Citadel, on Prime

Citadel is a lot like U.N.C.L.E., but it is not an acronym, at least not as far as we know yet. The super-secret, trans-national spy agency’s backstory is getting filled in as the series goes along. The problem is, there are not a lot of people left who would know. Nadia Sinh and Mason Kane are two of the handful of agents who survived their enemies’ lethal purge, but their memories were wiped clean, as per agency protocols. With or without their memories, Kane and Sinh will reteam to save the world and themselves in the first season of showrunner David Weil’s Citadel executive produced by the Russo Brothers, which premieres today on Prime Video.

There was definitely some awkward but potently charged history between Sinh and Kane when they found themselves on the same assignment that fateful day. Unfortunately, they were being set up, like every other Citadel agent, as part of a worldwide gambit launched by Manticore, a more buttoned-down corporate cousin of SPECTRE and THRUSH, fronted by the ruthless Dahlia Archer.

Kane basically started over when he woke up in an Italian hospital with no memory of his previous life. In the eight years that followed, he married and had a daughter, but occasionally he has visions of Sinh. The feeling of incompleteness spurs him to launch a highly advanced DNA search, which alerts his old boss, Bernard Orlick—and their old foes at Manticore.

To protect his family, Kane agrees to help Orlick recover Citadel’s global nuclear code skeleton key, before Manticore figures out how to use it. Kane still has no memory of his past, but he can get by on his reflexes and muscle memories. However, when things really get bad, he will need to find Sinh.

Citadel is a lot like a lot of other shows and movies (call it The Bourne Citadel), but it is way more expensive (reportedly the second costliest series ever). At least it is much more watchable than the tedious, de-Tolkien-ized The Rings of Power (assumed to be the #1 most expensive). There are non-stop stunts, punctuated by a bunch of explosions, set-off against a rapidly changing panorama of exotic backdrops. There is even a flashback to a mission targeting the Iranian regime, which earns Weil and company credit for actually taking on a real-life bad guy who is really bad.

Inside Man, on Netflix

Statistics indicate most murders are committed by close friends or family members. Jefferson Grieff agrees and he ought to know. The criminologist brutally murdered and decapitated his wife. However, he is still accepting cases on a special, limited-time-only basis, until his sentence is carried out. Perhaps the Nero-Wolfe-on-death-row can save a woman an ocean away in Steven Moffat’s four-part Inside Man, which premieres today on Netflix.

What does a proper English vicar like Harry Watling have to do with Grieff? They might just become fellow murderers, through an agonizingly torturous chain of events. Being truly charitable, Watling took Edgar, a disturbed young parolee, into his vicarage. Having too much sympathy, he agreed to hold Edgar’s flash drive full of adult material so his domineering mother would not find it. Not really thinking about, he took it home, where his son gave it to his math (or rather “maths” since they are British) tutor, Janice Fife. Disturbingly, the models depicted therein were decidedly not of age.

Fearing for his son’s reputation but mindful of his vows, Watling tries to explain, but the misunderstandings quickly escalate. Panic leads to further misinterpretations and before you know it, Watling has Fife locked in the cellar. So far, only journalist Lydia West suspects Fife might be missing, but they only just met in the prologue, so she can’t credibly report her missing to the police. However, she can ask the advice of her reluctant interview subject, Grieff.

The are two halves to inside man. One half features Grieff who is ruder than Cumberbatch’s Sherlock, but let’s face it, he does not have much left to lose. Since Grieff cannot have metal implements, he uses the photographic memory of fellow convicted murderer Dillon Kempton as his note-taking device. Their Holmes-and-Watson routine is jolly good fun to watch.

The other half is the incredibly manipulative and uncomfortable Job-like plague of troubles that rain down on the Watling family, who Moffat carefully establishes are good, decent folk, simply to make Grieff’s point anybody can become a murderer under the right circumstances. However, the succession of Rube Goldberg-like one-darned-things-after-another that befall the Watley family are wildly contrived, stretching believability past its breaking point. Witnessing their anguish and desperation is no fun whatsoever. Making him a vicar really feels like extra mean-spirited piling on, but admittedly, it adds further moral dimensions to dilemma.

