Film Review: Mother Mary

A song is a prayer is a spell is a confession is an exorcism is a spectacle is a revelation is a birth

From time to time, horror writer Gabino Iglesias reposts this litany on his Bluesky profile:

Many people have a book in them,
but it takes a special kind of freak to leave the Land of Laziness,
cross the Plains of Procrastination and Insecurity Mountain,
find the Blade of No One Made You Do This,
and use it to cut your chest open and yank that book out.

Such is the view of art that permeates David Lowery’s film Mother Mary. The story sounds deceptively simple: Mary, a dance/pop diva in the middle of a creative crisis, returns to the workshop of her former costume designer, Sam, to apologize for breaking their professional partnership and beg for a new dress. Most of the film consists of this single conversation, like a one-act play that reveals entire inner lives as the two lead characters tear down their barriers and take off their veils. Within the space of a small interpersonal drama of wounded trust and unspeakable regrets, Mother Mary weaves its statement about what it takes to produce any genuine art.

Anne Hathaway’s performance as Mary, which includes providing her own voice for all the songs, balances, on one hand, an irresistible scenic presence capable of commanding the adoration of masses of fans (her character is presented as a world-class star on the level of Lady Gaga or Beyoncé), and on the other hand, when she’s off stage, a consuming sorrow that overwhelms her words and movements. Both facets of this character convey the same vulnerability, but it’s fascinating to see how differently she expresses it before a full stadium versus in private conversation with her artistic collaborator. Sam, as played by Michaela Coel, is like a bird with a broken wing, but a bird of prey with eyes that miss nothing and a deadly beak. She takes delight in the return of her muse, but can’t just shake off the years of hurt. This creation is going to be personally costly for both of them.

I often say on this blog that the best stories are those about stories. Mother Mary is something very close: art about art—barely a story, more a portrait that’s being painted as you watch. The emotional bond between Mary and Sam is kept tight, on the verge of snapping, under looks of compassion that shoot daggers and poisoned recriminations coated with sweetness. Mother Mary isn’t trying to convince you that artistic creation has to hurt; it just assumes that it already does. So it’s fitting that Mary shows up on a Thursday to request a dress for the Sunday: the exact timeframe for a full Via Crucis and resurrection.

In a film like this, filled to the brim with Catholic imagery, the fashion designer’s name, Sam Anselm, has to be read as an allusion to the 11th-century Burgundian monk and philosopher St. Anselm, whose method of theology put faith before reason: in his system, you first assent to the revealed truth and then seek to understand it. That’s how you’re meant to experience a film like Mother Mary. It defies logical analysis unless you first accept it on its terms. Instead of arguing for a point, what it’s doing is push out a raw feeling through a scream drowned in sobs.

The connections between the religious experience and the mass ecstasy of pop music have been noticed since before “Madonna” became a stage name. In keeping with the theme of death coming before resurrection, Mother Mary links the act of creation to a demand for bloody sacrifice, an interchange of equally sincere love and hate (think Black Swan, Farinelli, Amadeus). This pain is physically inscribed on the two protagonists: when she’s not performing, Mary is shown with plain, shoulder-length hair, evoking the image of a suffering Jesus, while Sam wears her hair in rigid, pointed locks, arranged like a crown of thorns. The turning point of clarity, when the nature and shape of the new dress is revealed, arrives by a succession of stigmata, confession, forgiveness, and angelic visitation. The film opens with a song about a burial and closes with a song about a cradle, in a moment marked visually on the screen by a line that literally goes full circle.

But then, the end credits conclude with a puzzling statement: a shot of a human skull on a shelf, a common motif in Western painting that retroactively casts the whole film as a vanitas piece. The traditional function of this motif is to remind the viewer that eternity outweighs worldly pursuits, and ultimately anything we build here turns to dust. And yet, Mother Mary exists. It’s a complete experience of rhythmic beats and color and dance moves and ritual and brightness, as if defying the verdict of time. All is dust, but some of that dust is glitter.

To the extent that Mother Mary is articulating someting, as opposed to inviting you to feel it, its verbalizable content is dressed in swirling, uncut drapes of black and crimson. Image here is paramount, which makes it easy for viewers more inclined toward tangible substance to dismiss this film as too enamored with its own aesthetic. Meanwhile, in the real world, Madonna has just released a new album, Confessions II, whose third song, “One Step Away,” contains this spoken monologue:

People think that dance music is superficial. But they’ve got it all wrong.
The dance floor is not just a place. It’s a threshold,
a ritualistic space where movement replaces language.

So go into Mother Mary as you go into a holy ceremony. You have my blessing.

