comedies are insights into why it keeps failing.

“Wild Horse Nine,” an exemplar of the format, is about two CIA agents, Chris and Lee (John Malkovich and Sam Rockwell), enjoying a getaway on Easter Island. It’s 1973 and the men are stationed in Santiago, Chile, where the U.S. has spent millions of dollars on a propaganda campaign to prevent the socialist Salvador Allende from winning the presidency. When Chileans vote for him anyway, Richard Nixon gives secret orders to “kick them in the ass,” empowering Henry Kissinger to tank the country’s economy, raise inflation, fund paid protesters and stoke extremist polarization.

“We came here to destabilize your country, and it’s going great,” Chris brags to a pair of flabbergasted young Chilean women, Monica and Alicia (Mariana di Girolamo and Ailín Salas), fellow tourists who gape at this Yankee old-timer in dismay. In a few months, a military coup will install Gen. Augusto Pinochet as dictator and begin to disappear liberal dissenters. The folk singer Victor Jara (Aron Hernández), the Woody Guthrie of Chile, is also in Easter Island to play a show and he, too, will soon be machine-gunned by the Army. McDonagh doesn’t show us this (and the soundtrack leans more on Jara’s mentor, Violeta Parra). But he’s definitely hoping you leave the theater and look him up.

Chris likely doesn’t have that long to live himself. The aging spy is suffering from several diseases including dementia, impaired judgment and a mildly guilty conscience — a fatal combination for a blabbermouth who claims to know the whereabouts of the rifle that may have shot John F. Kennedy. Some of what Chris says is a lie; some is addled and confused. His scariest statements are unapologetic facts about the CIA’s involvement in removing other progressive leaders in the Congo and Guatemala. Chris describes overthrowing governments as casually as if he was recalling yesterday’s lunch.

Only classic screwball comedians have delivered dialogue as blithely as Malkovich does here, with zingers that float off unburdened by the heaviness of the real world. He’s marvelous in this. His rogue is as destructive as his villains in “Dangerous Liaisons” and “Con Air,” but carries himself with the lightness of his self-mocking performance in “Being John Malkovich.” While Malkovich gets the best lines, Rockwell gets the best reaction shots, staring aghast at his pesky colleague. Yet, McDonagh himself doesn’t have quite as light of a touch as usual. One of Chris’ digressions about how he’s becoming kinder to insects is terrific, until the script goes one sentence too far and forces the character to blurt out the subtext: He’s nicer to Chile’s moths than to its people.

Ostensibly, the duo are on vacation. Narratively, one has evaded punishment for an outrageous crime and the other has been ordered by their boss, MJ (Steve Buscemi), to assassinate his friend before the truth escapes. The plot is so similar to McDonagh’s 2008 feature film debut, the masterpiece “In Bruges,” which starred Brendan Gleeson and Colin Farrell as exiled hit men, that the filmmaker should sue himself for plagiarism. I’ll forgive it only because “In Bruges” is one of the best movies of the 21st century. (And anyway, both films already owe a debt to John Steinbeck’s sympathetic galumphs George and Lennie in “Of Mice and Men.”)

In transplanting the setting from “Bruges’” moody, gloomy medieval hamlet to a sunshiny island populated by free-roaming ponies, McDonagh teases the idea that this is a western with a twist: a moral showdown told from the perspective of the hired guns who claim they’re too ignorant to take blame. (He even finagles an excuse to cut to Monument Valley.) Together, Chris and Lee have killed over six dozen people, but never for personal reasons — they’re employees. “Maybe I should have learned more about the places I went into,” Chris muses. Staying dumb allows him to pretend that he’s not John Wayne massacring the Comanches. He’s just the horse underneath John Wayne who doesn’t have any control over where he’s told to go.

McDonagh gets a kick out of making us enjoy palling around with sinners as they chitchat about the correlation between democracies and good cheese. Like him, they refuse to retire their favorite retrograde insults which, at this point, feels like McDonagh’s own in-joke for himself. I suspect it amuses him that audiences get more upset when one of his characters says a slur than when that same character shoots someone in the face.

No filmmaker working today is as merciless with a quip. Debating the power of mass protest with Monica and Alicia, Chris says, “Marches are just the place where we can get the cleanest photos of you without you knowing,” a punchline that lands with a wallop in today’s era of constant surveillance. We cringe at Chris’ aberrant chattiness and recoil from his stony confidence that men like him and Lee will continue to control the world, an assurance as implacable as Easter Island’s monolithic statues. Occasionally, cinematographer Ben Davis even lines up those centuries-old face carvings behind Malkovich to note their resemblance to his imposing profile.

Doom engulfs the movie much like the water circling the stunning coastline. The script’s air of inevitability prevents it from mustering up much suspense. Even when the danger ripples all the way to Lee’s wife (Parker Posey) back in the States, the tension drains away. You expect McDonagh to play around more with Chris’ memory loss and morphine addiction than he does; meanwhile, another junkie beat is so convenient that I can’t believe the film even tried to get away with it, and nearly succeeds.

“Wild Horse Nine’s” darkest prank is convincing us that a charming scoundrel like Chris should have a say in how and when he dies — a privilege he didn’t grant his own victims. What’s the use of punishing a terminally ill man? But that, McDonagh suggests, is how life actually works. Normal westerns mete out justice. This tropical one refuses.

Hollywood has been cranking out films about unprepared men thrust into fatherhood since the silent movie days when Charlie Chaplin’s Little Tramp found a littler tramp on his doorstep and raised the ragamuffin as his own in 1921’s “The Kid.”

Since then, we’ve seen unwitting uncles (John Candy’s Buck), a triad of dads (“Three Men and a Baby”) and self-absorbed workaholics rethinking their priorities (Dustin Hoffman in “Kramer vs. Kramer”). But we’ve never seen an instant parent quite like Jordan Firstman‘s party promoter Peter in “Club Kid,” the Cannes Film Festival sensation that Firstman impressively directed and wrote for himself.

We meet Peter in a whirlwind, strobe-heavy blur of an opening sequence that takes us through a disorienting parade of coke-and-ketamine-fueled nights in New York’s underground queer club scene. Everyone wants a piece of Peter. His energy (and the drugs he sells) guarantee a good time. It’s a thrilling introduction, shot on 35mm on location in New York City, and the throbbing bass is still bumping around my skull.

When Peter stumbles back to his rent-controlled apartment, his downstairs neighbor Evelyn (Colleen Camp) gives him the once-over while telling him that she just finished Steven Spielberg’s “War Horse” and that “it’s as good as they say.” Peter doesn’t hear her. (Probably the bass is ringing in his ears too.)

“You ever just lose 10 years?” he asks Evelyn.

It turns out he has done just that. The night we’ve witnessed actually took place a decade ago. And one of its episodes included a hetero hookup, part of what began as a threesome with a hot dude and British tourist, Leonora (Paris Petitjean). Peter had forgotten about it until one of Leonora’s friends, Edison (Kirby Howell-Baptiste), knocks on his door, her arm around the beautiful 10-year-old recently orphaned Arlo (Reggie Absolom). Now this Peter (Pan) is going to have to grow up — fast.

If you know Firstman, it might be as an actor in the HBO series “I Love LA” or perhaps Sebastián Silva’s 2023 black comedy “Rotting in the Sun,” in which he played a heightened, vapid version of himself. You may also know him as an online provocateur, sharp and self-aware. Those familiar with that Jordan Firstman might be shocked to watch “Club Kid” and discover that the guy on the screen — and the creator behind the camera — is being utterly, hopelessly sincere with his feature film directorial debut. Get ready to wipe away a tear or two.

That disarming, open-hearted earnestness makes “Club Kid” a crowd-pleaser, albeit one that retains Firstman’s edgy comedy and insider knowledge of queer New York nightlife, as well as a lived-in awareness of how, over time, the nightlife can fray your soul. And just as Peter is ready to bid the scene an Irish goodbye, in walks Arlo, opening up an unlikely path to adulthood that astonishes Peter, a man-child who doesn’t own a single appropriate T-shirt that he can give to his newfound charge. (The one emblazoned “I love Björk and bareback” that Arlo initially picks out goes back into Peter’s closet.)

