As I watched Jon M. Chu's "Wicked: For Good" last week, I kept thinking about another, very different filmmaker: David Lynch.
Specifically, the Lynch that emerges from Alexandre Philippe's excellent 2022 documentary "Lynch/Oz," wherein we discover just how deeply the infamously surreal filmmaker was influenced by one of cinema's sweetest fantasy films: the original "Wizard of Oz."
In the era of #WitchTok ... a story like 'Wicked' has built-in appeal.
Philippe's film includes footage from a 2001 Q and A in which Lynch confirms the extent of his devotion: "There is not a day that goes by that I don't think about 'The Wizard of Oz.'"
And that shouldn't be surprising given how much it shows up in his work. From Glinda the Good Witch making an appearance in "Wild at Heart," to the hazy, dreamlike depiction of suburbia in "Blue Velvet," his films exist in a dual state between the realm of fairyland and the underworld.
Indeed, Lynch doesn't reject either. In proper Buddhist fashion, these two forces exist in balance, equally potent and true. There is both good and evil in his world. Neither negates the other's existence. And when darkness spills over into the light, it may be tragic, but it is also just another part of the world. Like Dorothy, his protagonists find themselves walking deeper into unknown territory. The protagonists of his films truly "aren't in Kansas anymore."
"The Wizard of Oz" is potent because it captures the logic of fairyland better than almost any film ever made. Channeling the fairy stories of J.R.R. Tolkien, Lewis Carroll, and George MacDonald, it transports the mind to a realm that is more real than real, where even the most dire intrusion of evil can be set right according to simple moral rules.
As G.K. Chesterton famously puts it:
Fairy tales do not give the child his first idea of bogey. What fairy tales give the child is his first clear idea of the possible defeat of bogey. The baby has known the dragon intimately ever since he had an imagination. What the fairy tale provides for him is a St. George to kill the dragon.
"Wicked" and its new sequel reject this comforting clarity for something altogether more "adult" and ambiguous. Instead of presenting good and evil as objective realities that can be discerned and defeated, the films show how political authorities manipulate those labels to scapegoat some and exalt others.
They do so by swapping the original's heroes and villains. The Wonderful Wizard is a cruel tyrant. Glinda is foppish and self-obsessed. Dorothy is the unwitting tool of a corrupt regime. And Elphaba — the so-called Wicked Witch — is reimagined as a sympathetic underdog with a tragic backstory, a manufactured villain invented to keep Oz unified in ire and hatred.
Elphaba exudes a whiff of Milton's Lucifer — an eternal rebel in a tragic quest to upend the moral order. But unlike "Paradise Lost," "Wicked" presents rebellion against its all-powerful father figure not as a tragic self-deception, but as a justified response to systemic cruelty.
"Wicked: For Good" takes the ideas of its predecessor even further than mere rebellion. If "Wicked: Part One" is about awakening to the world's realities and becoming radicalized by them, "Wicked: For Good" is about the cost of selling out — the temptation to compromise with a corrupt system and the soul-crushing despair that follows.
This is where the irony of the film's title, "Wicked: For Good" comes in. Once a person sees the world for what it truly is, they can't go back without compromising themselves. They've "changed for good." They've awakened and can't return to sleep.
It's worth considering why the "Wicked" franchise is so wildly popular. Gregory Maguire's original 1995 novel has sold 5 million copies. The 2003 stage show it inspired won three Tony Awards and recently became the fourth longest-running Broadway musical ever. And the first film grossed $759 million last winter, with the sequel poised to make even more money.
Perhaps it is no coincidence that this outsize success comes at a time when Wicca and paganism have grown into mainstream cultural forces. In the era of #WitchTok, in which self-proclaimed witches hex politicians and garner billions of views on social media, a story like "Wicked" has built-in appeal. It offers glamorous spell-casting and a romantic tale of resistance to authority.
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The temptation of witchcraft is one that always hovers over our enlightened and rationalistic society. Particularly for young women, witchcraft offers a specific form of autonomy and power — over body, spirit, and fate — that patriarchal societies often deny. Many view witchcraft as progressive and empowering; "witchy vibes" have become a badge of identity.
Thus the unsettling imagery of Robert Eggers' 2015 film "The Witch" comes into focus: A satanic coven kidnaps and kills a Puritan baby, seduces a teenage girl, and gains the power to unsubtly "defy gravity" through a deal with the devil.