Nerd Coefficient: 9/10.

POSTED BY: Arturo Serrano, multiclass Trekkie/Whovian/Moonie/Miraculer, accumulating experience points for still more obsessions.

Film Review: The Bride!

A smart, visceral, unapologetic cry of rebellion

The rules of the game are ambiguous from the beginning. Speaking from beyond the grave, Mary Shelley addresses the audience directly, bored with the endless void of the afterlife where nothing ever happens, and frustrated at not having had enough time for telling the stories she still had in mind. This theme of a woman’s voice tragically silenced will reoccur through the film. What sets things in motion is Shelley’s impossible feat of self-necromancy, as if applying the forbidden arts of Victor Frankenstein to her own life’s spark to find a way back into the world of the living.

We’re brought to 1930s Chicago, with its blinding lights and its sordid dark corners, its charm and its promise and its disillusions. There Shelley has sensed a spirit that resonates with hers, another woman exhausted of playing appendage to a certain breed of men; and their joining, rather than a possession in the way we’re used to seeing in horror cinema, is a two-hour-long primal scream, a verborrheic burst of irrepressible wrath and ecstasy and dread and revulsion and despondency and grievance all at once. Through this new woman, whom death itself is powerless to silence, Shelley completes the story she confesses to us she’d been meaning to write for centuries: the tale of the Bride of Frankenstein.

A motif keeps playing on a loop across Western myths, a Freudian fixation we can’t seem to outgrow: in one iteration after another, the creation of Man is a worthy end in itself, but the creation of Woman has to satisfy an instrumental justification. When God builds Adam, it’s for his own sake (and my bifid usage of “his” here is fully intended), but when he builds Eve, it’s solely for Adam. So it goes with every artificial woman from Galatea to Alexa: she exists to be put in the service of someone else, to fulfill a function. Whereas Frankenstein’s creature’s curse is that no one is willing to love him, Frankenstein’s creature’s Bride’s curse is that her willingness to love is already assumed. That’s the whole point of her. Whatever she may want for herself isn’t part of the equation.

This Bride, however, won’t play along with the plan. After her death and reanimation, she may be a blank slate with no traces left of her former identity (and that’s exactly how Frankenstein’s Entitled Incel wants her), but she still has Mary Shelley whispering inside her head. Even more dangerously, she carries the names and stories of many other women that 1930s Chicago has killed. She’s bound to attract the wrong kind of attention soon.

The rules of the game are kept ambiguous. The setting of The Bride! never pretends to be our 1930s Chicago; it has the gangsters and the neon signs and the ubiquitous cigarette smoke, but it also has clandestine clubs with strobes and modern beats. It’s a world where Mary Shelley lived, wrote and died, but somehow Victor Frankenstein existed too, and his masterwork is known to other researchers of fringe science. So Shelley’s ghost is aware of us in the audience, and on top of that she can access a world where her fictional creation really happened, and there she reenacts Bride of Frankenstein (to the point of adopting its gimmick of casting the same actress as both Shelley and the Bride), with a stint under the false name Penelope, the name of a mythical character whose whole deal consisted in putting her life in pause for a man (and to further highlight the point, The Bride! features a real-life actress by the name of Penélope in the role of a woman who has been denied a career of her own).

To this erudite pile of allusions The Bride! adds a side wink toward the crime spree of Bonnie and Clyde plus explicit callbacks to the victim-turned-criminal-turned-revolutionary-symbol strain of social commentary that 2019’s incel hagiography Joker tripped over and fell on its face attempting—which has got to be a deliberate choice, given that writer/director Maggie Gyllenhaal once played a woman murdered by the Joker, and then took the Batman from that same film and cast him here as the 120-Year-Old Virgin. The Bride! juggles a dozen flaming daggers of intertextual connections and metafictional layers while tap-dancing backwards in high heels.

Movies have always loved monsters. So it’s only appropriate that this time, the monsters love movies. This version of Frankenstein’s creature is infatuated with a star of musical cinema who has conquered the devotion of the masses despite living with a physical deformity. It’s easy to see how the creature takes the actor as an aspirational symbol, even though the nature of this affection is not appreciated in return. In another of the film’s many tricks that blur the boundaries between levels of fictiveness, we see the creature and his Bride superimposed on the screen within the screen, replacing the protagonists of whatever movie they’re watching. They see a glamorous world of conventionally beautiful people and dare to see themselves in it. The Bride! couldn’t be more unsubtle in its plea to the audience: this story is about you. Try seeing yourself in it. Try letting its spirit possess you.