The thing is, Arlo really does love Björk, not to mention the Cocteau Twins, Elliott Smith and Massive Attack. Preternaturally poised and absolutely adorable, Arlo seems genetically engineered to fit into Peter’s chaotic life and thrive. He’s perfect. Too perfect. Given the tragic circumstances that brought him to Peter, you wait for the moment when grief and anger bubble up. That happens, if briefly. And then Arlo goes right back to being the coolest kid ever, except for maybe being lactose intolerant, but with all the plant-based swaps available these days, that’s hardly a deal-breaker.

Peter does tell Arlo that “it’s OK to be sad in my house,” confiding that he suffers from low self-esteem. This feels like Firstman trying to give some dimension to Peter, but it’s broad and lacking conviction. I’d say a bigger problem for Peter is that he drops $300 on some vinyl. Is there no Urban Outfitters near his apartment?

These issues nag a bit, but just a little because the loving chemistry between Firstman and Absolom is so real and tender. You can also forgive some of the shallower character notes because “Club Kid” is really funny, populated with a superb supporting cast that includes party girls Miss Benny, Alaska Riley and Saturn Risin9 as members of Peter’s rambunctious inner circle, Diego Calva as a child psychologist helping Peter (and, against his better judgment, falling for him) and Cara Delevingne, biting as a spiraling fellow promoter. Best of all is Eldar Isgandarov, playing a self-described “queer philosopher” who goes from couch-surfing at Peter’s place to moving in with Evelyn. He and Camp are so great together that, given the power, I’d green-light a spinoff feature pairing them without hesitation.

So there’s a lot to like. So much that when the film’s inevitable complications arrive — because, c’mon, somebody has to question the wisdom of Peter raising this kid — you feel a lump in your throat the size of a coke pile at one of Peter’s parties. If that comparison feels a little indelicate, it’s very much in keeping with the freewheeling spirit of “Club Kid,” a sentimental journey where the house music plays all night long.

A newcomer, less than a year old, has soared all the way to the guide’s highest slot? Yes. Swedish chef Marcus Jernmark stunned us both with his finer-dining debut in a glamorous subterranean lair on West Pico Boulevard. “Finer,” meaning: four substantial set courses, which change every six or so weeks, for a reasonable $150 per person in our era of $400 tasting menus. The restaurant, packed nightly, doubles as a master class on how to conduct an effective introduction to Los Angeles. This isn’t someone trying to demonstrate what “California cuisine” should be; it’s someone keeping us rapt with his own story. Jernmark’s genius — pairing his Scandinavian instincts with the riches of our local harvests — doesn’t jump out through a perfunctory scroll of Lielle’s dishes on social media. Everything is meticulously plated, but you have to taste the flashbulb-bright acidity among hills of snipped vegetables and luxe seafood, and how he pairs meats and fruits for maximum dramatic tension. And the bread! Two loaves bookend dinner: Crusty-plush sourdough to be smeared with cultured butter that’s nearly cheese, and golden cardamom buns soaked in a Jernmark concoction riffing on boozy spiced Swedish punsch.

Lielle is astonishing from the outset, a rarity heightened by the front-of-house staff’s united, enlightened mode of hospitality; the surroundings, designed to evoke a sumptuous wine cave; and a spectacular, diverse wine list worthy of the atmosphere. Is it the great higher-end debut of the decade? Quite possibly, and there’s a bonus: Jernmark and his team just opened Marée, a bistro upstairs from Lielle, with fun brainstorms like mussels “gratin” and the city’s next must-have burger.
Read Bill Addison’s review of Lielle.

It takes frighteningly little to destroy a happy family. So much love, so much joy, so much shared history can be erased by one terrible act or the discovery of something rotten that had been festering undetected. Austrian filmmaker Marie Kreutzer explores the unimaginable in “Gentle Monster,” in which a celebrated concert pianist learns that her husband and the father of her son might be involved in child pornography. Instantly, her life shatters, the pieces so scattered she may never be able to pick them all up.

Léa Seydoux plays Lucy, a musician who brings an element of social commentary to her avant-garde live performances, delivering ethereal covers of emphatic love songs written by men — such as Bryan Adams’ “(Everything I Do) I Do It for You” — to interrogate that gender’s general discomfort with emotions. It’s an important early clue into Kreutzer’s larger aims, but first the writer-director establishes Lucy’s endearing rapport with her sensitive husband Philip (Laurence Rupp) and their pre-tween son Johnny (Malo Blanchet). Having recently moved to the German countryside after living in Munich, they’re adjusting to a quieter existence with fewer neighbors but less-reliable cell service. Lucy and Philip’s sex life remains robust and Johnny enjoys the extra outdoor space. Nothing’s ever perfect, but all seems well enough.

Yet when the police arrive unannounced one morning, Philip isn’t surprised. Led by Elsa (Jella Haase), the authorities inform him they need to confiscate his computers and hard drives. He offers no resistance, quickly getting on the phone to his lawyer. Lucy comes downstairs, baffled by what’s going on as he’s taken away. When she later visits the police station to get more information, she’s directed to the second floor. That’s when Lucy realizes the horrible truth: That’s the floor assigned to the crime unit specializing in stopping sexualized violence against children. Philip, the love of her life, has been accused of storing and sharing child pornography.

As Philip awaits trial at home, Lucy processes the shock, too smart to believe this is all some awful misunderstanding. Hurriedly packing a bag, she drives off with Johnny, the two of them moving in with her regal, chilly mother Eloise (Catherine Deneuve), although Lucy does not tell her why she’s left Philip. (The judgy Eloise, herself a musician, smugly assumes that her daughter figured out that having a family is death for an artist.) Philip repeatedly calls Lucy, hoping to explain himself, but she now cannot trust anything he says. Seydoux keeps her character’s storm of emotions intriguingly opaque. Shame, disgust, anger, sadness and confusion equally course through Lucy, who starts wondering about the extent of Philip’s criminality. Did he ever abuse their son?

Kreutzer, whose 2022 drama “Corsage” starred Vicky Krieps as a rebellious 19th century empress, explores Lucy’s odyssey as she grapples with the dawning fact that she long shared a bed with a pedophile. But “Gentle Monster” eventually introduces a parallel storyline involving Elsa, the investigator. When she’s not cracking down on child pornographers — grim work that she nonetheless takes great pride in — she’s minding her aging father, Hermann (Sylvester Groth), who is experiencing severe cognitive decline. His live-in nurse Natalia (Patrycja Ziółkowska) tells Elsa that he tried to sexually assault her, which upsets Elsa but also puts her in a bind: Natalia is the only care worker Hermann has actually gotten along with. Elsa abhors his behavior but she desperately wants Natalia to stay, frantically assuring her that she’ll get him to stop.

Although both plotlines concern predatory men, “Gentle Monster” expands its thematic scope to more broadly discuss the emotional labor that women are forced to perform. Philip’s rich parents insist their son couldn’t have done anything wrong, while Elsa’s absent brother leaves her to figure out what to do about their ailing father. In their own ways, Lucy and Elsa shoulder a significant burden that has been imposed on them by someone they love, their devotion now being exploited. And in both cases, there is a societal expectation that it’s their duty to be a solo support system — Lucy as a mother and wife, Elsa as a daughter. As accomplished as these two women are, ultimately they’re reduced to being nurturers and caregivers.

Unfortunately, much like Lucy’s stilted deconstruction of male love songs, “Gentle Monster” ends up a little too intellectual for its own good, its ideas more interesting to mull over than to feel deeply. In addition, there’s a nagging narrative tidiness to Lucy’s and Elsa’s stories so conveniently echoing each other. And as formidable as Seydoux can be, the character isn’t so much heartbreakingly conflicted as she is oddly muddled and underdeveloped. Kreutzer does not fully succeed in elucidating how women are imperiled by sexual predators — even when they are not the ones directly affected — but her uneven film ripples with pain. Lucy’s behavior may be frustratingly inconsistent, but many viewers will recognize the immeasurable suffering that drives it.

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“Christmas at the Kringles” is a Christmas-themed horror movie getting released on Halloween weekend but largely set on Valentine’s Day, if that gives you any indication of the identity crisis this confused project is going through. Scripted by Zack Imbrogno and directed by Kevin Lewis, it should just be content to be a comedy — the horror elements are unnecessary, forced and mean-spirited, even for the spooky season.

Christmas horror has been around for a while. Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol” is a ghost story at root, and some of the earliest slasher films, 1972’s “Silent Night, Bloody Night” and 1974’s “Black Christmas,” utilize the holiday setting for both aesthetic and thematic tension. The ironic juxtaposition between Christmas cheer and bloody terror heightens the stakes. Usually.