"Wicked" is all about this power to transcend. Even as its protagonist grows despairing in the second film and abandons her political quest for the freedom of the wastelands, the film presupposes that it is better to resist or escape a corrupt system than submit to it.
Ultimately, the two films leave their audience with a bittersweet moral: Society is dependent on scapegoats. The Platonic noble lie upon which all societies rest cannot be escaped — but it can be redirected. A new civic myth can be founded that avoids sacrificing the vulnerable and overthrows the demagogues atop Mount Olympus. And the witches play the central role in overturning the world of Oz. Their rebellion sets it free.
But because the films blur the clear, objective distinction between good and evil — even while acknowledging that real evil exists — the characters in "Wicked" often drift in moral grayness, defining themselves mainly in relation to power. The world becomes overbearing, radicalizing, and morally unstable.
This is far afield from the vision of Oz presented in the 1939 film, the one David Lynch venerated as vital to his understanding of the world. But it reflects how modern storytellers often grapple with Oz. Almost every sequel or spin-off struggles to recapture the sincerity of the original. The 1985 sequel "Return to Oz" reimagined the land with a dark-fantasy twist. 2013's "Oz the Great and Powerful" comes closest to the original tone but centers on fraudulence and trickery.
"Wicked," too, falls in line with the modern tendency to subvert and complicate traditional stories of good versus evil. "Frozen," "The Shape of Water," "Game of Thrones," and "Star Wars: The Last Jedi" all explore morally conflicted worlds where bravery is futile or where Miltonian rebellion is celebrated.
Of course, seeing the stories of our childhood with a jaundiced adult eye can be quite entertaining; it's perfectly understandable why even those not in covens love these films. They are well-made, well-performed, and especially irresistible to former theater kids (I am one).
Their popularity isn't inherently bad either. They are perfectly fine in isolation. It is only when we contrast them with the clarity and beauty of the original — and place them within the context of our society — that a sad truth emerges: Finding fairyland is hard. Most of us prefer to live in the Lynchian underworld.
Although there has been a long slew of adaptations, parodies, and spin-offs of "Frankenstein," many fans of Mary Shelley’s famous novel were looking forward to the newest iteration by Guillermo del Toro, which just came out.
In the age of AI, gene therapy, and the modern aversion to death, the story of a scientist who gives life to a creature of his own design naturally resonates with most people. Moreover, a director who is known for his ability to craft fantastical narratives, gothic settings, and unworldly monsters seemed like the perfect fit for such a story.
What could have been a story of redemption and radical love is turned into one of violent horror and unavoidable tragedy.
But with such a tale from such a director at such a time, there was also a good chance the whole film could become an overwrought piece of woke propaganda. Would del Toro stay faithful to the source material, or would he indulge his worst tendencies and recreate "The Shape of Water" with Shelley’s basic premise?
Sadly, he opted for the latter.
While showing his usual visual flare, del Toro and his writers nonetheless succumbed to transforming the romantic tale of man’s excesses and consequent fall from grace into a woke narrative of a marginalized victim suffering from an oppressive father figure. The monster is not a hideous abomination that goes on a killing spree to spite his creator, but is rather a misunderstood, sensitive outcast who deserves sympathy.
It is his creator, Victor Frankenstein, who is the real monster: Not only does he abuse his own creature, but he murders multiple people and lies about it.
In fairness to del Toro, he probably planned out the film a few years ago when such a script happily aligned with the woke spirit of the time. And he did win an Oscar for "The Shape of Water," so he can’t be blamed too much for returning to the same formula. How was he supposed to know that this would all become tedious and unfashionable in 2025?
And yet for all that, it's wrong to assume that the original novel lacked these themes entirely.
While most fans and critics examine the science-fiction elements of the novel and the Promethean allegory of man’s creation running amok, an honest reading would show that the novel is first and foremost a Romanticist manifesto. The main character is neither Victor nor his creation but the Swiss Alps that provide the backdrop of every scene, monologue, and conversation. The main conflict is not Victor attempting to stop his monster from terrorizing his friends and family, but finding meaning and unadulterated joy in the world rendered cold and dull by Enlightenment philosophy.
Most importantly, the book’s main argument is the problem of loneliness and how it animates humanity’s darkest impulses. The movie actually deals with this idea somewhat, though the novel is fully based on it.
