Trashtacular

Every few years, a movie comes along so eager to don the tarnished crown of “epic fantasy”—to conquer, to astonish, to graft itself onto the sagging limbs of a post-Lord of the Rings landscape—that it forgets the very sinews that hold stories together. Into the Lost Lands, Paul W.S. Anderson’s latest incursion into genre upheaval, is not so much an adventure as it is a protracted reminder that the land of cinema has indeed been lost.

There’s nothing quite as dispiriting in cinema as a film that mistakes product placement for dramatic architecture, and with iHostage, director Bobby Boermans seems to treat the glass walls and minimalist spaces of Amsterdam’s Apple Store as if they lend themselves to the gravitas of Sidney Lumet’s Dog Day Afternoon. But iHostage only proves that you can’t transcend your ingredients by virtue of logos and lighting alone. This movie—as colorless as the inside of an after-hours Apple showroom—manages to turn a genre built on suspense into an extended exercise in waiting for the Genius Bar to call your name.

“Cleaner,” Martin Campbell’s latest and most ill-advised experiment in action, is the sort of movie that emerges when Hollywood so aggressively scrubs its reputation that it winds up erasing every last trace of sense, wit, or consequence. I suppose we should all take a moment here to remember, with something approaching reverence, that this is the man who resuscitated Bond twice over. Campbell, the gallant technician behind “Casino Royale,” now gives us a film whose emotional and intellectual palette can be summed up as: drab, bleak, and sticky-fingered with banality.

You could say that WarGames: The Dead Code is an object lesson in Hollywood’s special gift: draining the life out of a semi-classic property, embalming it in digital gloss and algorithmic plotting, and then casting it back onto the market in hopes we’ll confuse the bluish afterglow for old-fashioned excitement. If the original WarGames was a deft adolescent fever dream about the nuclear terrors and computer-age naiveté of Reagan’s America, Gillard’s 2008 “sequel” is a reminder that nostalgia is sometimes best left in mothballs. Watching The Dead Code is like sitting through a pop quiz on modern surveillance anxiety written by copy editors who just discovered what phishing is.

Tyler Perry’s Duplicity—now streaming on Amazon Prime Video—wants to be urgent, topical, and bracing. It arrives with all the signals of “serious intent”: brooding about justice, the jagged aftermath of police violence, and a pair of ambitious Black women set against a system that doesn’t budge for grief or outrage. There is the shape here of a vital film, but what actually transpires is a parade of perfunctory gestures and canned dramatics; it’s as if Perry had borrowed the scaffolding of a social thriller and was content to let it creak.

This movie is shit shit shit. Yes, you heard that right—three times for emphasis, just like the movie's incessantly annoying soundtrack that drowns out any semblance of narrative or character development. The Hard Hit, or as I hilariously prefer to call it, The Hard Shit, is a cinematic experience that promises so much with its stellar Rotten Tomatoes 5-star reviews, likely written by the director himself in a fit of self-delusion. Trust me, don't be fooled by the star rating; it's about as authentic as the movie's dialogue, which is akin to a bad high school play.