The Bride! is a movie about the power of movies, and about the trope of the instrumentalized woman, and about the injustice of being robbed of your voice and the exhilaration of seizing it back. It’s the protest against heartless callousness that Joker wished it were. It’s the anthem to unhinged feminine power that Cruella wished it were. It’s supremely uninterested in pleasing everyone. It dances to its own rhythm.

Nerd Coefficient: 8/10.

POSTED BY: Arturo Serrano, multiclass Trekkie/Whovian/Moonie/Miraculer, accumulating experience points for still more obsessions.

Film Review: Wicked: For Good

Pragmatism versus idealism in the emotional conclusion of the hit musical

Those who have seen the long-running stage musical Wicked already know that the second half of the performance takes a dark turn as the story moves from bold empowerment to anger and tragedy. While Wicked, Part 1 explores the relationships of the witches of Oz during their time in school, the second part of the story undermines the original plot elements of the classic film, The Wizard of Oz. The result is an emotionally stressful story that will have you reaching for your tissues. Wicked: For Good picks up with an angry and disillusioned Elphaba (Cynthia Erivo) trying to expose the corrupt Oz government while trying to free the newly oppressed talking animals. Meanwhile Glinda (Ariana Grande) accepts her figurehead role at the hands of the evil Madame Morrible (Michelle Yeoh) while still worrying over Elphaba’s safety and pining for Prince Fiyero (Jonathan Bailey) who remains devoted to Elphaba. After the death of their father, Elphaba’s sister Nessarose (Marissa Bode) becomes the governor of Munchkinland. But her obsession over her former classmate Boq (Ethan Slater) (who only loves Glinda) turns her into an oppressive and toxic tyrant to the Munchkins and to Boq in particular. Meanwhile, the arrival a little girl from Kansas creates a catalyst for the final confrontations in the story.

It’s hard to top a musical production as entertaining as Wicked, Part 1. The film did a great job of addressing themes of bigotry, social gaslighting, hypocrisy, and oppression. But, the messaging was subtle and cleverly woven into addictive show tunes and big dance numbers. The enemies to friends dynamic between Elphaba and Glinda was funny and endearing, and ultimately led to an entertaining ensemble dynamic with their friends Fiyero, Boq, and Elphaba’s sister Nessarose. However, in For Good, the amusing love polygon from the first film takes a grim turn as Nessarose obsesses over Boq to the point of imprisoning him, Boq pines for Glinda to point of bitterness, Glinda fixates on Fiyero to the point of a forced engagement, and Fiyero longs for Elphaba to the point of endangering his life and his humanity. 

In Wicked: For Good, the societal and philosophical commentary is more direct, the set design is darker, and the songs are definitely sadder. The combined weight of this removes any subtle irony and makes the film more directly angry, rather than quietly critical. The more serious tone is underscored by solid performances by Jeff Goldblum as the comfortably deceiving Wizard who flippantly justifies everything from fraud to oppression to murder. Additionally, Marissa Bode’s Nessarose is excellent as she shifts from adorable pining to a physically toxic control of Boq.

The grim visuals of the film stand out as an extension of the anger of the characters and the toxic nature of the new Oz society. However, the film intentionally balances the dark themes of the source material against an apparent need for a PG rating. As a result, several intense moments where key characters meet their demise, are diluted or given minimal screen time. Additionally, the Tin Man aesthetic was a little disappointing as it remained mostly aligned with the traditional film version rather than opting for something a little edgier or interesting for the big screen. Given the grim tone, it would have been nice to see something a bit more creatively gothic as the character descends into anger and bitterness.

The two main villains, Madame Morrible and the Wizard, dominate the fates of the characters, but they do so without much introspection or depth. Instead, the real villains are the residents of Oz who openly accept the injustices around them and readily swallow the lies from their leaders without debate or question. That seems to be the real message of the film: the manipulation or gullibility of the masses. As the film tells us, truth is what everyone agrees on, not what really exists. The Wizard is highly symbolic as a great, unrepentant con-artist who notes that once people buy into a lie, they will irrationally choose to cling to it, even when it’s been clearly disproved and shown to be toxic.

The other key theme is the idea of pragmatism versus idealism. Glinda and Elphaba both agree that the oppression of the talking animals is wrong and that the Wizard’s deception is wrong, but they still take very different paths. Glinda accepts a position in the oppressive Oz administration and uses it to her advantage, admitting she has an addiction to adoration. Elphaba is headstrong and repeatedly directly attacks the Wizard and Madame Morrible, but with failed results that paint her more and more as a villain. She, initially, lacks the subtlety to be strategic and Glinda, initially, lacks the resolve to be ethical. Fortunately, as the film’s title implies, the two opposites influence each other and result in a change in both of them, for good. As expected, the performance of the song “For Good” by Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande is the showstopper moment of the film that will have viewers reaching for tissues in the best possible way. 