How else should the reader make sense of all three of the main characters (besides the Alps), who all suffer from profound loneliness? The first character to appear in the book is the ambitious explorer and scientist Robert Walton, who attempts to go to the North Pole. Besides detailing his progress to his sister in a series of letters, he also mentions his lack of a friend. This leads him to immediately take interest in the Swiss scientist Victor Frankenstein, who just happens to be in the Arctic, searching for his monster.
Frankenstein, in turn, also reveals his own introverted nature and consequent desolation.
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Even though he has good friends, a loving father, encouraging teachers, and a bride waiting for him, Frankenstein seems to reject their company. Either he feels unworthy of such friends, especially after the mayhem inflicted by his monster, or he desires full control in his relationships.
More than anything, this antisocial stance seems to be the main inspiration for creating his monster. Even though many naturally assume he was driven by glory, power, and morbid curiosity, Shelley hardly mentions any of that. Instead she details Victor’s loving upbringing and beautiful surroundings, only to have him forget all this and conduct a weird experiment of bringing a monster to life.
Then, of course, there is the monster himself, who is quite open about his loneliness and resorts to terror to have a companion. Abandoned by Victor, the creature roams the countryside, fruitlessly searching for a human being who can stand to befriend him. Long story short, this doesn’t happen, so he takes revenge on Victor for putting him in this situation.
Read through the prism of loneliness, the novel makes a surprisingly compelling case not only for cultivating friendship but also for the kind of dysfunction that results from the lack thereof.
This is especially pertinent for audiences today who are forced to cope with the mass atomization of modern life.
In terms of their social life, most young people in the developed world often resemble Robert Walton, Victor Frankenstein, Frankenstein’s monster, or some combination thereof. They feel misunderstood, have few outlets for their thoughts and emotions, and respond in similar ways to the characters: They seek internet fame, indulge in darker temptations, and even lash out against a world that seems to reject them.
Much like the literary critics and adaptors who miss this larger theme in their analysis of the smaller ones that result, today's social commentators who remark on the pathologies of the youth do the same.
At the heart of all this dysfunction is loneliness. And behind the social crisis lies a spiritual crisis.
Had Frankenstein abided by Christian teaching, he would accept his limitations and work to overcome his personal misgivings of befriending and serving others. Instead of trying to build a companion for the monster, only to dismantle it in a fit of rage, Victor could have loved his creation, much as God does. Instead of the monster basing his morality on Goethe, Plutarch, and Milton — which all promote epic struggles and titanic egos — he could have picked up the much more available (and readable) Gospels, which stress forgiveness and humility.
Then again, this is Mary Shelley’s story, and she was far from a devout Christian. Similarly, del Toro is also an atheist and likely shares the same outlook on the Christian demands of friendship, virtue, and human creativity.
What could have been a story of redemption and radical love is turned into one of violent horror and unavoidable tragedy.
Still, even if such Romantic secular humanism makes for better dramatic tension and suspense, it elides the deeper truth that comes out of the story: Man is not meant to be alone.
Victor’s real crime was not his ambition or curiosity but forsaking everyone around him. It wasn’t an abusive father that led him to this (as the new film suggests) but his willful ignorance of the Father in Heaven. As such, he creates a personal hell with its very own devil.
Even if Shelley and del Toro miss this point, readers and audiences should take heed and confront the problems of loneliness and nihilism in the world around them.
Say what you will about Russell Crowe, but he has never been a run-of-the-mill actor.
At his best, he surrenders to the role. This is an artist capable of channeling the full range of human contradictions. From the haunted integrity of "The Insider" to the brute nobility of "Gladiator," Crowe once seemed to contain both sinner and saint, pugilist and philosopher.
In a time when truly commanding leading men are all but extinct, Crowe remains — carrying the weight, the wit, and the weathered grace of a bygone breed.
Then, sometime after "A Beautiful Mind," the light dimmed. The roles got smaller, the scandals bigger.
There were still flashes of brilliance — "American Gangster" with Denzel Washington, "The Nice Guys" with Ryan Gosling — proof that Crowe could still command attention when the script was worth it. But for every film that landed, two missed the mark: clumsy thrillers, lazy comedies, and a string of forgettable parts that left him without anchor or aim. His career drifted between prestige and paycheck, part self-sabotage, part Hollywood forgetting its own.
But now the grizzled sexagenarian returns with "Nuremberg" — not as a comeback cliché, but as a reminder that the finest actors are explorers of the human abyss. And Crowe, to his credit, has never been afraid to go deep.