But in “Christmas at the Kringles,” the Christmas theme is the lowest common denominator, present only as gaudy decoration, creepy song cues and vulgarly re-appropriated sayings. In an opening sequence, we witness a woman impaled by a Christmas tree, her severed head plopped atop it in lieu of a star. Do we know her? No. Will we ever? Also no. She serves merely as a cautionary tale, when it’s already too late for our protagonists. Her grisly demise also lets us know that this is a horror movie, because it’s mostly a comedy for the first act.

It really should have stayed that way, especially when the filmmakers have Thomas Lennon and Arden Myrin at their disposal, playing the baddies: Kringle parents Nick and Carol, who celebrate Christmas year-round and warmly welcome their new neighbors the Seversons, Mark (Ron Livingston) and Julie (Rachel Bilson) and their son Bobby (Jake Jewkes). The Seversons are refugees from “the city” who have decamped to the suburbs in hopes of getting their spark back as a family.

Livingston, playing a cold workaholic, seems generally perturbed to be there, while Bilson’s Julie, desperate to make her family whole again, also has an air of desperation. The Seversons are sucked into the Kringles’ orbit, despite warnings from a man-child neighbor, Daryl (Donald Faison), and a drunk mall Santa (Rob Riggle), who speak eerily of the home’s previous inhabitants (presumably the woman we saw with the tree).

Lennon, a founding member of comedy troupe the State and creator of the cult comedy series “Reno 911!,” is a secret weapon, a cruise missile of targeted timing and hilarious asides. Myrin mostly manages to match him beat for beat and the pair are quite funny together. So why couldn’t this just ride with that, in a “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation” kind of way? In a nod to that film, Beverly D’Angelo co-stars as the Kringle family matriarch.

Instead, we’re treated (more like tricked) to a plot about a cult of “joy” into which the Kringles are trying to recruit the new family next door. David Wain appears in a recruitment video as leader Noel Tannenbaum. It all starts to feel like a veiled skewering of Scientology, which could be interesting until they start throwing chainsaws and Christmas gimps into the mix. It devolves into a noisy, chaotic and ultimately meaningless bloodbath, simply a means to an end in which Bilson gets to kill someone with milk and cookies.

Ostensibly, Livingston’s Mark is supposed to be the Grinch, Lennon’s character jolly old St. Nicholas, their eventual roles reversed as the chainsaws rev up. That’s the idea at least, but “Christmas at the Kringles” is too disorganized and janky for any of its concepts to land, so the filmmakers rely on gore and hacky punchlines to wrap up this lump of coal and pretend it’s a shiny new toy. It should come with a gift receipt.

Katie Walsh is a Tribune News Service film critic.

The touring production of Meredith Willson’s “The Music Man” that opened Tuesday at the Ahmanson Theatre isn’t an Actors’ Equity Assn. production. When I listed the revival, directed by Matt Lenz, among my fall preview highlights, I assumed it would be of the caliber we have come to expect from Center Theatre Group.

I attended Tuesday’s opening and was disappointed to find a community-theater-level production beneath the superficial sheen of a commercial national tour. The costumes (by Santo Loquasto from the 2022 Broadway revival starring Hugh Jackman) are stunning. The painterly, storybook scenic design by Ann Beyersdorfer, engineered for maximum efficiency, is also lovely and blends beautifully with the Loquasto’s color palette.

The singing is robust, full-throated and spirited. Elizabeth D’Aiuto, who plays Marian, the librarian of this small Iowa town who captures the roving eye of traveling salesman and con man Harold Hill (Elliott Andrews), has a piercing soprano that many an opera singer would envy.

The barbershop harmonies spin an alluring web. The ensemble fills the Ahmanson with blazing, amplified sound. But the strong singing seems disconnected from the actual story. The music has little character. We might as well be watching a concert version of the show.

The problem is the acting, which is broad, detached and, frankly, often amateurish. I felt as if I were watching a polished troupe of semi-amateurs. The less said about the supporting cast, the better. The characterizations are unsubtle across the board. And how could it be otherwise when the actors seem more intent on impressing the audience than relating to one another?

Andrews seems particularly guilty of this sin. But then his character is meant to be smugly self-congratulatory. Harold Hill has come to River City to pull off another swindle. He’s selling musical instruments and costumes to a town that doesn’t yet even have a children’s marching band.

A wiry presence with a capering physical comedy spryness reminiscent of Dick Van Dyke (who starred in the 1980 Broadway revival of “The Music Man” that had a pre-Broadway run at the Pantages Theatre), Andrews makes a rather dashing and daring Harold Hill. He’s no Hugh Jackman, who had the Broadway audience in the palm of his hand when he essayed the role. But Andrews handsomely fills out the part and can sing appealingly when not too much emotion is required. But his theatrical self-absorption makes it hard to care about Harold and even harder to understand why Marian would fall for this transparent fake.

The magic of Marian’s love turning Harold into an upstanding man fizzles. Neither performer seems able to connect. Both are acting in their separate bubbles. It’s like we’re watching a pantomime of “The Music Man” with some glorious, blaring music.

For those who want to scratch an itch for golden age musical nostalgia, this sparkling yet empty production might suffice. But we should expect more from CTG, which is touting that this is the first major production of “The Music Man” to be done in Los Angeles in 46 years.

When I learned that this was a non-Equity production, I was disappointed that CTG was damaging its stature as a nonprofit theater leader by offering such an important showcase to this second-tier touring production. But now having seen the production, I’m more disappointed that audiences are being bamboozled as badly as the good people of River City.

Theatrical gimcrack is being palmed off as a precious stone. Yes, the score still shimmers, but not everything that glitters is gold.

AFC orders judicial reviews for allegation FIFA President Gianni Infantino used AFC Congress for political purposes.

Jordan Football Association chief Prince Ali bin Hussein said he will cooperate with any Asian Football Confederation (AFC) judicial review after he accused FIFA President Gianni Infantino of taking over last week’s AFC Congress for political purposes.

AFC President Sheikh Salman bin Ibrahim Al Khalifa had endorsed Infantino for re-election at the continental body’s extraordinary congress in Tokyo.

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Following the meeting, Prince Ali alleged delegates had not been allowed to speak, question or debate matters and described the final day of the congress as “pure politics at the behest of Gianni Infantino”.

The AFC said on Tuesday that neither Prince Ali nor any other member association’s representatives had requested to speak and that allegations involving coercion, threats or bribery should be supported by credible evidence.

It added that it would refer Prince Ali’s statements to its judicial bodies.

“I respect the AFC and its judicial bodies and will cooperate fully with any process,” Prince Ali said in a post on X late on Wednesday.

“As the FIFA Statutes provide, the Jordan Football Association will cast its vote in the FIFA presidential election independently.”

He said his earlier post about the congress was intended to explain the FIFA presidential voting process and highlight the importance of transparency in football governance.

“Its final sentence states a principle the whole football family shares: no election should be open to coercion, threats or bribery. I stand by that principle. It was a statement of principle, not an allegation against any person,” he said.

“Where concerns arise, the proper place for them is the competent bodies.”

Prince Ali, who has been a vocal critic of FIFA’s leadership, said he would make no further comment while the matter remained under consideration.

Infantino, who has led FIFA since 2016, is seeking re-election in March after apologising for his abandoned proposal to sell a stake in FIFA competitions.

The AFC’s endorsement marked a sharp shift from its position three months earlier, when it accused FIFA of a “fundamental breach of trust” over the abandoned proposal.

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The two sides disagree sharply over what the changes to the law would mean in practice.

Dan Dunmoyer, president and chief executive of the California Building Industry Assn., a trade group supporting the measure, said the state is the slowest in the nation when it comes to reaching a conclusion about whether projects can be built. Per Dunmoyer, it’s one of the top two reasons housing here is so pricey.

Supporters point to accumulating interest on loans, shelling out for litigation and rising costs for materials.

Dunmoyer believes the measure would make the review process faster and easier. He estimated it will reduce the cost of building single family homes by $75,000 a pop.

“We think … it will allow us to provide more housing of all types, not just for sale, but for rent and legally defined affordable housing, even homeless shelters, more quickly than under the current environmental review process,” he said, “and we think that’s beneficial to Californians who very much want a place to call home.”

Proponents of the measure characterize the effort as procedural: It will firm up timelines, but projects still will be reviewed. But those fighting it, as well as some legal experts, say the 41-page proposal essentially guts CEQA for projects that qualify.