Stanley Tucci chews the scenery marvelously as Grieff and his bantering chemistry with Atkins Estimond, as the brutish but often quite witty Kempton, is thoroughly entertaining. Dylan Baker is also terrific as Warden Casey, who is also rather droll and cleverer than you would expect for government employee.

David Tennant might be too good as Watling, because it is just painful watching him implode. On the other hand, something about both Dolly Wells as Fife and Lyndsey Marshal as Watling’s wife Mary seems off—like they constantly say and do things to raise the stakes, elevate the pressure, and further confuse the situation.

La Fortuna, on AMC+

Some of these protags could be dubbed “Lara Croft, Civil Service Bureaucrat,” or something like that. An American treasure hunting salvage company, not unlike Odyssey Marine Exploration has discovered a fabulously rich Spanish shipwreck, transparently based on the Our Lady of Mercy. Of course, they want their sweat equity to be repaid with booty, but the dysfunctional Spanish government stakes their legal claim to ownership. Fortunately, their American attorney is the treasure-hunter’s old nemesis in Alejandro Amenabar’s six-part La Fortuna, which premieres today on AMC+.

In the late Eighteenth Century, Spain and England were technically at peace, but sabers were rattling. To prepare for war, Spain recalled the La Fortuna as part of a four-ship convoy, ferrying all the gold and silver they had plundered from the New World, to fill their war-chests. Unfortunately, the British had the drop on them and sunk La Fortuna down to Davy Jones’ locker, where it remained undisturbed, until Frank Wild secretly discovered it off the coast of Gibraltar.

It is a jackpot find, but he tries to be cagey in reporting it, so as not to tip-off the Spanish government. However, Alex Ventura, a rookie foreign service officer and Lucia Vallarta, a stridently left-wing archaeologist with the Cultural Ministry suspect Wild discovered and cover-up the La Fortuna. Of course, they will need some solid evidence if crusty old Jonas Pierce will have any hope of challenging Wild’s claim in Federal court. Awkwardly, there seem to be elements in the Spanish government that want them to fail.

Although based on a real-life incident, La Fortuna plays out like the worst Clive Cussler novel that he had the common decency to never write. There are tons of scenes in conference rooms and courtrooms, but hardly any undersea adventure. That would be okay of the legal thriller aspects were somewhat thrilling, but they are not. Not at all. Plus, the relentless anti-Americanism goes beyond tiresome to become outright self-parody.

Frankly, it isn’t even warranted. In the real-life case, Odyssey constantly accused the U.S. Federal government of siding against them and with Spain. The most notable U.S. official interceding on their behalf was Rep. Kathy Castor (D-FL), but naturally, Amenabar never lets facts get in the way of the “narrative” he “constructs.”

Sundance ’20: Worth

Finally, someone aspired to create the Great American actuarial movie. Sadly, it was made possible by one of the worst human tragedies in American history—the horrific terrorist attacks of 9-11. In the short-term, most victims just wanted the terrorists and their enablers to pay, but trial lawyer Ken Feinberg knew some cash payouts would provide tangible help over the long-run. His stewardship of the September 11^th Victims Compensation Fund is the focus of Sara Colangelo’s Worth, which screens today during the 2020 Sundance Film Festival.

Feinberg is the sort of colorfully cynical attorney who can lecture his law students on the art of putting a dollar figure to a human life and leave them impressed by his wit. Sitting down with the grieving victims of the World Trade Center, Pentagon, and hijacked airliner crashes will be a different matter. Nevertheless, he jumps in with both feet when the Federal government creates the fund as a way to indemnify the airlines against potentially bankrupting lawsuits. Here’s the tricky part: for the fund to stave off class action suits, it should have 80% participation by the filing deadline. No problem Feinberg thinks. Then he has his first informational session with victims, where he shoves both feet in his mouth, up to his knees.