In James Vanderbilt’s new film, the combative Kiwi plays Hermann Goering, the Nazi Reichsmarschall standing trial for his part in history’s darkest chapter. The movie centers on Goering’s psychological chess match with U.S. Army psychiatrist Douglas Kelley, who becomes both fascinated and repulsed by the man before him. Goering, with his vanity, intelligence, and theatrical self-pity, is a criminal rehearsing for immortality.
The film unfolds as a dark study of guilt and self-deception. Kelley, played with that familiar, hollow-eyed tension of Rami Malek, sets out to dissect the anatomy of evil through Goering’s mind. Yet the deeper he digs, the more he feels the ground give way beneath him — the line between witness and accomplice blurring with every exchange.
Crowe’s Goering is not the slobbering villain of old war films. He’s disturbingly human, even likeable. He jokes, he reasons, he charms. He’s a man who knows how to disarm his enemy by appearing civil — and therein lies the horror. It’s a performance steeped in Hannah Arendt’s famous concept of the “banality of evil”: the idea that great atrocities are rarely committed by psychopathic monsters but by ordinary people made monstrous — individuals who justify cruelty through bureaucracy, obedience, or ideology.
Arendt wrote those words after watching Adolf Eichmann, another Nazi functionary, defend his role in the Holocaust. She was struck not by his madness but his mildness — his desire to be seen as merely following orders. Crowe’s Goering embodies that same terrifying normalcy. He doesn’t see himself as a villain at all, but as a patriot — wronged, misunderstood, and unfairly judged. It’s his charm, not his cruelty, that unsettles.
The brilliance of Crowe’s performance is that he resists caricature. He reminds us that evil doesn’t always wear jackboots. Sometimes it smiles, smokes, and quotes Shakespeare. It’s the kind of role only a mature actor can pull off — one who has met his own demons and understands that evil seldom announces itself.
It is also, perhaps, the perfect role for a man who has spent decades wrestling with his own legend. Crowe was once Hollywood’s golden boy — rugged, brooding, every inch the leading man — but the climb was steep and the fall steeper. Fame, like empire, demands endless victories, and Crowe, ever restless, grew weary of the war.
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With "Nuremberg," he hasn’t returned to chase stardom but to confront something larger — the unease that hides beneath every civilized surface. Goering, after all, was no brute. He was cultured, eloquent, even magnetic — proof that wisdom offers no wall against wickedness. And in a time when truly commanding leading men are all but extinct, Crowe remains — carrying the weight, the wit, and the weathered grace of a bygone breed.
At one point in the film, Goering throws America’s own hypocrisies back at Kelley: the atomic bomb, the internment of Japanese-Americans, the collective punishment of nations. It’s a rhetorical trick, but it lands. Crowe delivers those lines with the oily confidence of a man who knows that moral purity is a myth and that self-righteousness is often evil’s most convenient disguise.
The film may not be perfect. Its pacing lags at times, and its historical framing flirts with melodrama. But Crowe’s performance cuts through the pretense like a scalpel. There’s even a dark humor in how he toys with his captors — the court jester of genocide, smirking as the world tries to comprehend him.
Crowe’s Goering is, in the end, a mirror. Not just for the psychiatrist across the table, but for us all. The machinery of horror is rarely built by fanatics, but by functionaries convinced they’re simply doing their jobs.
Crowe’s performance reminds us why acting, when done with conviction, can still rattle the soul. His Goering is maddening and mesmeric. He captures the human talent for self-delusion, the ease with which conscience can be out-argued by ambition or fear. "Nuremberg" refuses to let the audience look away. It reminds us that every civilization carries the seed of its own undoing and every human heart holds a shadow it would rather not confront.
Russell Crowe is back, tipped for another Oscar — and in an age when Hollywood produces so few films worthy of our time or our money, I, for one, hope he gets it.
Director Ari Aster ’s "Eddington," which has inspired more heated discussion than it ticket sales, drops us unpleasantly back into an America at the peak of COVID-19 hysteria.
Our putative protagonist is Joe Cross, well-intentioned but beleaguered sheriff of the small desert outpost of Eddington, New Mexico.
Aster's previous films resolve with satanic forces claiming victory over well-meaning innocents just trying to grapple coherently with temptation and strife.
Already burdened with a psychologically fragile wife (Emma Stone) and a live-in, conspiracy-obsessed mother-in-law (Deirdre O'Connell), Cross must now keep the peace for a populace bitterly divided over masks, social distancing, and business closures, while facing down BLM riots. His downtime doomscrolling (remember the black squares on Instagram?) offers no relief.