Aruna Prabhala, a senior attorney at the Center for Biological Diversity, a conservation group opposing the measure, said it would eliminate the need to analyze a project’s specific impacts, such as how it affects people living nearby. Instead, the process would become a “checklist” to see if the project complies with existing environmental laws.

The measure also states it “should be interpreted and implemented to afford the fullest possible weight to the interest of, and the approval and realization of, essential projects.” Prabhala and others believe it flips the purpose of CEQA to approve projects, rather than protect the environment.

“So much of what’s in the initiative mirrors what we’re seeing from the federal level and the Trump administration from rolling back environmental review, from really limiting public participation,” she said. “For not only failing to enforce protections for our air and water quality, but making it that much harder for agencies to do that.”

The One About Matthew Perry is a new documentary exploring the life of the late Friends star, who played Chandler Bing on the beloved sitcom, three years on from his tragic death

Famously the Friends theme tune features the lyric “I’ll be there for you”.

And in real life actor Matthew Perry had both family and friends looking out for him along the way for most of his 54 years. Best known as Chandler Bing, he was regularly the stand out comic actor in the sitcom, both with physical gags and his comic timing of lines.

But often away from the cameras and the fame, there were problems in his life and we see and hear about those in abundance in the new Netflix series. I didn’t expect to react strongly to The One About Matthew Perry, but his sister Mia Perry Bowick is a captivating and unflinching interviewee.

Ahead of watching the documentary, I couldn’t really understand why she had agreed to take part and what good could come from it. But she does an incredible job by balancing her words to pay tribute to a brother she loved dearly, at the same time as also explaining the difficulties and pain of him struggling and battling with addiction.

I felt I understood the issues around addiction and Matthew Perry much more after watching and had huge sympathy for him and Mia. Here was an incredibly intelligent and talented man trying to manage a career as an A-list star as he fights desperately to not drink or turn to drugs when he feels depressed.

Those that worked with him point to his comic timing, his willingness to help with script tweaks or tiny scene changes to make projects even better. But for all his successes he never seemed to be able to be completely happy.

Despite having lots of friends and women falling at his feet, he would sometimes feel alone, perhaps thinking back to a time he would be put on planes on his own as a child flying between him mum in Canada and his dad in Los Angeles after they had separated

In one archive interview he says: “The beliefs that I had were I was too needy, I wasn’t enough, and I didn’t matter. And my whole life was about trying to have those three things not be true.”

Mia elaborates and says: “He would talk about that feeling of kind of a sense of emptiness or loneliness that he couldn’t quite fill.”

His closest friends and girlfriends discuss a recurring theme of poor Matthew losing the battle over and over again with relapses, and then his death. At one stage Mia says tearfully: “I know that a lot of parts of him did not think it was possible for him to live a sober life.” Going back further Mia recalls the good times, when Matthew first landed the Friends job, and when she was being cuddled on set by his cast mates like Jennifer Aniston and Courteney Cox as a young girl.

Her brother could be ridiculously generous and bought her a Corvette car when she was 15 and regularly treated friends and girlfriends to expensive gifts too. He also wasn’t against putting his hand in his pocket to try to help solve his own problems as Mia highlights he spent $7million on rehab to try to get clean and stay sober.

But another scene that lives long in the memory is when Mia describes visiting him in rehab in 2001 and being unable to control her despair at the situation, running and hiding in a cupboard in tears until her brother came to get her.

“This was my big brother, my idolised big brother. He was the most special person on the planet. Just seeing him suffering, I was really scared for him.”

As she grew older she matured and found she was having to help him even more, rushing to hospital to his aid in 2018 just six weeks after she had given birth. He came out of a coma that time and was released from hospital against the odds after three months, but the hopes that this would be rock bottom only lasted a few years.

At times this series if a tough watch because it does not sugarcoat what happened and the issues around addiction. But this decision should be applauded. It is a million miles away from so many of the other “celebrity documentaries” released these days which gloss over the difficult moments over simplify what really happened.

Explaining her reasoning for taking part, Mia said: As his sister, he shaped who I am today, the person I strive to be, and the work to which I’ve devoted my life. Matthew had a beautiful heart and a generous spirit, and even in his darkest moments, he could still make you laugh and feel loved. I hope this series gives everyone who loved him, whether personally or from afar, a deeper appreciation for who he truly was, and the legacy he leaves behind.”

Mia, you were there for him, and along with director Mary Robertson you have done Matthew proud with this documentary.

VERDICT: A challenging and heartbreaking series *****

* The One About Matthew Perry premieres globally on Netflix on October 27.

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The brilliant Korean filmmaker Lee Chang-dong is a suffering protagonist’s best friend, exploring the buried pain in people like no other filmmaker. But he’s never been so delicately novelistic, and so accessibly human, as with his latest movie, “Possible Love,” even when Lee is spinning the enigmatic vibes he’s known for.

A marriage story weighty enough to bear two fascinatingly complex couples, it explores a web of isolation and desire knotted with the divisions and woes of society today: class, labor, media. The film fairly vibrates with ominous tension even in scenes in which seemingly nothing happens. (Which, admittedly, is a Lee staple if you remember his last film, 2018’s eerie psychological thriller “Burning.”) Astonishingly acted, intricately written, with nary a shot out of place and never insulting to its audience, “Possible Love” is a masterpiece of everyday struggle — essentially, who bears it and who doesn’t — and easily among the year’s best films.

At the funeral for a colleague who committed suicide in the wake of a disastrous labor strike, out-of-work Ho-seok (Sul Kyung-gu, of Lee’s “Peppermint Candy”) would rather brood in the car alone and let his patient, grasping-for-connection wife Mi-ok (Jeon Do-yeon, a Cannes prize-winner for her turn in Lee’s “Secret Sunshine”) be around others. With these blue collar parents’ grade-school-age son a tangibly quiet presence, a seemingly impassable unhappiness oozes from the opening scenes. The appearance inside the funeral home, however, of a documentary crew interviewing laid-off workers spurs Mi-ok to engage with the outgoing director, Ye-ji (Cho Yeo-jeong), whose reserved, well-to-do husband Sang-woo (Zo In-sung) is in tow. When Mi-ok agrees to participate in Ye-ji’s film, a friendship forms.

Is it friendship, though, or a mutually useful rapport? The women couldn’t be more unalike in terms of background and status. Mi-ok has to tell Ye-ji that her expensive clothes don’t jibe with someone championing labor issues. But they have a breezy, even jokey openness, fed by the stories Mi-ok tells on camera as well as soju-fueled double dates with their spouses. They also have in common husbands who are remote, albeit for vastly different reasons. Hedge-fund-rich Sang-woo has an air of cool privilege, while the gloomy, taciturn Ho-seok harbors unprocessed trauma about what happened during the strike, the details of which are judiciously doled out to us in flashbacks. (Lee drew the background for his scenario from a real-life labor protest met by a government crackdown that shocked the country.)

But underneath what seems promising, the beginnings of empathy and maybe healing, there’s something performative and calculated in this fast bond. There are Ye-ji’s filmic needs — “I’m trying to love these people,” she says privately to Sang-woo after he calls her behavior with them “Method acting” — and Mi-ok’s swirl of intentions, hoping to save her husband with not ignoring the allure of her new pal’s quietly confident and wealthy man. Right at the moment when more cracks materialize, Ye-ji invites this broken family for a shared weekend at Sang-woo’s vacation mansion.

You may be forgiven for anticipating a potboiler climax when a lush hideaway with a private beach is concerned, and what occurs there is indeed juicy. But that’s only because Lee, in his finest screenplay to date, has laid out precisely where his vectors of hardship, exploitation, pent-up anguish and hidden desire are going to converge. Just add more alcohol and more reminders of these couples’ experiential chasm, and Lee’s command of irony in a simmering atmosphere is in a league all its own.

The documentary angle, of course, is this great director probing the ethics in his own vocation as an intrusive force, one that shapes lives, emotions and, in this case, the weight of a genuine tragedy. In much the way he finessed a truth about art facing evil in “Poetry,” the camera here is both predatory and a tool for catharsis. In one scene, the confluence is literally breathtaking.

Best-of lists were made for performances like Jeon’s. With tear-swollen eyes and an anxious intelligence that imbues Mi-ok’s mission of repair with heartbreaking energy, she is this movie’s restless soul of want: a wife, lover, worker and mother trapped between the balm of recollecting better times and worry for the future. Alongside Sul’s deftly handled, physical characterization of a proud man swallowed by hurt he could never imagine, “Possible Love” stands as one of the more sensitively wrought depictions of a wounded marriage you’ll ever see.