Wicked: For Good is a grim change from the tone of the first film but ultimately leaves audiences with a sense of hopefulness. Elphaba shows that her core value is her love for Oz and her desire to see it be the best version of itself. As the film tells us, in this second part of the story, we may not be changed for the better, but hopefully you will feel changed for good. The hard themes of For Good may be a bit heavy handed, rather than introspective, but the pay off is worth it for a solid ending that will leave you cheering, even if things aren’t as perfect as we wish they would be.

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Highlights:

• Grim tone and visuals
• Heavy handed but relatable themes
• Showstopping moment defines the film
  
  

Nerd Coefficient: 7/10

POSTED BY: Ann Michelle Harris – Multitasking, fiction writing Trekkie currently dreaming of her next beach vacation.

Film Review: KPop Demon Hunters

A fresh take on familiar themes, played out with bright animation and appealing characters

Netflix’s latest animated adventure, KPop Demon Hunters is a useful option if you’re ready to take a break from the weight of the world and enjoy bit of light adventure. On the eve of their greatest triumph, a trio of female K-Pop rockstars who moonlight as demon hunters find themselves thwarted by the arrival of a competing group of performers secretly bent on demon-serving, soul-sucking destruction. The story manages to be both comfortably familiar and freshly amusing, both laugh out loud funny and substantially tragic, and is filled with catchy tunes that will stay in your head long after the credits roll. Although aimed at a younger generation, older viewers will recognize the film’s familiar call back to Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Jem and the Holograms, and other secret hero stories.

Musically talented orphan Rumi and her two besties, tough and cynical Mira and energetic rapper Zoey, are part of a super popular K-Pop trio named Huntrix. Beyond their musical success and millions of adoring fans, they also have a secret side job killing demons (hence the band’s name). All three young women are trained, fearless demon hunters, complete with magical blades and supernatural acrobatic skills. They are working towards achieving a final victory over the demon world via an event called the Honmoon (never clearly explained). However, just as victory seems close, an unexpected new enemy arrives to thwart their plans. They soon find themselves faced with an alluring boy band, the Saja Boys, secretly made up of super gorgeous demons. Their new competition is led by the seductive but internally tortured Jinu. Following a theme explored in the film Sinners, we learn that throughout time, variations of musically inclined hunters have used their special musical gifts to transcend the natural realm and fight demons. Huntrix gets much of their strength from the energy of those who cheer them on. The arrival of the Saja Boys creates competition for both Huntrix’s fans and Huntrix’s physical strength, even as the new arrivals secretly wreak havoc on the people of the city by stealing their souls. This may sound a little intense but the film is played out in bright neon colors and shiny computer animation. At times, the soul stealing is so subtle that it takes a moment to realize what is happening. But what makes the story particularly entertaining is the fact that Rumi, Mira, and Zoey immediately realize the Saja Boys are demons and the Saja Boys know the Huntrix singers are demon hunters. As a result, much of the film involves hidden hijinks and sarcasm as the two enemies publicly interact at press conferences, concerts, and televised events. And of course, there is a lot of music and a reminder of how influenced K-Pop is by American hip hop. The songs are high energy and bubbling with dual meanings, and all of this is wrapped up with ridiculously intense K-Pop choreography displayed in dramatic, big screen worthy animation.

In addition to the external battles, the film deals with internal elements of self-identity, self-hatred, guilt, and shame. It also reflects themes from contemporary popular fiction, including enemies to lovers and morally gray love interests, as Rumi and Jinu find themselves thrown together. The vibe of fierce but hidden female fighters is reminiscent of the vibe in Justina Ireland’s novel Dread Nation. The importance of music as a spiritual element in fighting and provoking evil is an interesting call back to Sinners. However, unlike those stories, the Netflix film is gore-free, safe for tweens, but still entertaining enough for adults who want something lighter and more amusing.

A key element of the film is the visual choices. The demon king is never really seen but appears as an amorphous pink cloud. The Saja Boys are each designed with extreme K-Pop beauty that creates a hilarious contrast to their true nature. Jinu communicates with Rumi via a show-stealing, enormous, teal blue, striped cat who travels with a bird who wears a top hat on its head. The big cat is the most understatedly fun and funny thing in the visuals and it roams throughout the plot unbothered by being both gorgeous and outrageous.