Cross himself is COVID-skeptical, to the say the least, which puts him at odds with Mayor Ted Garcia (Pedro Pascal), the kind of slimy, fake, media-savvy politico who could give California Governor Gavin Newsom (D) a run for his money.
Watching the first half of this movie in 2025 is enjoyably cathartic. Even the audience at the screening I saw — in an art-house theater in liberal Chicago — cringed at the movie's virtue-signaling adults and their brainwashed teens. The biggest laugh came when a father, having just been subjected to a rant from his son about "white abolition," blurts out, “Are you f***ing re****ed? YOU’RE white!”
I doubt I have to remind anyone that only a few years ago, these reactions would have been very different.
From our vantage point in 2025, Cross seems to be the most levelheaded man in town, a flawed but decent public servant trying to make sense of a world gone mad. Finally, we think, a belated but nonetheless welcome jab at the liberal delusions that held sway in our country for the last decade.
That's when Aster pulls the rug out from under us. Our hero makes a series of choices that progress from foolhardy to downright evil, choices he ends up paying for in the most grotesque way possible. We, in turn, are punished for daring to identify with Cross. It's as if Aster wants to leave us not merely disillusioned but utterly humiliated.
Pascal's ostensible villain also falls away to reveal a much more formidable nemesis: the powerful corporation behind the development of Eddington's much-contested "SolidGoldMagikarp Data Center." These shadowy Big Tech overlords seem to validate every paranoid imagining of the online fringes, right and left: jetting in hooded, well-trained shock troops to carry out false-flag "Antifa" attacks and thwart populist dissent, distracting a divided and confused public from the very real threat they represent.
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Now … some critics may believe that this is the main message of the film. That the struggle is Them vs. Us. The real villains are the faceless "Eyes Wide Shut" cabal of world controllers who send out their minions to subvert the will of the people. “Smart viewers understand this,” the critics will say.
Well, I’m a smart viewer, and I don’t care about that. Maybe it is Them vs. Us in real life, but in Hollywood, and to Ari Aster, and to the audience in the theater on both sides of the aisle, the message of "Eddington" is clear: You can't win.
Aster's previous films, "Beau Is Afraid," "Midsommar," and "Hereditary," all resolve with satanic forces claiming victory over well-meaning innocents just trying to grapple coherently with temptation and strife. No one is held accountable for the perpetration of this violence; there is no justice or righteous retribution.
"Eddington" turns out to be just another variation of this story, this time using COVID instead of the supernatural to torture its characters. The question we should ask is who benefits from this nihilistic message?
Certainly not the audience. Joe Cross and the people of Eddington may be stuck where they are, helpless before the whims of their sadistic creator, but there's nothing keeping us in town. None of us would want to live in Aster World; maybe it's time we admitted it's not even a nice place to visit.
A new DC Cinematic Universe has taken flight with James Gunn’s “Superman.”
While critics from both sides of the political aisle argue over whether the film is “woke” (it’s not), I want to highlight a more meaningful — and largely overlooked — message at the heart of the story: the power of kindness in a cynical, chronically online world. Based on the knee-jerk backlash the movie has inspired online, it’s a message we clearly need.
Some have called this version of Superman ‘weak,’ but I see something else — something that’s been missing from many past iterations: humanity.
While this “Superman” couldn’t be more timely — it explores themes of individuality, idealism in the face of public scrutiny, cancel culture, and life in a social media-saturated society — it ultimately uses these themes to emphasize the timeless traits that have allowed the character to endure for almost a century.
“Superman” centers on a younger Clark Kent (David Corenswet), who has been active as Superman for just three years. While beloved by many, others see him as a wild card and potential threat — especially after he intervenes in a war between two fictional nations, Boravia and Jarhanpur.
Superman protects the defenseless people of Jarhanpur from Boravian forces, but his actions anger the U.S. government, which fears conflict with Boravian allies. Lex Luthor (Nicholas Hoult) seizes the moment, convincing the military to back his surveillance program, “Planet Watch,” as a pretext to go after Superman. He even unleashes a swarm of mind-controlled monkeys to flood the internet with anti-Superman propaganda — #supers**t trending like wildfire.
Meanwhile, Clark’s girlfriend and Daily Planet reporter Lois Lane (Rachel Brosnahan), who knows his true identity, challenges him to explain his actions in a professional interview. It’s a complicated, very modern kind of pressure.