And when it’s over, it somehow doesn’t feel over. Maybe no scene better embodies Lee’s exquisite communion with his characters than his last one, which supplies them with a hint of grace. “Possible Love” hovers over the moment’s sublimity like the moonlight and I haven’t stopped thinking about its elemental beauty since.

Move over, “Alice in Wonderland” and “The Wizard of Oz” — you too, “Spirited Away” and “The Chronicles of Narnia.” There’s a new eye-popping portal fantasy in town and its name is “Wildwood.”

This is a thoroughly involving and captivating stop-motion adventure from Laika, the animation studio that made such other beautiful handmade works as “Coraline” and “Kubo and the Two Strings.” But it’s clear from the level of artistry on display here that the company, led by producer-director Travis Knight, has steadily advanced in technology, innovation and ambition. (We’re talking 233 handcrafted puppets and 132 practical sets.) That’s saying a lot given Laika’s previous top-tier output. In addition, Laika worked alongside New Zealand’s Wētā FX to create the movie’s stunning digital environments and visual effects. That magical ivy is something else.

The wondrous story was adapted by frequent Laika collaborator Chris Butler from the epic 2011 novel written by Colin Meloy (frontman for indie rock band the Decemberists, whose original music is featured here) and illustrated by Carson Ellis. The tale kicks off as intrepid young Portland, Ore., teen Prue (voiced by Peyton Elizabeth Lee) defies her worrywart parents and, in their absence, takes her baby brother, Mac, out for a bike ride around her city’s singularly quirky downtown. (Not for nothing, Knight is a Portland native and Laika is based just outside the city.)

But things quickly turn pitch dark as a murder of crows (take that collective noun how you will) swoops down and, quite terrifyingly, à la Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds,” abducts little Mac. This leads a desperate Prue and, soon, her nerdy but plucky classmate Curtis (Jacob Tremblay), into the forbidden “Impassable Wilderness” at the edge of town to rescue Mac. From there on it’s a roller coaster of magnificently rendered battles, chases, near-misses and escapes as Prue and Curtis — separately and together — navigate the enchanted, astonishing woods and its wildly assorted communities of rulers, warriors and underlings.

As Prue and Curtis struggle to unravel the twisty lore of the obstacle-laden forest in their search for Mac, their outsider presence inadvertently sets off a long-festering showdown for control of the forest between its warring factions. On the one hand, it’s Alexandra, the sinister, dangerously obsessed Dowager Governess (Carey Mulligan) and her marauding band of military-style coyotes (Tom Waits, Charlie Day and others) versus a wayward posse of bandits (led by Mahershala Ali’s formidable Brendan). Then there’s the Avian Principality, a bird-led kingdom also against Alexandra’s mounting power, including a stunningly majestic eagle known as the General (Angela Bassett) and the wise old Owl Rex (Richard E. Grant).

Vying for dominance as well are the haughty, self-serving bureaucrats of the area’s bustling capital of South Wood (Jemaine Clement, Marc Evan Jackson), who pull their political strings from the relative safety of the grand Pittock Mansion. Other characters Prue and the increasingly brave Curtis encounter along the way include the wry and resourceful rat Septima (Awkwafina), the courageous bandit Niamh (Amandla Stenberg), elderly mystic Iphigenia (Tantoo Cardinal) and the realm’s harried postmaster (Len Cariou). The talking animals feel right at home alongside the human figures and the voice work is excellent all around.

Needless to say, there’s a lot going on in Butler’s busy, occasionally dizzying script, though compressing the approximately 550-page source material was surely no easy task. (As it is, “Wildwood” runs more than two hours, long for an animated film, though it rarely lags.) Still, the narrative has its share of “just go with it” moments and explanations. Bits of connective tissue can sometimes feel missing amid the action and the story’s lessons, particularly for Prue, don’t always land as strongly or affectingly as they could.

It should also be said that there’s some fairly outsize violence along the way, particularly during the combat scenes, plus other potentially disturbing bits of mayhem that may be too extreme for younger children. Parents take note: The film more than rightly earns its PG-13 rating.

Nonetheless, for most audiences, especially animation-loving teens and adults, this should prove a spectacularly immersive ride, vibrantly shot by the great Caleb Deschanel (“The Right Stuff,” “The Natural”) and crafted by a reported 49 animators who brought the film to life one dazzling, painstaking frame at a time.

A bittersweet homecoming — emphasis on the bitter — propels Polish filmmaker Paweł Pawlikowski’s spare, precise drama “Fatherland,” which takes an episode from the life of Nobel Prize-winning German author Thomas Mann and, with the help of some poetic license, creates a story full of simmering anger and sorrow. Only rarely do the dignified characters allow their emotions to come storming out. When they do, though, the sound seems to reverberate, the tumult of the past ringing in our ears.

Like Pawlikowski’s previous two features, “Ida” and “Cold War,” “Fatherland” is a period piece shot in black and white in a boxy 4:3 aspect ratio so that the frame resembles an old photograph, although his images contain no hint of nostalgia. It’s 1949, and the 70-something Mann (Hanns Zischler) has returned to Germany for the first time since fleeing to America 16 years prior. Accompanying him is Erika (Sandra Hüller), his daughter and fellow writer, who begrudgingly serves as interpreter, personal assistant and driver. In addition, she’ll offer her brutally honest thoughts on the flowery speeches he will deliver while being honored for his artistry.

Quickly, they discover that while the war may be over, the bombed-out buildings remain, as do the lingering resentments within Germany, which is controlled by the United States in the west and the Soviets in the east. Thomas, an outspoken critic of Nazism, leading to his exile, believes that his public appearances can unite the country he loves. The cynical Erika knows better, convinced he’s a PR tool for a nation hoping to refurbish its tarnished reputation.

Drawing inspiration from “The Magician,” Colm Tóibín’s fictionalized 2021 Mann biography, Pawlikowski uses this trip as a jumping-off point, introducing real-life individuals who were not present and inventing a new central dynamic. (In truth, Thomas traveled with his wife, not his daughter.) But those creative liberties merely accentuate Pawlikowski’s narrative and thematic aims, which, as in “Ida” and “Cold War” include pairing an intimate story with the larger rumblings of postwar Europe. Thomas and Erika arrive in a Germany torn apart and the ruptures within their family are nearly as tumultuous.

The film is haunted by the specter of Klaus (August Diehl), Erika’s brother, who is actually the first person we see onscreen. In a masterful unbroken shot, Klaus is on the phone from France with his sister, expressing his bottomless anguish. “I don’t believe in anything anymore,” Klaus, who is also a writer, declares. “I can’t remember the last time I felt something.” He’s talking about the fractured Germany, but his depression speaks to something closer to home too. Concerned, Erika encourages Klaus to join them. He declines, but his absence — and a shocking later revelation — informs so much of their journey, personalizing the sense of disrepair Thomas and Erika experience.

Working with his usual cinematographer Łukasz Żal, Pawlikowski prefers a static camera, leaving plenty of headroom above the characters so that they feel entombed by their surroundings. The effect is especially disconcerting as this father and daughter navigate glad-handers and former Nazi collaborators in West Germany who are anxious to bury the past. But Thomas and Erika are no fools, coolly telling off smiling Hitler sympathizers during a tony reception. There has been no more satisfying slap in cinema this year than the one Erika lands on a smug German actor, leading to a wicked punchline that shouldn’t be spoiled.

Such moments of barbed humor are infrequent in “Fatherland,” but Pawlikowski wields them like grenades, shattering the stifling niceties enveloping Thomas and Erika. The Germany of “Fatherland” is one of contradictions, with Erika uncovering letters sent to Thomas’ hotel that savagely accuse him of betraying his country, despite state officials eager to embrace him as a symbol of the nation’s creative and cultural excellence. In contrast to the gorgeous monochrome visuals, this is a land that stinks of complicity and delusion — of opportunists desperate to scramble onto the right side of history. Pawlikowski has said that he keeps returning to the past in his films because addressing our modern ills directly would be too daunting. But whether in Frankfurt or, later, Weimar — where Soviet officials are as keen to canonize Thomas — this father and daughter aren’t simply driving through Germany but taking a tour across fascism’s long shadow, which still darkens the world.