Despite the interesting set up and the seductive dynamic between Rumi and Jinu, the ultimate messaging of the film stops short of attempting a deep dive into, or a meaningful resolution of, the demon world. The demons are portrayed primarily as comically grotesque, generally evil, and mostly two dimensional. That approach is not uncommon in many demon hunter stories (such as Jujutsu Kaisen and Demon Slayer) but, in this film, two of the main characters have a significant connection to the demon world. So, it feels like a missed opportunity not to delve deeper into the identity and motivations of that world, especially since it defines and affects the two lead characters. Additionally, unlike Jinu, Rumi’s backstory remains mostly a mystery. We never hear the story of her parents or their demise although it’s a critical element in who she is. But this is a ninety-nine minute animated PG film and the focus is on the primary plot: achieving the Honmoon and defeating the demon world despite the efforts of the tortured yet seductive anti-hero. Does that happen? Surprisingly, you’ll have to watch and see, because KPop Demon Hunters has enough built in twists to keep viewers guessing.

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Nerd Coefficient: 7/10

Highlights:

• Fun, likeable, characters
• Familiar explorations of classic themes
• Catchy music and animation, safe for the whole family

POSTED BY: Ann Michelle Harris – Multitasking, fiction-writing Trekkie currently dreaming of her next beach vacation.

Film Review: Snow White

A mix of promising moments and distracting production choices.

Long before Disney Princesses were a corporate trademark, fans flocked to Disney’s fairy tale adaptations on the big screen. Over the decades viewers enjoyed the musical adventures, often with a strong, girl-power protagonist and likeable allies who triumph over cruelty to find happiness. But, of all of the Disney princess films, the 1937 Snow White and the Seven Dwarves was the hardest for me to connect to. That adaptation of the classic Grimms’ fairy tale was the oldest in the catalogue and the story was iconic in its simplicity. Later versions of the tale were more intense in their explanation of the desperate princess on the run from a murderous queen. The first season of the television series Once Upon a Time, gave us the fugitive princess Snow White as a fierce, smart-mouthed archer who has an enemies-to-lovers adventure with a rogue prince she sarcastically nicknames “Charming.” Snow White and the Huntsman offered a dramatic and complicated relationship between the two lead characters. But if you have interpretations like Snow White and the Huntsman or Once Upon a Time in mind, the 2025 live action film is nothing like those. The newest version of Snow White takes us all the way back to 1937, complete with the iconic blue and yellow poufy dress and kid-friendly, music-filled storytelling.

In a happy kingdom, a benevolent king and queen have a daughter born during a snowstorm. They name her Snow White in honor of her surviving the storm. The king remarries when his wife dies and Snow White’s cruel stepmother (Gal Gadot) takes control of the kingdom when the king disappears. The evil queen hoards food (unclear why) and orders the kingdom’s farmers to be her soldiers. Surprisingly, they fall in line and become very dedicated to their new jobs as oppression enforcers. Meanwhile, Snow White (Rachel Zegler) is kept inside the palace and forced to work scrubbing floors, etc. This continues for years and she becomes isolated from what’s happening in the kingdom. The queen has a magic talking mirror which she consults to confirm that she is the fairest person of them all. One day Snow White catches a thief, Jonathan (Andrew Burnap), stealing potatoes from the palace, allegedly to feed starving people in the woods. Snow White scolds him for stealing but when he inevitably gets caught, she unsuccessfully appeals to the queen for leniency. Around the same time, the queen gets the bad news that Snow White is now fairer than the queen. The queen sends a guard to kill the princess and Snow White ends up having to run for her life. She is sheltered by seven miners a/k/a “the seven dwarves” from the original film. Snow White decides to team up with her new roommates and with Jonathan and his band of bandits as they all figure out how to win the kingdom back from the queen. 

The 2025 film is not trying to be new or clever and will be more enjoyable if you calibrate your expectations accordingly. However, despite the simplistic set up and the decidedly grade school vibes, the film has several promising moments. Rachel Zegler’s portrayal is appealingly earnest and her singing voice is gorgeous and perfect for the film’s childlike mood. The film has a relatable central theme of oppression versus kindness. The magic mirror uses a double meaning for the word “fair” noting that Snow White is more than pretty, but is just and fair-minded, unlike the queen. It’s a fun element of symbolism and moral commentary. Additionally, Snow White’s interactions with “Dopey” are sweet as she supports him in moving from being a victim of bullying to finding his voice. The idea of finding your voice to stand up to oppression is an overall theme in the story. It’s fun that Snow White’s name refers to overcoming the cold snow rather than aspiring to be like it. If you are in the mood for allegory, the film does a nice job of weaving in uplifting concepts throughout.

