People who title films should think just a little harder before etching them in concrete. To wit: Anthropoid sounds like a work of science fiction. It is not. The title comes from Operation Anthropoid, the name of a Resistance movement in 1942 to assassinate a Nazi in Czechoslovakia.
This Nazi is not a run-of-the-mill schlub. He is SS General Reinhard Heydrich, the main architect behind the Final Solution. Heydrich stood behind Hitler and Himmler in order of command. He led the Nazi forces in Czechoslovakia, and he came to be known, for good reason, as the "Butcher of Prague." His murderous methods led two men, a Czech and a Slovak, to emerge from self-exile to join a plan by the Resistance to assassinate Heydrich.
The film begins and ends with quite a history lesson for viewers who have forgotten or never knew this aspect of world history. The narrative before the action lines up over black and white photographs, but, soon, the pictures have turned to color, so that the blood from a foot wound shows red as it flows.
Anthropoid, under the direction of Sean Ellis depends on terribly close-up shots, the kind that create claustrophobia but make the view feel inside small quarters and whispered instructions. Ellis also offers murky scenes of haze, smoke, and fog with sfumato effects.
The effects are not enough to make Anthropoid a great war movie, or a great filler of historical gaps. Of the cast, Cillian Murphy, the Irish actor from Inception; Jamie Dornan, also Irish, from Fifty Shades of Grey; and Toby Jones, the English actor from "The Hunger Games," have recognizable faces and mumbly voices.
Anthropoid does not re-write history. All does not end well. That's the best aspect of this tolerable film.
Telling stories matters, especially stories that have been kept hidden out of shame or protection of privacy. The right to a safe abortion may be the only law of the land that results in such secrecy, but to hear all these stories means that they are in the open.
Director Tracy Droz Tragos, from Missouri, concentrates on Missouri in her excellent documentary. These are women's stories. Abortion: Stories Women Tell is not balanced 50/50, pro/con. Just like the issue of abortion, the documentary and the women embrace a wide range.
Tragos begins with a brief history lesson of the January day in 1973 when the U.S. Supreme Court decided in Roe v. Wade that every woman in America had the right to choose. But since 2011, more than half the 50 states have restricted the means to abortion. In Missouri, only one clinic is open, and patients have to wait 72 hours between decision and procedure.
Women of all ages tell their stories: Amie in Boonville is a single mother of two. Debra is a clinic escort. Monique's baby's skull did not develop. Susan, who had three abortions, is now anti-abortion. Te'Aundra had a baby.
The film follows some women from home to clinic and allows others to remember long-ago decisions.
Tragos intersperses landscapes with interiors -- the rivers and bridges; small, white houses in the country; tawdry ghettos -- from Columbia, Mo., to St. Louis and over the river to Granite City. There are close-ups of women's faces, including a pregnant ob-gyn at Hope Clinic in Granite City, and there are close-ups of rosaries. Tragos ends with a montage of all the women's faces and this quote: "Telling stories is so important. Keeping it locked inside is killing us."
The Jason Bourne character and series have captured film audiences' imaginations and for good reason. Spectacular action sequences, superb editing, dazzling international locations, plus topical issues support a vulnerable, complex operative. Hunted by his own people, unsure of the complex threads of his identity, with a firm moral compass, Bourne struggles with his unique existential crisis.
The perfect casting of Matt Damon, soft hearted but hard bodied, brings the conflicted, confused Bourne to life. Beginning on the Greek/Albanian border in bare knuckle fighting, moving to Iceland, Athens, Syria, London, Berlin, and Silicon Valley, Jason is still hunted, resourceful, and aided by Nicky Parsons. The first words Bourne speaks in voiceover are, "I remember. I remember everything," as flashbacks from The Bourne Ultimatum remind us. But Bourne doesn't know his whole story. Details emerge as he confronts a ruthless CIA asset determined to "put him down" as Bourne navigates a violent Greek protest march, hacks black-op files, and of course, flees for his life throughout the film.