Both leads are exceptional, with Zischler articulating the great writer’s arrogance and willful denial of the inconvenient truths he wants to ignore. As for Hüller, this is another superb performance in a series of them in recent years. Where Thomas is aloof and proud, Erika is prickly and sardonic, excellent tools for protecting a surprisingly fragile heart. Their journey to Germany will heal neither the nation nor the divisions within this family. You can’t go home again and in the case of the characters in “Fatherland,” maybe you shouldn’t try.

CLAYFACE

(18) 108mins

★★★★☆

YOU don’t need to be a DC Universe superfan to have heard of many of Batman’s nemeses.

The Joker, The Penguin and Catwoman have each been cultural references for decades.

But even the most ardent Detective Comics devotee may not have heard of Clayface, who first popped up in 1940 drawings.

In 1992, a two-part Batman TV series introduced Matt Hagen, a disfigured actor dependent on an experimental cream that restored his appearance — but this turned him into a shape-shifting monster.

Now, 34 years later, this brilliantly terrifying origin story shows us exactly why Clayface is who he is.

Handsome actor Matt Hagen (Tom Rhys Harries) has risen from Gotham’s streets to become one of the world’s most sought-after stars.

We meet him at the height of his career — working non-stop, featured on the cover of every glossy magazine, and even nominated for an Oscar.

On top of that, he seems like a decent bloke who looks out for his mates and treats everyone with respect.

But soon, a sexy run-in at a nightclub leads to him having his face horrifically disfigured by a Gotham gangland boss, who puts out a smear campaign on his character.

With his career collapsing and his reputation in tatters, Matt turns to experimental scientist Dr Caitlyn Corr (Naomi Ackie), who is practising with various AI treatments to put right such disfigurements.

While she explains her research is in its early, undeveloped stages, Matt feels he has nothing to lose — and so they give it a try, naturally.

It restores said good looks, but it also begins to affect Matt other ways, giving him mind and face-altering abilities. Quite the combination for someone hell-bent on revenge for those who betrayed him.

This thrilling horror has experience at the helm, with Speak No Evil’s James Watkins directing and The Haunting Of Hill House’s Mike Flanagan writing the screenplay, along with Hossein Amini.

With a bevy of British talent playing Americans in the supporting cast — including Eddie Marsan as a dodgy lawyer and Max Minghella as a good cop trying his best in a corrupt city — this is a high-quality psychological thriller that often feels grittier than anything DC has done before.

Not to mention it’s also a superb introduction to a new DC character, who makes a great nemesis.

GHOSTS: THE POSSESSION OF BUTTON HOUSE

(PG) 97mins  

★★★★☆

IT’S three years since BBC sitcom Ghosts shut the dusty doors on Button House and its crazy residents after five series of the show, which originated with the comedy troupe that created Horrible Histories.

This film sees series director Simon Hynd bringing back the spirited company of characters including disgraced Tory MP Julian (Simon Farnaby), Edwardian matriarch Fanny (Martha Howe-Douglas) and World War Two captain James (Ben Willbond).

The gang bicker and reminisce about the former living residents, Alison (Charlotte Ritchie) and Mike (Kiell Smith-Bynoe), who they miss dreadfully. So bored are the friendly ghosts that they learned a takeaway menu that was pushed through the door.

But soon a new crew enters their home – kids who want to play Ouija.

This kicks off an outer-and-inner-body adventure for the ghosts, who seek out Alison and Mike to help them keep their abode.

There’s gentle thrills and some rubbish local-cop car chases. Watch for funny cameos from great British comedians and nods to coming-of-age shows like Stranger Things.

Fun for the whole family.

ALI G: WHO IZ I?

(15) 89mins

★★★☆☆

ON hearing that Ali G creator Sacha Baron Cohen was revisiting the character to make a film, I did a sharp intake of breath.

It feels like a dangerous climate for a white actor to play a character who claims to be black.

But the film addresses this early, with Slough-born Ali discussing cultural appropriation in the only way he can.

He reflects that many of his haters claimed he wasn’t black, and decides to head to America with his eight-months pregnant girlfriend, Julie (Morgana Robinson), to get back in the spotlight.

This brings together a fascinating, hilarious cast of characters who, like the successful original comedy show, are not in on the gag.

Having given them a good kicking in his Borat films, Baron Cohen again makes the endlessly ridiculous and terrifying right-wing Americans his targets, as well as the ultra-woke liberals.

And while I laughed out loud many times, some jokes felt tired. But the stunt at the end works brilliantly, and this formerly much-loved character just about gets away with it.

It’s in cinemas this weekend only.

NEW YORK — “860,” the title of Billy Crystal’s tremendously moving new Broadway show at the Imperial Theatre, refers to the address of his house in the Pacific Palisades that was destroyed in last year’s fire.

Crystal re-creates the events of Jan. 7, 2025, as the wildfire that began in the Santa Monica Mountains started making its way down toward his home at 860 Chautauqua Blvd. Video clips of the escalating emergency are shown as a cardigan-clad Crystal, standing in a facsimile of his home office (the conjuring work of scenic designer Scott Pask), re-creates the horror of having to decide what to take with him as the evacuation orders come in.

The photos, awards and other memorabilia aren’t just souvenirs of his storied career. They are pieces of the life he built with his wife, Janice, and their two daughters as well as a record of the friendships that made Hollywood feel like a welcoming community for a wide-eyed Long Island kid.

“860,” impeccably directed by Scott Ellis, occurs in a series of flashbacks. Crystal brings us back to what it was like as he and his wife made their way across a jam-packed Sunset Boulevard in separate cars to the safety of their daughter’s house as smoke and flying embers turned their small-town paradise overlooking the Pacific Ocean into an apocalyptic war zone.

A baseball superfan, Crystal gives us the play-by-play as though he were calling a World Series game that had taken an unimaginable turn. Hana S. Kim and Kylee Loera’s video design turns us into eyewitnesses of that terrible day.

I was in Los Angeles when the Palisades and Eaton fires broke out, but I was far enough away not to feel the immediacy of the threat. Crystal had me in full fight-or-flight mode, as if I were in the car behind him going 5 mph along the only route out of danger.

Making a show about a recent public trauma isn’t easy to pull off, but Crystal has managed it as perhaps only he could. “860” is a meditation on loss, but it’s also a theatrical memoir of his multifarious career as a comic, actor, filmmaker and celebrated Oscar host. He returns to his days on “Soap,” the controversial nighttime parody of a daytime soap opera created by Susan Harris that featured Crystal in the role of Jodie Dallas, one of TV’s first openly gay characters.

Crystal was living in an apartment in then-smog-filled Hancock Park with his wife and daughters when he was filming the show’s third season. The couple wanted to move to an area that had better air quality for their children, and someone asked if he knew about the Pacific Palisades.

“It was a small town, good schools, beautiful afternoon breezes from the nearby ocean, one main street with some shops, a deli named Mort’s that had lean corned beef and a lot of people who didn’t put mayonnaise on pastrami,” Crystal recounts.

The house they came to see wasn’t for them, but a for-sale sign at 860 Chautauqua caught their eye. The real estate agent told them that the owners “were very motivated to sell because they were very motivated not to be together anymore.”

It was December 1979 when, with a 30-year mortgage in hand, they moved into the house. Two women who grew up at 860 (“Imagine the twins from ‘The Shining’ — but they’re 55”) paid a welcome call to say how pleased they were that their former home was back in the hands of show people.

The original owners were vaudevillians who had a mind-reading act and were passionately into the occult. They socialized with the comic luminaries of their day, including humorist Will Rogers, who would regularly stop by on his horse. Behind a secret wall, Crystal found a hidden room with a cork board that had clippings that suggested maybe it wasn’t such an accident that the house became his.

Crystal, the emcee of all emcees (as his performance at this year’s Hollywood Bowl Opening Night once again proved), tells the story of his home with buoyant humor and charm, turning loss into living memory. To set up the meaning of what was destroyed, he takes us back to his roots, starting with his graduation in 1970 from NYU, where he took a film production class with a young Martin Scorsese, who would critique his work in a manner that Crystal, the Al Hirschfeld of celebrity impersonators, hilariously captures.

Crystal’s comic timing was honed in the clubs doing stand-up. Jack Rollins, the producing titan who managed Mike Nichols, Elaine May and Woody Allen, imparted some wisdom after watching Crystal’s act. Crystal thought he killed it that night, but Rollins told him that he failed to “leave a tip,” meaning reveal something about himself in his jokes.

