Lamorne Morris, Cory Michael Smith, Ella Hunt, Emily Fairn, Kim Matula, and Dylan O'Brien in Saturday Night
As its name suggests, an elevator pitch is one that could be successfully made between the time the elevator door closes and the time you land on whatever floor you're heading toward. The pitches for the five cineplex releases I caught this past weekend could be successfully made between the time the door opens and the time it closes, no elevator motion necessary.
This was a delightful realization for a reviewer who historically dreads writing plot synopses. So in the spirit of the five-word pitches each of this quintet requires, here are similarly succinct (if 295-words-longer) takes on what resulted, discussed in order of attendance.
SATURDAY NIGHT
The pitch: Saturday Night Live origin story. The product: It's a shame that the newly added Academy Awards category of Best Casting won't debut until 2026, because in this unusually uncertain year regarding future Oscar victors, a casting trophy for writer/director Jason Reitman's fly-on-the-wall comedy would've been a gimme. You can argue that a handful of performers here don't much resemble the famous folk they're impersonating, though some – Cory Michael Smith as Chevy Chase, Matt Wood as John Belushi, even Dylan O'Brien as Dan Aykroyd – are practically doppelgängers. What's more important, and downright thrilling, is how Reitman and nearly three-dozen principal actors wholly capture the presumably exuberant, stomach-churning spirit of that fateful night of October 11, 1975, when SNL was minutes away from premiering and no one, not even creator Lorne Michaels (Gabriel LaBelle), knew what would happen … or if anything would be allowed to happen. Purists can complain about factual liberties taken; even this viewer with only mild knowledge of SNL's episode-one traumas sensed routine only-in-the-movies contrivance. And despite the Altman-esque confidence and whiz-bang momentum of the juggled narratives, the energy tends to wane whenever there's too much heart: when Michaels and Rosie Shuster (Rachel Sennott) discuss their failed marriage, say, or Garrett Morris (Lamorne Morris) wanders about wondering if he was a mere diversity hire. But this otherwise riveting beat-the-clock tale told in real(-ish) time remains fantastically enjoyable, with the perfectly utilized LaBelle leading a tremendous ensemble that boasts, among other stellar participants, J.K. Simmons as Milton Berle, Matthew Rhys as George Carlin, Ella Hunt as Gilda Radner, Nicholas Podany as Billy Crystal, and Nicholas Braun as Muppeteer Jim Henson and singular standup Andy Kaufman. As perhaps the ideal demographic for this show-biz love letter, I found Saturday Night a nonstop smile, and to Mr. Reitman, I can only repeat what Andy did: “Thankyouveddymuch.”
THE APPRENTICE
The pitch: Donald J. Trump origin story. The product: Because Trump fans were unlikely to sit through a “hatchet job” and Trump haters could hardly have wanted another two hours in his company (even as portrayed by Sebastian Stan), it was basically a fait accompli when director Ali Abbasi's pre-political biography stumbled at the box office. Yet I hope a few of you checked it out (or will someday) regardless, because Stan – largely eschewing easy stereotype – is quite good, and as the perniciously immoral fixer Roy Cohn, Jeremy Strong is absolutely spectacular. Gabriel Sherman's script takes us from the Donald's questionably modest start as vice-president of his father's real-estate company to the preparation for his 1987 bestseller The Art of the Deal, and for many of us, it's a tired, too-familiar story. Here, it also feels like an unfinished one, given the personality shifts that appear to occur off-screen and the strange lack of emotional repercussions. (After the much-discussed rape of Maria Bakalova's Ivana – a deeply upsetting, unnecessary inclusion – the incident seems cruelly forgotten by both the filmmakers and the characters.) Yet Cohn's presence makes the movie fascinating. Trump has long praised his mentor – a closeted homosexual who demonized gays and bragged about sending Julius and Ethel Rosenberg to the electric chair – for forging the figurehead he is today. In Strong's brilliant incarnation, we witness the hypnotic force behind Cohn's callous, purportedly patriotic leanings, and fully understand why Trump would be seduced by his edicts for professional glory: “admit nothing, deny everything,” “always claim victory,” and “attack, attack, attack.” This Cohn is a monster. In Strong's hands, he's also a pitiable monster, and although Abbasi's outing is merely serviceable as a bio-pic, the actor ensures that a film you maybe didn't want to see is one, astoundingly, you're happy to not have missed.