Unfortunately, the promising moments are undercut by other story elements. The new film gives us a Snow White who has slightly more self-determination than the original film but who always reins it in before she gets too fierce. Her love interest Jonathan (not a prince) is a quirky combination of Han Solo, Rapunzel’s Flynn Ryder, and a comic version of Robin Hood but with a rom-com vibe that seems a bit too flippant in dire situations. The evil queen is visually striking but is, more or less, two dimensional with no personal backstory or substantive motivation. The opening narration sums her up by simply stating, “She was evil.” And apparently that’s all we need to know. But, most distracting, were the non-stop CGI effects, not only of the forest animals but also of the seven miners who take in Snow White. Despite being a live action film, the seven characters are creepily cartoonish with distorted, giant faces. The fun of a live action adaptation is to see the characters as real people not merely three dimensional cartoons. All of these elements lead to a mix of promising moments and distracting production choices. 

Overall, Snow White will appeal to very young viewers but the film’s reluctance to flesh out the characters, literally and figuratively, may leave more mature viewers wanting something a bit more real.

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The Math   

Nerd Coefficient: 6/10

Highlights:

• Appealing lead actress
• Distracting CGI
• Simplistic storytelling

POSTED BY: Ann Michelle Harris – Multitasking, fiction-writing Trekkie currently dreaming of her next beach vacation.

Film Review: Wicked, Part 1

Real world social commentary wrapped in memorable show tunes and a classic, fantastical setting.

First came L. Frank Baum’s classic children’s book, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, the story of Dorothy, a girl who gets blown from Kansas by a cyclone into the fantasy world of Oz. The book was made into the classic film, the Wizard of Oz starring Judy Garland as Dorothy. In Oz, Dorothy meets the beautiful witch Glinda who sends her to Wizard of Oz so that he can get her back to Kansas. In her quest to get home, she defeats the wicked witch of the West and forms friendships with three allies, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion. However [spoiler alert] the wizard turns out to be a fraud with no magical powers and in an ironic twist, her companions who consider themselves to be defective and lacking, all turn out to be strong and capable despite their external deficits.

After The Wizard of Oz, came various musical versions of the story including, The Wiz, a primarily Black cast retelling of the story featuring R&B songs like When I Think of Home and Ease on Down the Road. The hit film version of The Wiz starred Diana Ross, Michael Jackson, Nipsey Russell, and other superstars. Later came the Gregory Maguire’s novel Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West. This time the story of Oz is told from the point of view of the story’s original villain, Elphaba. In this version, Elphaba is mistreated, well-meaning, exploited, framed, and ultimately understandably angry. She also has a fraught friendship with Glinda the good witch in the original version of the story.  The novel inspired the musical, Wicked, featuring a tragic hero, tortured friendships, and iconic songs that never quite leave your mind. The Tony winning Broadway musical is the inspiration for the 2024 feature film musical starring Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande as Elphaba and Glinda, respectively. After more than a century into existence, Oz has been through many interpretations.

What contemporary audiences often want is a complex character study. People are seldom just bad or good. They are the products of their experiences and they act based on the reality of their world view and their lived experiences. Wicked, Part 1, tells us the story of a child, Elphaba, who is unloved because of her skin color (green) and feared because of her strength (magic). Despite this she grows to be resilient with a mix of compassion and cynicism. While escorting her younger sister Nessarose (Marissa Bode) to the wizard school, Shiz University, Elphaba’s magic skills catch the eye of a professor (Michelle Yeoh), so Elphaba also ends up enrolling in Shiz to develop her powers in the hopes of one day meeting the magical Wizard, the powerful leader of the land who can grant any wish. Elphaba (Cynthia Erivo) is stuck rooming with the self-absorbed and intensely popular, Glinda (Ariana Grande) who is the opposite of Elphaba’s reticent, outcast vibe. The two initially dislike each other but over time they become friends after each offers the other an unexpected act of kindness. The arrival of the handsome and charismatic prince Fiyero (Jonathan Bailey) creates a love triangle with Glinda and Elphaba. Meanwhile Elphaba’s younger sister Nessarose is attracted to the Munchin student Boq (Ethan Slater) who is not-so-secretly in love with Glinda. But the main external conflict is the oppression and racism against the talking animals who have been part of society for ages. Elphaba discovers a plot to wrongfully imprison them, cut them off from their homes and employment, and take away their ability to speak. Her determination to speak out against the injustice puts her in conflict with those in power and strains her friendship with Glinda. The film is only part one of the musical so it ends with much of the conflict unresolved. However, the story ends on an inspiring note as Elphaba and Glinda struggle with their respective choices.