What makes this Superman compelling is that he’s not driven by politics or power — he just wants to help people. All people. He doesn’t weigh the geopolitical consequences; he sees someone in danger and acts. That impulse, that moral clarity, is what defines him. It’s also what gets him into trouble.
This instinct is rooted in a message from his Kryptonian parents — a message that, when finally decrypted by Luthor, reveals their true plan: They hoped their son would one day rule Earth and repopulate it with Kryptonians. Even Superman didn’t know this. Suddenly, even his most selfless actions come under suspicion.
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Some have called this version of Superman “weak,” but I see something else — something that’s been missing from many past iterations: humanity. He’s not a flawless, all-powerful icon. He’s relatable. Grounded. Fallible. And when the world turns on him, his powers offer no protection from the sting of media outrage or public mistrust. Stripped of certainty, he holds fast to one thing: hope. Hope for a kinder world.
That perseverance — trying to do good even when it’s hard or unpopular — feels deeply human. Isn’t that what we all wrestle with? We want to be seen, to be understood, to be forgiven when we mess up. Especially in the age of cancellation, when any misstep is dissected in real time by a million strangers. Superman, in that sense, becomes a stand-in for anyone who’s tried to do the right thing and gotten burned for it.
There’s even a quiet Christ-like quality to his vision of the world. In one of the film’s most touching scenes, Lois and Clark reflect on their “punk rock” upbringings:
Lois: “You think everything and everyone is beautiful.”
Superman: “Maybe that’s the real punk rock.”
It’s a simple exchange, but it captures everything about this Superman. Like Christ, he sees not the brokenness of humanity, but its beauty and potential. He chooses to love us anyway. He chooses kindness — an underrated value that could very well heal our culture, breaking through our biggest political divides to help us realize we are all human beings made in God’s image.
And that kindness changes people. Superman’s example inspires Metamorpho (Anthony Carrigan) and fellow Justice Gang members Guy Gardner (Nathan Fillion) and Hawkgirl (Isabela Merced) to stand up for the innocent people of Jarhanpur. Meanwhile, Mr. Terrific (Edi Gathegi) joins Superman in stopping Luthor’s plot to destroy Metropolis.
Despite everything — public outrage, alien expectations, media spin — Superman doesn’t abandon his ideals. He doesn’t lean into resentment or vengeance. He chooses instead the simple truths taught to him by his Earth parents, Jonathan and Martha Kent (Pruitt Taylor Vince and Neva Howell). In the words of the former: “Your choices. Your actions. That’s what makes you who you are.”
James Gunn’s “Superman” resonates because it dares to believe the best in people. No matter your politics, race, or religion, most of us are doing our best — even when we fall short. And if that’s considered “weak” or “woke,” we should ask what we’ve really come to expect from our heroes.
If kindness is the new punk rock, then maybe punk rock is what will save the world. And who better to lead that charge than Superman?
Did anyone want to revisit America circa May 2020? BLM. COVID-19. Mask mandates. Peak cancel culture. Social distancing.
No, thank you.
A throwaway scene finds a white teen describing his privilege to his gobsmacked parents. Their reaction is guaranteed to draw howls.
Somehow director Ari Aster makes it an invitation worth considering.
The director behind “Hereditary,” “Midsommar,” and “Beau Is Afraid” jumps into that awful, no-good chapter in U.S. history with “Eddington.” Those expecting another progressive screed from La La Land will be happily disappointed.
Nor is Aster gunning for a MAGA cocktail party invite. His tale pulls nary a punch, belittling both hard-right conspiracists and BLM types.
What’s maddening is the lack of discipline in the film’s third act. If you thought 2020’s Summer of Love protests proved chaotic, perhaps “Eddington’s” finale feels appropriate.
Otherwise, a potentially great film loses its way.
Joaquin Phoenix stars as Sheriff Joe Cross, an earnest lawman flustered by his state’s new mask mandates. It’s May 2020, and the country has already fallen for pandemic hysteria.
He tries to bring sanity to his New Mexico hamlet with few results. The locals have already adopted a mask-at-all-cost approach, including Eddington’s Mayor Ted Garcia (Pedro Pascal).
Mostly.
That drives Joe to impulsively declare his candidacy for mayor, much to the chagrin of his troubled wife, Louise (Emma Stone). She spends her days ducking his carnal advances and devouring conspiracy theories along with her hard-charging Ma (Deirdre O’Connell).