Soon, Charles Wolf emerges as a leader of the families and the chief critic of Feinberg’s one-size-fits-all formula for compensation. Yet, the legal bean-counter insists on his methodology, despite the heart-breaking one-on-one meetings conducted by his chief lieutenants: partner Camille Biros and Priya Khundi, a new associate, whose previous firm was headquartered in the World Trade Center.

There are a number of problems with Worth, but they all boil down to the central truth: a film addressing an event like September 11^th really can’t make a mediocre job of it. This should be a serious, nonpartisan film, but Colangelo and screenwriter Max Borenstein just cannot resist depicting Pres. George W. Bush as a cartoon blowhard, which immediately cheapens the film. Yes, there are emotionally devastating moments when families discuss their loved ones, but the manipulation is glaringly obvious. Frankly, the real suspense of Worth is built around whether or not Feinberg will finally start to connect with people on a human level, before it is too late.

Night Hunter: Superman & Gandhi vs. a Serial Killer

Michael Cooper is a lot like the retired judge in Hardcastle & McCormick, but without the red sports car. His methods for curing recidivism are also a lot more permanent. Unfortunately, he will be forced to work with the regular cops when the young woman he uses as bait is kidnapped by a serial killer in David Raymond’s Night Hunter, which opens this Friday in New York.

Much like Hardcastle, Cooper is a former judge, but personal tragedy drove him to wage vigilante tactics against online predators. His sarcastic ward Lara is only too willing to help him, but the latest creep they try to ensnare turns out to be even more prepared than they are. As a result, the panicked Cooper is forced to request help from local Minnesota police force. Fortunately, Det. Aaron Marshall quickly grasps the gravity of the situation and has the wherewithal to find and rescue Lara, along with another surviving victim.

However, the capture of Simon Stulls does not close the case. Frankly, the twitchy headcase does not seem to be functioning at a sufficiently high level to plan and execute his crimes. The out-of-town profiler (with whom Marshall has some awkward history) is convinced Stulls has more capable multiple personalities buried within him, but there are soon all too tragic reasons to suspect he had an outside accomplice.

Night Hunter features an impressive cast of name-actors, including Henry Cavill, Sir Ben Kingsley, Nathan Fillon, and Stanley Tucci, all playing cops or vigilantes. Obviously, the bad guy or bad guys must be pretty sinister, since they can elude the combined forces of Superman, Gandhi, Castle, and the host of the Hunger Games. In fact, Brendan Fletcher is extraordinarily creepy, even downright unsettling, as the psychotic Stulls. It is a terrific serial killer performance, especially in light of later plot twists.

Cavill is also quite good as Marshall, especially during scenes with Emma Tremblay, who is a real standout as the daughter who constantly tries to draw him out and keep him grounded. Tucci plays Commissioner Harper like a typical Stanley Tucci character, but that is always fun to watch. Kingsley humanizes Cooper, while developing some intriguing surrogate father-daughter chemistry with Eliana Jones, as Lara. On the other hand, neither Alexandra Daddario or her profiler character really bring anything interesting to the table.

In all honesty, Night Hunter is an over-achieving serial killer thriller that deserves more attention than its less-than-blockbuster release will probably garner. Raymond steadily builds the tension, while cinematographer Michael Barrett (who also lensed the uber-glossy Takers) gives it all a sinister sheen. It is a little over-stuffed with characters (don’t blink when Fillon is on-screen), but it succeeds quite nicely as a work of dark suspense. Recommended for fans of psycho-killer thrillers, Night Hunter opens this Friday (9/6) in New York, at the Cinema Village.

Patient Zero: Finally Opening

It was once on the so-called “Black List” survey of unproduced scripts well-regarded by industry insiders. Well, so much for that. It is about to have a miniscule opening, one month after it released on VOD. These was the same circumstances faced by Kevin Spacey’s most recent film, Billionaire Boys Club, which the trades trumpeted far and wide as the death knell of the disgraced actor’s career. So, are they going to say the same thing about Black List scripts, because fair is fair isn’t it? Actually, there is nothing fair about stupid stories that cherry-pick low opening grosses for films that are primarily seeking VOD business. It would be particularly easy to beat up on this unfortunate genre picture, because it was dropped by a major distributor, but there are worse films hitting theaters this week than Stefan Ruzowitzky’s Patient Zero (trailer here), which opens in a few theaters somewhere this Friday.