Opening for Blood, Sweat & Tears in Scranton, Pa., a huge opportunity, Crystal faced a hostile audience. But he won the crowd over and thought maybe he could really make this stand-up comedy thing work. But then he was sent back out onstage after lead singer David Clayton-Thomas decided he didn’t want to perform and had to win the jeering music fans over again — and then a third time. While driving home on the New Jersey Turnpike to his wife and baby that night, he felt his future in front of him, having found not only his calling but also his voice.

Crystal’s luckiest break may have been in not being drafted during the Vietnam War, but a close second was being invited to do his Howard Cosell-Muhammad Ali routine at a televised gala for the boxing legend. Crystal not only crushed it but he made a lifelong friend in Ali, who was already his personal hero.

Bonds forged in comedy, like the one he had with Robin Williams, deepened into a lasting brotherhood. Norman Lear cast Crystal as Rob Reiner’s best friend on “All in the Family,” and life imitated art. Their successful collaborations — crystallized in the fake orgasm scene at Katz’s Delicatessen in “When Harry Met Sally” — were an outgrowth of their telepathic comic rapport.

In reviewing his famous life, Crystal reanimates parts of our own. And it’s this shared history that helps us understand what he lost when his house went up in flames. The magnitude of the devastation is made personal for all of us.

But just when you think things can’t get any worse, something completely unthinkable happens. For Crystal, this occurred at the end of 2025, his annus horribilis, when Reiner and wife Michelle were found stabbed to death at their Brentwood home.

Some things are too painful for words, and Crystal knows that sense cannot be made from senselessness. But he’s already told us so much about this unique friendship that nothing more needs to be said.

Crystal doesn’t wallow in grief or self-pity. He bears the weight of his losses with his wit and generous spirit to help us carry the weight of our own. (When he walked into a store to buy a new wardrobe after the fire, he reports, the salesclerk looked at him and said, “Let me guess … Ozempic?”)

No one gets out of this world without becoming a master of the art of losing, to invoke the poet Elizabeth Bishop. But laughter can sustain us through our losses, and Crystal thinks it’s no accident that one of the few things that was salvaged from the ashes of his home was a stone from his garden with the word “laughter” engraved on it.

I found Crystal’s previous solo show “700 Sundays” to be a touch mawkish, so I wasn’t expecting to be so powerfully moved by “860.” But this is just a brilliantly conceived and executed piece, and I hope it yields Crystal another Tony Award.

But even more, I hope the production finds its way home to where it belongs, Los Angeles. We could really use the fortifying laughter.

A day after the Tennessee Titans released defensive tackle Jordan Elliott after an alleged incident involving a gun at the team’s practice facility, coach Robert Saleh defended the veteran player as “a good man” who “had a terrible lapse in judgment that I recognize as a call for help more than a criminal act.”

The Titans announced Elliott’s dismissal on Tuesday but provided no details on the incident that prompted it. The NFL confirmed Wednesday that it was looking into the matter.

“The league’s firearm policy prohibits any personnel from bringing a firearm to club facilities, stadiums, and team hotels and on team planes or buses,” NFL spokesperson Brian McCarthy said in an email. “The club promptly notified the league of the matter which is under review.”

Details have since emerged that Elliott got into an altercation with offensive lineman JC Latham at practice last Thursday, then went out to his car in the players’ parking lot to get his gun, according to reports by multiple media outlets. Latham told reporters Wednesday that the incident between him and Elliott just happened in the “heat of the moment” and “we’d actually never had an argument leading up to it.”

“It’s no bad blood,” Latham said. “Nothing personal on my end.”

Defensive lineman John Franklin-Myers reportedly helped Elliott regain his composure before anything happened involving the gun. Latham said he was still on the practice field and not with Elliott when Franklin-Myers intervened.

“The D-line room is really close,” Saleh told reporters Wednesday, “and for JFM to go out there and just kind of help Jordan with whatever he was dealing with at that moment I thought was really admirable on JFM’s part.”

Elliott played five seasons with the Cleveland Browns and two with the San Francisco 49ers before signing a two-year, $8-million deal with the Titans this past offseason. Saleh, who was the 49ers’ defensive coordinator last season, told reporters Wednesday that the Titans and the league provided Elliott “with clinicians he needed to speak to help him in that moment.”

“He’s never committed a crime in his entire life, and he pulled a gun in the parking lot,” Saleh said. “And the first question that I think everyone forgets to ask is why would a great man, a great father, a man who shows up on time every day, works his ass off every day, contributes the way he’s supposed to contribute, is well-liked in the locker room — why did he go off the rails and grab a gun?

“To me, those are small signs of a cry for help, in terms of obviously there’s something greater happening,” he continued. “And I thought the team and the NFL did an outstanding job with regards to pausing and asking those questions and checking every single box with regards to getting him the help that he needs.”

Saleh added: “I will stand on the table for Jordan’s character. Unfortunately, rules are rules with regard to guns on property, and sometimes it’s far greater than the knee-jerk reaction of kicking somebody when they’re down. My message to 31 other teams would be: If you need a hell of a run-stopping D-tackle that can help you on a playoff run, give me a call. I’ll tell you everything you need to know about him.”

Young adult stories come in every imaginable flavor, and flavor combination, and several are present in “Phony,” premiering Tuesday on Hulu. Based on the four episodes (of eight) out for review, I am all in with this show, but as Doris Day so memorably sang, the future’s not ours to see.

Created and directed in part by Nick Paley (“Marcel the Shell With Shoes On”), it’s a mystery driven by an uncanny event, with the beating heart of a high school dramedy, in the sense that what is dramatic about adolescence is at the same time comical. (Given time.) Temperamentally, it’s closer to “Freaks & Geeks” or “Dazed and Confused” than, say, “Stranger Things,” but I also wrote “Robert Altman” in my notes.

To begin, we are in some mountainous slice of small-town Pacific Northwest, where the Canadian tax breaks call American producers across the 49th parallel and the landscape presses in from all sides. (A reference to Lewis & Clark College suggests the story is set in Oregon, but I can’t remember any other clues; also, it isn’t important.) It’s an ordinary world wrapped in mystery and sometimes mist, but it’s the ordinariness that gives the show its power as much as, or more than, the mysteriousness.

Sonny Cooke (Sam Nivola, from the third season of “White Lotus”) attends Delby High, where his mother, Ellen (Connie Britton), is the principal. This would be a nightmare for many teens, but for Sonny and Ellen, it’s more of a dream, as the two are unusually (which is not to say perversely) close. (There is no father in the picture, nor is one even mentioned.) He operates in the corridors as a kind of unofficial lieutenant to his mother, bringing cheer and care to his fellow students, spreading sunshine all over the place. This is a little strange, but he is not accounted a weirdo.

He has a nice girlfriend, Chloe (Mahaela Park), with whom he has just “decided to be official”; Ellen clucks at this — she’s a little protective. Sonny and Chloe call each other “Bobo,” and in a nice, authentic touch we see he has written that nickname in ballpoint pen on the white sidewall of his sneaker. As we open, Sonny and Chloe are planning to have sex for the first time; there is some comedy written around this. He’s the less mature, more nervous party. (He also has a tendency to fall over and bump into things.) His best friend, Vogel (Maliq Johnson), an injured basketball player, is miffed that he had to hear about this from Chloe and not Sonny, but not seriously and only for a moment.

Driving to meet Chloe for their Big Night, after a rare argument with his mother, Sonny swerves to avoid a downed tree and drives into Bucket Pond, where an official sign commemorates the many deaths that have occurred there. When he wakes from a coma a week later, he doesn’t recognize Ellen, and you won’t quite either. However it’s been accomplished, by makeup (or an absence of makeup), prosthetics, digital manipulation, hypnosis or some combination of the above — and by acting, of course — this alteration of Connie Britton, a face we know well, is just enough off to be incredibly creepy. (What have you done with Connie Britton? we want to ask.) There is nothing more frightening than when the familiar starts acting strange, in movies or in life. Sonny’s symptoms mirror an actual condition, Capgras syndrome, which no one here mentions, though to be fair, he hasn’t told anyone who might offer that diagnosis, and is too freaked out to look it up himself. Only Sonny and the viewer notice the difference, which suggests that he may be wrong, or, alternatively, that everyone else is.