The good news is that the new chapter, simply called Jason Bourne, hits the right notes, employing the same basic formula and exactly the same music at key moments, notably the conclusion. Director and co-writer Paul Greengrass, who directed The Bourne Supremacy and The Bourne Ultimatum, knows his way around the franchise and its appeal. In a New York Times article, Greengrass accurately observes that he and co-writer Christopher Rouse had to offer the familiar but with new, relevant issues.
They found them through Deep Dream, a high-tech company with a new platform solving the threat to on-line privacy for its 1.5 billion users. However, covertly involved, the government wants a back door for surveillance of everyone's postings, and Snowden's name comes up as well. Dramatic irony--our knowing more than Bourne--intensifies the suspense but we race to keep up as well thanks to Rouse's breathtaking editing. Barry Ackroyd's cinematography is gorgeous, and the stunts phenomenal.
Tommy Lee Jones gives a strong, chilly performance as CIA Director Robert Dewey. Alicia Vikander is his duplicitous, clever assistant, Heather Lee. Vincent Cassel as the Asset conveys a terrifyingly monomaniacal viciousness. And Matt Damon is perfection. Jason Bourne is a most welcome addition and a summer treat. At area cinemas.
Frank Zappa needs no mouthpiece, no PR flak, no spinner. He was a man of words, his own, and this documentary presents the man in his own words. Usually documentary biographies offer up talking heads on silver platters, but Eat That Question needs no other heads but Zappa's big, hairy one.
That means that members of his band, the Mothers of Invention, are not even introduced. Zappa's wife Gail is alluded to, but unseen. Their four children are not even in the background, let alone photo-bombing in the spotlight of the foreground. His producers and supporters and fan clubs are mostly silent. Eat That Question is all Zappa, all the time.
Sometimes, it's Zappa playing his music with his merry music makers, in on the mystery and methods and madness. Sometimes, it's home movies of the Mothers, and sometimes, it's Zappa's being interviewed. Here he is with Steverino, the Great Steve Allen, playing music on a bike. And here he is with his Norse fans or his French following. And here he is on "What's My Line?," the old Sunday night quiz show. And here he is, often, half-naked.
Director Thorsten Schütte follows a strictly chronological order, with Zappa's referring to his first paid gig at age 15 back when he thought music looked nice on paper. Schütte follows him from a concert cancelled to protect the reputation of the concert hall, runs news reels of Zappa counterpointing those, like Tipper Gore, who would grade music's lyrics, dirty word by dirty word, and through interviews. In typical philippic, Zappa defines his fans as "just snotty little people who stopped listening in 1967." "Plastic people," he implores, "you've got to go!"
The hardest part of this good documentary is watching Zappa, who defined music like no one else, facing the prostate cancer that ultimately took his in life 1993.
Jon Lucas and Scott Moore wrote and directed the Hangover franchise -- all three of those films about irresponsible, doofus Peter Pans, refusing to grow up. Now, they've written and directed Bad Moms, the Omega to Hangover's Alpha, but the moms here are not so much bad as human, ordinary, and exhausted.
The three main moms are Amy, Carla, and Kiki. Amy tries to be perfect: kale in the sandwiches, hot breakfast on the table, attendance at each kid's game. But she also works part-time, which mans full-time, and her husband's a selfish lout, and the children are ungrateful. She's late everywhere she goes. Kiki has four little children; she's frazzled, and her husband's a chauvinist. Carla's a single mother with a fiercesomeness that pushes people away. These three find each other at a bar, but they have their greatest concert at a supermarket, where they dance and guzzle, and toss goodies into their open maws.
Standing against these three ordinary women are three others, mean girls in arrested development with the power that comes with offices in the PTA.
Like most films of this genre, no matter the genders, "Bad Moms" has its funny, funny highlights and then long stretches of blah-de-blah-ness, but when it works, it works good. Like in the grocery store, or in the moms' fantasies of having a quiet breakfast alone, or when the women stand up for themselves. Or when scenes pile rapidly atop one another to show cinematically how frenetic the moms' lives are.
Mila Kunis and Kristen Bell are dandy dames, but, as always, Kathryn Hahn, as Carla, stands out. Christina Applegate and Annie Mumolo are good antagonists with the sharply silent Jada Pinkett Smith.
The best part of Bad Moms, though, comes with the credits. Don't leave early. Just enjoy.