Don’t call them zombies. The “Infected” just happen to have a case of super-mega-ultra rabies, leaving them rage fueled berserkers—all except Morgan, that is. He was infected, but he did not turn, to use a zombie term. As a result, he can talk to the Infected, much to their surprise. Under the supervision of Dr. Gina Rose, he interrogates captured Infecteds, hoping to find the original source: “Patient Zero.”

Rose is okay. In fact, Morgan is definitely attracted to her, creating a lot of awkward guilt for the “Infected Talker,” since his wife Janet is one of the Infected they are transfusing, in the hope they can eventually be cured. Of course, they have heightened hearing, so she knows. In contrast, it is the jerkweed martinet in charge of bunker security who really chafes Morgan, but his nemesis will be “The Professor,” a leader the Infected, who does not seem to follow any of the rules Morgan and Rose thought they had figured out.

In fact, those rules are somewhat interesting and probably give is a sense of what the original Black List script read like. The Infected can’t process music, so Morgan, a former record store owner, uses classic rock and soul as part of the interrogation process. They also lost their ability to deceive—or did they? Unfortunately, just when the rules are fully established, they are thrown out and the film loses its distinctive vibe, becoming predictable and cliched.

As you might expect, it is a good deal of fun to watch Stanley Tucci act all sinister as “The Professor” (but Mary Ann remains unaccounted for). Matt Smith also fully commits as the brainy but prickly Morgan, using a lot of his old Doctor Who acting muscles. Natalie Dormer is fine as Dr. Rose, but it too bad Agyness Deyn doesn’t get more screen time as Janet, the Infected, because her portrayal is really quite complex and emotionally engaging.

Yes, Patient Zero clearly owes debts to Day of the Dead, 28 Days and Weeks Later, as well as scores of other zombie and pandemic movies, but Ruzowitzky keeps it moving along nicely. His output has been a little uneven since The Counterfeiters won the Academy Award, but his films usually have intriguing elements, especially the intense psycho-thriller, Cold Hell. Sure, it craters during the third act, but isn’t that always the way? In any event, it is far better than any reports of its minimal opening might suggest. Recommended as a VOD distraction for fans of apocalyptic horror, Patient Zero opens somewhere this Friday (9/14).

Final Portrait: Sitting for Giacometti

Alberto Giacometti is immortalized on the 100 Swiss Franc note. He also currently holds the record for the highest auction price received for a work of sculpture—$126 million for L’Homme au doight (Pointing Man). In today’s art world, these are the highest measures of success, but like many true artists, Giacometti was plagued by self-doubt. In fact, his particularly neurotic artistic sensibility made it quite a protracted business to sit for Giacometti as a model, as an American art critic learns for himself in Stanley Tucci’s Final Portrait (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

In 1964, James Lord was already one of the foremost experts on Giacometti’s work and something of a personal friend. Naturally, he is quite flattered when the revered Swiss artist asks Lord to sit for him. It will just be two days Giacometti assures him. It certainly will not conflict with his flight back to New York at the end of the week. However, as Giacometti obsessively obliterates and re-paints the portrait, Lord reluctantly agrees to repeatedly reschedule his flight, at no small expense. While growing increasingly impatient for Giacometti to finish, Lord nonetheless finds himself drawn into Giacometti’s exclusive world, observing the weird dynamics of Giacometti’s relationship with his wife Annette and on-call call-girl Caroline, while forging a fast friendship with Giacometti’s sculptor brother Diego.

Final Portrait is not exactly the meatiest film ever produced, but it is intoxicatingly nostalgic and sophisticated, like a glass of Pernod at a vintage Parisian café. Frankly, it certainly looks like there were worse fates than getting delayed in Paris circa 1964. (Indeed, Lord only protests intermittently, since among other things, it allows him to attend the press unveiling of Marc Chagall’s Paris Opera ceiling).