SUPER/MAN: THE CHRISTOPHER REEVE STORY
The Pitch: The title says it all. The product: Almost a year after his 1995 horseback-riding accident that left him paralyzed from the neck down, Reeve made his first public appearance at the Academy Awards in March of 1996. Opening with a bit clearly designed to mitigate potential unease for Oscars attendees and home viewers, the actor, in his croaked, halting voice, said, “What you probably don't know ... is that I left New York last September … and I just arrived here this morning.” The crowd, with obvious relief, laughed and applauded. Directors Ian Bonhôte's and Peter Ettedgui's moving, illuminating Super/Man: The Christopher Reeve Story demonstrates the truth behind that innocuous joke. While the trek to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion may not have taken six months, it was hardly an effortless, unthreatening ride, given that even minor bumps during their road trip could've led to malfunctions with Reeve's breathing apparatus. But “difficult journey” is the linchpin behind nearly every aspect of this beautifully detailed doc: Reeve's untethered childhood as the son of divorced parents; his difficulty in maintaining audience interest when not playing Superman; his eventually successful blending of families after leaving his longtime partner Gae Exton (and their two children) and marrying Dana Morosini (with whom he had another son). And, most effectively, the difficult journey that was Reeve's physical and mental rehabilitation following his paralysis, which accounts for roughly half the film's length. Graced with recollections from the likes of Glenn Close, Susan Sarandon, and Whoopi Goldberg, and with Reeve's three grown children advocates for their dad who weren't blind to his character failings, Super/Man is an intensely affecting heartbreaker. It's Dana Reeve (who passed away 18 months after her husband) and the kids, though, who emerge as the film's true superheroes. They just never got the capes. Thanks to this film, they deservedy get 'em.
PIECE BY PIECE
The pitch: Pharrell Williams biography, with Legos. The product: For whatever else it is, no one can accuse director Morgan Neville's documentary of being traditional, unless you can name another work in which a Lego Snoop Dogg conducts business from behind a thin veil of Lego weed smoke. From my first view of the trailer – one of my favorite “Wait, what?!” experiences of the 2024 film year – I was jazzed for Piece by Piece, partly because I knew next to nothing about the rap/pop sensation's history, and partly because the concept of employing animated Legos for the well-worn behind-the-music format seemed both playful and promising. (It sounded like a less-depressing variant on Todd Haynes' Superstar: The Karen Carpenter Story, which largely told its subject's tragic tale through Barbie dolls.) Well, Neville's latest is playful, all right … though I'm not sure much is gained by re-staging Black Lives Matter protests with three-inch-tall plastic figurines. Sadly, however, “promising” is where this admirable experiment ends in terms of interest, because it turns out that watching a completely formulaic bio-musical-doc – humble beginnings, meteoric rise, inevitable downfall, return to greatness Under His Own Terms – without human performances and human expressions is tedious as hell. (Fearing I was running late for my next obligation, I glanced at my phone at what I thought was the amovie's 90-minute mark, only to realize that not even an hour had passed.) There are definite perks to the unorthodox presentation, which allows for non-interruptive flashbacks, cheeky breaking of the fourth wall, and vibrant, “Happy” color suggesting that filming took place within a big bowl of Skittles. Yet a little of this shtick goes an awfully long way. As inspired as I guess we're meant to be, it's hard to imagine who might get misty-eyed when Lego Pharrell cries while sitting on Lego Oprah's couch.
TERRIFER 3
The pitch: Sadistic killer clown returns – again. The product: It's generally unwise to enter a threequel without exposure to the series' first two installments. Yet I presumed I'd be safe with writer/director Damien Leone's Terrifier 3, because really: Wasn't this just an über-gory splatter-fest in which familiarity would be immaterial? Stupid, stupid me. If I have a major gripe with Leone's followup to 2022's unexpected mainstream hit Terrifier 2, it's with my own ignorance, considering I didn't know a freaking mythology was in place. As inventively gory as the freak-outs were (the chainsaw up the ass was a new one for me), I still spent too much of this poisoned Christmas cookie baffled. Who was this unholy minion named Victoria (Samantha Saffidi) who masturbated with a shard of broken glass? What's with this magical sword that eradicates evil? So the Terrifier is a place, then, not a person? (Also: Why is Clint Howard here, and why does he get so many closeups?) Despite my confusion, though, we totally got the goods – namely murders and mutilations so unspeakably grisly that the former Fangoria obsessive in me was continually, if queasily, delighted. Were I 15, this might've been an all-time favorite. Fifty-six-year-old me, however, was beyond-impressed by the grotesquerie accomplished on a shoestring $2-million budget, delighted by lead Lauren LaVera's impassioned performance, and tickled by David Howard Thornton's Art the Clown, who's disturbing as eff at first, and quite funny after you become inured to his deranged Marcel Marceau antics. At two hours and change, Leone's film is overlong and, unfortunately, doesn't end so much as pause. While we wait for Terrifier 4, though, at least I have first viewings of the first two titles to look forward to. I'm not sure I want to see what's in store for LaVera and company going forward, but dammit, I'm invested now.