Meanwhile, the death of George Floyd sparks sympathetic protests across Eddington, straining the town’s wafer-thin resources. It’s neighbor against neighbor, and some of the young protesters barely know what they’re shouting about.
White privilege. Colonization. Racist cops. It’s a Mad Libs dash through progressive slogans, and it’s even sillier than what we remembered. The protests are a blindingly white affair, with BLM sympathizers torn between acknowledging their privilege and barking land acknowledgements.
One teen wants to get lucky, so he Googles “Angela Davis” just to break the ice with a pretty protester.
We can laugh about it now, but it wasn’t funny at the time. And sadly, remnants of that thinking refuse to slink away.
Aster isn’t sugarcoating far-left absurdism, although his hard-right conspiracies feel too cartoonish. The writer/director’s sense of editorial balance is shocking and smart. It’s a culture war movie that doesn’t look or sound like one.
The director leans into TikTok videos, YouTube confessionals, and cancel culture attacks — 2020 distractions that kept our attention during lockdowns.
The only thing missing? Netflix’s “Tiger King” series.
Sheriff Joe wants to have it both ways. He’s disgusted by residents trying to capture him in an unflattering light on their smartphones. He still turns to his phone to record campaign videos.
His political instincts, or lack thereof, are the film’s funniest running gags.
Aster’s setup is bracing and uncomfortable. Is it too soon to dissect this societal breakdown? The answer quickly becomes “no,” especially given how much we’ve learned about COVID-19, vaccines, and BLM-style activism since then.
“Eddington” isn’t a traditional comedy, but its satirical swipes leave a mark. A throwaway scene finds a white teen describing his privilege to his gobsmacked parents. Their reaction is guaranteed to draw howls.
Man, it feels good to laugh at that.
Eddington teens want to do something, anything, other than stay locked in their homes. So they join BLM and recite hackneyed slogans without actually understanding what they mean.
They look miserable.
The overstuffed story includes Austin Butler as an oily conspiracy theorist (is there any other kind?), a plot thread that adds a few chuckles to the story. Butler is a charismatic presence, but he’s not fully unleashed.
Aster never knows how to leave well enough alone — his 2019 misfire “Midsommar” felt longer than the Summer Olympics. That means “Eddington” overstays its welcome by at least 20 minutes (the film is just shy of two-and-a-half hours long).
The film takes a violent turn mid-movie but lacks the urgency of the best screen thrillers. Instead, we watch a key character scramble for his life while we wonder what, exactly, is happening on screen.
Little of it makes sense, and the film’s coal black humor takes a knee.
Phoenix gets the meatiest role as a troubled sheriff. Poor Joe is earnest but overwhelmed, trying to process our 24/7 digital age without much luck. Pascal’s mayor should have our sympathy, from his pro-masking stances to having “he/him” on his Zoom profile.
That’s how Hollywood movies work in 2025 ... right?
Instead, the actor makes sure to show his character’s smarmy side, and Aster refuses to deify a Hispanic leader.
“Eddington” is neither a lecture nor a cautionary tale. Aster serves up no solutions, only the potential for more misery. We already lived through the worst of what’s seen on screen, and laughing at it now offers a delicious, overdue sense of relief following those over-reactions.
We wouldn’t do that again. Would we?
It’s why the final, chaotic moments prove so dispiriting. “Eddington” eventually loses its way, and a bitter coda puts an exclamation point on that fact.
It’s high past time Hollywood grappled with the worst year in recent memory. Aster’s willingness to call out all sides makes "Eddington" a bracing, almost necessary watch.
Imagine sacrificing the comforts of a normal life to serve an institution you believed was worth joining. And then imagine that very same institution — the one you’ve poured your blood, sweat, and tears into for years — turns on you and brands you the enemy. For the more than 8,000 U.S. service members booted […]
Sex and the City feminism sees living like a bad man as the key to empowering women to live the good life.
KPop Demon Hunters knows what it is, producing an infinitely better story than if the creators had tried to push an agenda for a quick cash grab.
A Pixar artist admitted that the studio’s latest box-office disappointment Elio had no substance besides pushing an agenda about LGBT identity, telling The Hollywood Reporter this week that the movie was “totally nothing” without its original gay agenda. “Suddenly, you remove this big, key piece, which is all about identity, and Elio just becomes about totally nothing,” the artist […]
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