Geoffrey Rush might be experiencing a bit of PR turbulence right now, but there is not denying he is an eerie physical match for Giacometti. The artist’s eccentricities and insecurities are also perfect for the actor who made his reputation playing David Helfgott, Inspector Javert, Peter Sellers, the Marquis de Sade, and the King’s speech therapist, Lionel Logue. You can see pieces of them all in Giacometti, but Rush gives him a charm of his own that allows the audience to fully get why Lord keeps sitting for him (frankly, we don’t understand why he wanted to leave in the first place, but so be it).

Armie Hammer bears a similarly strong likeness to Lord. He is quite tall in the role, but he also nicely balances Lord’s youthful enthusiasm and Eastern reserve. Plus, it is nice to see a member of the hardscrabble Armand Hammer clan finally make good. This is the first film Tucci directed that he does not also appear in, but his alter-ego Tony Shalhoub is present and accounted for. In fact, Shalhoub is quite invaluable grounding the film and injecting some gentle humor as Diego Giacometti. In contrast, Clémence Poésy does little to elevate the stock character of Caroline.

Light like a blonde roast coffee, Final Portrait is low on stress, but unusually inviting, with credit also due to Evan Lurie’s lithe, French café society-appropriate music. This should be a film MoMA eventually revives from time to time, because their regular membership would enjoy it as much as the film program patrons. Recommended for those who appreciate fine art and fine living, Final Portrait opens this Friday (3/23) in New York, at the Angelika Film Center.

Tucci Remakes Van Gogh: Blind Date

Dutch director Theo Van Gogh was in the early planning stages of an English language remake of his acclaimed film Interview when an Islamist’s bullet cut short his life. He had dared to suggest Islamic fundamentalism was less than tolerate of homosexuality in his short film Submission Part 1, sadly proving the basic point with his life. In the wake of his death, Van Gogh’s producers set out to adapt not one but three of his films with American actors. Following Steve Buscemi’s remake of Interview, Stanley Tucci’s Blind Date (trailer here), the second film of the so-called “Triple Theo” project, opens in New York this Friday.

Though like Interview, Date has no clear political implications, as an intimate examination of the painful grief of two parents, in some sense it is an appropriate choice of film to adapt in Van Gogh’s memory. A man and a woman meet in a bar. They pretend not to know each other, but they have years of history together, some of which is quite painful. When Don and Janna’s young daughter died, it tore their lives apart. Now the only way they can relate to each other is through play-acting on staged blind dates. Finding it too painful to stay together, but loving each too much to stay apart, their “dates” become unhealthy rituals for the damaged couple.

In truth, anyone who has recently suffered a deeply felt loss is strongly cautioned not to see this film. While it is in many ways a compassionate, humanistic film, it offers no cathartic relief or comfort. Frankly, Don and Janna’s game-playing is most likely making things worse rather than better, but they simply do not have any other ideas of how to carry on.

The dilapidated nightclub (designed by Loren Weeks) in which they meet night after night is a fitting scene of faded glory that reinforces the overall mood of loss and regret. Tucci also filmed Date using Van Gogh’s three camera technique, keeping two dedicated cameras focused on the primary leads as the third framed the couple together. Indeed, Don and Janna’s scenes together are uncomfortably intimate, but the narration by the couple’s deceased daughter and strange interludes of Don performing his comedic magic act are self-consciously cinematic distractions.

In truth, these strange interludes help establish Don’s Chaplinesque qualities. He is definitely a crying on the inside (and sometimes outside) kind of clown. Frankly, both Tucci and Patricia Clarkson are frighteningly good as the heartsick parents. Their pain and humanity (messy as it might be) seem absolutely credible in Date, despite the film’s occasionally odd stylistic flourishes.

After screening Date, it is difficult to get it out of one’s head. Date is distinguished by two truly excellent lead performances, but they come in service of one of the saddest films audiences are likely on screens this year. It opens Friday (9/25) at Cinema Village.