Completing a not-quite Scooby Gang are Mallory (Grace Brennan), returning to public school after three years of homeschooling, and her cousin Weldon (Colter Lee), a deadpan original turn on the nerd. Sonny and Mallory shared a kiss once, on a class camping trip, but for … reasons, they meet again on tentative terms. Despite or perhaps because of her offbeat upbringing (religious parents), Mallory is the embodiment of the cool girl who doesn’t need to demonstrate how cool she is, and perhaps doesn’t even know or, more to the point, care. In a series thoroughly well cast (by Jessica Kelly and Lisa Parasyn), Lee and Brennan, especially, stand out as originals, their performances drawn from life, or some private corner of their imagination.

Weldon, who is ready to credit Sonny’s story — he believes, for example, that Avril Lavigne died and was replaced by “someone named Melissa, who has a clubfoot” — connects him with Sharla (Meera Syal), a private investigator he knows from an online forum. “She’s into alternative knowledge. So cryptids, One World Order, face peelers…”

“I know what it’s like to be called crazy,” says Sharla, “but all you really need is one person to believe you.”

“Or two people,” adds Weldon.

“Yep, two people. Two weird people.”

Much of what makes “Phony” special happens alongside the main plot, or doesn’t involve any plot at all — it’s pure atmosphere, bits of background business and chatter in the school halls, and at a party in the woods that occupies much of Episode 4. (Nice use of long lenses by cinematographer Andy Rydzewski.) Party scenes are a yardstick by which I measure the authenticity of a teenage movie — are these characters acting their age, or have they been designed to?

With only four episodes available for review, and nothing revealed, it’s impossible to say where the show is going — is it science fiction, or fantasy, or some super-complicated conspiracy, though why such a thing would be constructed around these people is beyond me. There’s a chance it’ll be brilliant, a chance it’ll be less than brilliant, and a greater than zero chance it’ll be dumb, but given the résumés of the co-showrunners Paley and Anthony King — whose credits include “Search Party,” “The Afterparty” and “Broad City” — I expect it to be interesting. Everything so far is so well done, I don’t mind how it ends; I don’t want it to end at all.

In the mindbending documentary “You Can See Everything,” comedian Nathan Fielder and professed inventor Elizabeth Holmes sit in her beach house staring at each other like gunslingers. Fielder is the creator of the TV series “The Rehearsal” and “Nathan for You” who constructs discombobulating sham realities that include bogus businesses such as Dumb Starbucks. Holmes is the former billionaire CEO of Theranos who pretended she’d built a revolutionary blood testing machine to squeeze investors for a few dollars more.

Each is an expert in the con. But Fielder is deadpan and cold where Holmes is earnest and warm — and he’s been nominated for Emmys while, in May of 2023 when the film begins, she’s about to serve an 11-year sentence in federal prison. As the camera cuts between close-ups of his narrowed eyes and her big, blue ones, Fielder tries to suss whether he can trust the famous fibber to be honest with him. The showdown is riveting.

“You’re being real right now?” Fielder asks, dubious.

Holmes beams. “I’m always being real,” she swears with a smile.

Her charm hits Fielder in the gut. His face stays neutral yet you can see his own confidence bleed out across the screen.

Co-directed by Fielder and Lance Oppenheim (“Primetime”), “You Can See Everything” is the closest Fielder has come to making a traditional documentary. A thrillingly cringe-tastic interviewer, he blurts out blunt questions like a bungee jumper leaping off a bridge, including asking Holmes’ romantic and business partner Billy Evans, the heir to a San Diego boutique hotel chain, whether it’s possible a woman convicted of fraud might be with him for his money.

At nearly three hours long, “You Can See Everything” won’t bore you for a minute. The hook is right there in the title, Fielder’s challenge to the audience: Here’s how Holmes held up to his scrutiny — do we think she’s telling the truth? But be alert. Fielder remains a trickster. One shot in particular proves you can see everything while being blind to what you’re actually watching.

In the first half of the movie, Holmes and Evans, the father of her two young children, give the small crew complete access to their lives during her last weeks of freedom, including inviting Fielder to sleep in their guest bedroom. It’s an act of “radical transparency,” Evans says. As evidence, there’s a fully nude shot of Evans in the shower, testifying to the intimacy the subjects claim they’re granting the team and the confidence they have that the documentary will make them look great. (Evans also boasts that he’s “excellent” in the sack.)

Holmes maintains both her innocence and her eerie smile, a rictus of empathy. She constantly nods, subliminally snake-charming the listener into a sense of agreement. That assessment might be fair or it might be her reputation making you over-analyze her tics. Doubling down, she even insists she’s never told a lie in her life — a claim that momentarily leaves Fielder at a loss for words.

Yet at times, Holmes really does appear to be sincere. Once she surrenders herself to the Bryan Federal Prison Camp in Texas (where, in an unmentioned coincidence, Epstein collaborator Ghislane Maxwell is also incarcerated), the tone shifts into film noir as Fielder struggles to reconcile Elizabeth Holmes’ dual identities. Is she the sweet-natured scientist, the only version of her he’s ever met, or a femme fatale who may still be running a scam?

“It’s personal,” Fielder says of his fixation. How frustrating that he of all people — the dark prince of pranks — may be Holmes’ latest patsy. Composer Ari Balouzian borrows bits of Bernard Herrmann’s violin score from “Vertigo” while cinematographer David Bolen makes the audience hold its breath by framing an image of Fielder and Holmes like they might kiss.

When the movie’s style gets weird, that’s when Fielder is most in his wheelhouse. Stop reading now if you want to preserve the surprise. Micro-analyzing his encounters with Holmes, he reenacts them with an actor, Amanda Seyfried, whose emotional intensity blows into the film like a gust of fresh air. Seyfried, of course, won an Emmy and a Golden Globe for playing Holmes in the 2022 miniseries “The Dropout.” The twists to come, however, feel as much like last year’s naughty hit “The Housemaid,” the domestic thriller in which Seyfried played a shady wife with a marriage made of lies.

Evans initially seems to think they’re participating in a project closer to Netflix’s glossy portrait of Meghan Markle and Prince Harry. The couple doesn’t know much about humor, pop culture or Fielder himself. Fumbling to figure out what makes him tick, Evans attempts to neg the provocateur as someone who lacks the passion to think differently. (Evans may also be the person who used Holmes’ social media account to write a flattering post calling JD Vance “Lisan al-Gaib,” revealing he’s entirely missed the point of “Dune.”)

But thinking differently is Fielder’s awkward superpower. Sooner or later, all of his projects circle around to his concern that he’s simply wired to be unpleasant. His interactions with Holmes are pure cringe comedy, like when she starts to cry perhaps a bit on cue and he stiffly sputters, “Do you want, like, a tissue?” For the record, he brings her one.

As a viewer, the biggest strike against Holmes is this documentary’s very existence. Whether or not you think she’s guilty of fraud, she is about to be separated from her infant and toddler until they’re in grade school. Who on Earth would genuinely want Fielder, the human equivalent of a skunk, to crash their last moments with their loved ones as he does his darnedest to stink up the place?

Fielder is most comfortable as the film’s villain, shooting himself lurking in the couple’s house like “Halloween’s” Michael Myers. At times, his presence does feel monstrous. In one scene, he needles Evans about whether he thinks his soulmate has ever lied to him while Holmes is on the phone in the next room, tearing up as she asks how often she’ll be able to bathe in prison.

The film doesn’t drill into the technical details of Theranos beyond one dizzying scene where Fielder tries to pin Holmes down on exactly what she meant when she said her machine can run hundreds of different tests. She means it just as I would if I bragged I can benchpress a beer keg — that is, once I strength-train beyond my piddly 5 lb dumbbells.

Instead, it tilts into becoming a caper flick as Seyfried’s commitment to understanding her character’s motivation inspires the actor to invite herself along. The drama they uncover is psychological, as befits an era where Silicon Valley CEOs are closer to cult leaders than engineers, making their cash from being televangelists for their IPOs. And both are attuned to the moments when Evans lets his aggravation slip. One scene is a doozy.

Ultimately, suspicion reigns. “You Can See Everything” is an absorbing study of public presentation and private doubts, a documentary that asks more questions than it answers. I hope Fielder will smile and nod approvingly at me if I say I left the film distrusting him, too, especially Seyfried’s re-staging of a long monologue Holmes delivered in prison where recording devices aren’t allowed. Can we believe that Holmes really did say, “I’m tired of having other people speak for me,” or was that laugh line written by the master manipulator himself? I’m now as paranoid as he is — and what a pleasure.