If you are familiar with the musical, none of this is new material. But, while the film manages to stay true to the stage show, it also brings startlingly sharp observations of current issues of racism, social oppression, and political manipulation. When Elphaba is stared at because she is green, Glinda expresses hope that they can solve her skin color problem. Elphaba irritatedly rebuffs the suggestion and a man in Glinda’s entourage defensively declares that “I don’t see color.” The fact that Elphaba is played by a Black actress, particularly makes the message resonate.

As the story progresses, Elphaba and Glinda uncover political intrigue involving the innocent talking animals as pawns. Later the talking goat history professor, Dr. Dillamond (voiced by Peter Dinklage) warns that “you ignore the past at your own peril.” When you see Wicked, you can easily talk for hours about the current societal references in the story. The film has sharp content and excellent acting from Cynthia Erivo as the determined Elphaba and Ariana Grande as the good-hearted, but hesitant to act, Glinda.

In addition to the unexpectedly thoughtful and timely plot, Wicked delivers exactly what audiences want in a musical: stunning sets, gorgeous dance numbers (and costumes), and iconic songs (Popular, One Short Day, and Defying Gravity) that will make you want to play the soundtrack the entire way home from the theater. Cynthia Erivo is perfect as Elphaba, playing the character in an understated but bitingly cynical way. Ariana Grande is adorable as an onscreen embodiment of Barbie from Barbie and Elle from Legally Blonde, as she moves from confident and self-absorbed to compassionate, conflicted, and ultimately overwhelmed. The film also has nods to Wednesday and Enid from the Netflix series Wednesday. The only real problem with this film is that it is Wicked, Part 1, which means that we only get through the first half of the story in this rendition. However, it is so well done and ends on such a high note (literally and figuratively) that this story of the rise of an unlikely hero ultimately feels satisfying.

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The Math

Nerd Coefficient: 8/10

Highlights:

• Sharp social commentary
• Stunning sets and performances
• Poignant, sing-a-long fun

POSTED BY: Ann Michelle Harris – Multitasking, fiction-writing Trekkie currently dreaming of her next beach vacation.

First Scare: Little Shop of Horrors (1986)

Weird, light, cynical, musical fun

I went all the way back to the ‘80s to find this classic horror musical for my First Scare piece. The idea of “musical” and “horror” normally has me heading in the opposite direction. The closest I’ve come is seeing Phantom of the Opera at the Fox Theater in Atlanta and my obligatory viewings of The Rocky Horror Picture Show in college. But, after decades of skipping this story (including the constant stage productions at all levels), I have finally watched Little Shop of Horrors for the first time.

I was surprised to discover that the story of the murderous, man-eating plant is framed by a trio of singers (Tichina Arnold, Michelle Weeks, Tisha Campbell) who appear in each scene and act as a Greek chorus for the story. In 1960s New York, nerdy, awkward, underdog Seymour Krelborn (Rick Moranis) lives and works in a rundown plant shop in a rundown neighborhood. We know this thanks to the catchy opening song, “Little Shop of Horrors,” and the really well executed follow up song “Downtown / Skid Row.” His beleaguered but awkwardly glamorous co-worker is Audrey (Ellen Greene), who is dating an abusive boyfriend, Orin (Steve Martin). The curmudgeonly but mostly okay store owner, Mr. Mushnik (Vincent Gardenia), becomes frustrated at the lack of business and wants to close the store—to the dismay of Audrey and Seymour. Seymour shows them an unusual little plant he found shortly after a recent solar eclipse and suggests displaying it in the shop window to attract customers. Despite hesitation from the owner, the plan works and the store becomes a success as curious customers stop by to see the weird, Venus flytrap-like plant, and then make other purchases at the store. When the plant begins to wilt, Seymour discovers (after a musical number) that the plant actually wants to be fed human blood.

To keep the store’s success going, Seymour gives the plant his blood. The plant (an eventually giant puppet voiced by R&B singer Levi Stubbs) grows larger and demands more blood. Over time, the store and Seymour become successful, but Seymour begins to suffer from blood loss. The plant convinces Seymour to kill and dismember someone to make food, and it suggests Audrey’s abusive, dentist boyfriend as the victim. As the film progresses, Seymour’s fame grows along with the size of the plant, but it comes at the price of the plant killing people and ultimately seeking world domination. Seymour has to learn to set boundaries and find his strength in order to defeat the plant, save the world, and secure his true love, Audrey.

Little Shop of Horrors was unexpectedly fun to watch for two reasons: 1) the music and 2) the '80s A-list comedy cast. First of all, the music was excellent. It’s weird to say that about a horror comedy, but the songs were fun. Tisha Campbell, Tichina Arnold, and Michelle Weeks do a great Supremes routine, constantly and magically appearing in new costumes and singing through all sorts of shenanigans by the lead actors. Thoughtful songs like “Downtown” bring in some societal commentary on class struggles and allow for emotional solos on the monstrosity of real life. Rick Moranis is the only one who doesn’t belt out his songs, but that fits since he is playing the insecure, awkward young man. If you’ve seen him in Ghostbusters, he is playing the same type of character.

The second thing I enjoyed about the film was the cast. The film has basically an all-star cast of 1980s comedy A-listers, including Steve Martin, Bill Murray, John Candy, Rick Moranis, Christopher Guest, and James Belushi. It's also fun to see super-young Tisha Campbell and Tichina Arnold sliding through the absurdity and violence of the story as background commentators. Steve Martin manages the most unlikeable character in the film, the violent dentist and unrepentant bully, by playing Orin as an Elvis / Fonzie parody. His violence is a serious topic and, at least, the entire cast, including Orin himself, acknowledges that he is a terrible person. Lastly, a little internet research told me that the voice of the plant is Levi Stubbs, the lead singer of The Four Tops. No wonder his voice was so appealing.

There were a few parts I didn’t enjoy as much. I thought Mr. Mushnik deserved better treatment. He takes in Seymour and tries to get Audrey away from Orin, warning her that Orin is a bad guy, so I'm not sure why his character was treated in an ultimately negative way. The puppet plant was, of course, distracting, although the heavy-handed puppetry added to the farcical nature of the story, especially when Audrey II’s true murderous motives are revealed.

Little Shop of Horrors is too weird and quirky to become a favorite for me, but I’m surprised I enjoyed it as much as I did. If you want something creepy but also comedic but also in a musical style (and who doesn't), Little Shop of Horrors will fit the bill.

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Highlights

• Fun music
• '80s comedy stars
• Weird but entertaining

POSTED BY: Ann Michelle Harris – Multitasking, fiction-writing Trekkie currently dreaming of her next beach vacation.

First Contact: The Rocky Horror Picture Show

It's finally happened: the answer to my antici… pation

How many times a day do you think about the Roman Empire the queer subtext of Frankenstein? It's sad that so many people seem to spend their whole lives without once doing it. And it's so easy, almost banal, to notice the wealth of potential queer readings of the story of a cisgender man who usurps the female role of giving life; a man who has no problem with building another man, but recoils in terror when asked to build a woman; a man to whom, when he's promised a visitation on his wedding night, it doesn't occur that his wife is involved in the picture. Dr. Frankenstein's unnatural creation, a child who is already an adult, a creature begotten outside the boundaries of heterosexual intercourse, shatters by the fact of simply existing the taken-for-granted necessity of marriage, parenthood, inheritance, and the elaborate pantomime of Regency courtship. Popes have had an accurate instinct in choosing IVF as their nemesis: once artificiality is invited to the dance of procreation, the artificiality of our family models is instantly exposed.

Which is why something like The Rocky Horror Picture Show was sooner or later destined to exist. I like to imagine what would have been said during the pitch meeting:

"Sir, I have a new script for you."

"All right, let's hear it."

"It's about two young lovebirds who get lost in the road on a stormy night and knock at the door of an ominous-looking castle."

"I like where this is going."

"Turns out the castle is the home of a mad scientist."

"Promising so far. Go on."

"In fact, he's a barely disguised—or rather, barely dressed, exquisitely disguised homage to Dr. Frankenstein."

"Oh, my! What do the youngsters do?"

"They just kind of stand there while the mad scientist sings about transvestism."

"Wait, what does that have to do with the story of Dr. Frankenstein?"

"Well, the man he's building in the lab is a breathing, talking sex doll."

"Remind me, who's the target audience for this?"

"Plot twist: the previous model he built escapes his cage."

"Oh, my!"

"Don't worry. He just sings a song and is promptly hacked to death with a pickaxe."

"That escalated quickly."

"Later that night, the mad scientist sneaks around the castle to seduce his sweet, innocent guests. Each separately, then both."

"That sounds complicated."

"It's actually super easy. Barely an inconvenience."

"Did you test this with viewers?"

"Trust me, they'll adore it for decades."

When I came up with the idea of the First Contact project, I wondered at what moments in my life I could have encountered the movies I was putting in the schedule. Metropolis, for example, is one of the conceivable choices of an informal film club run every year by a friend in college, a chemistry major who was obsessed with classic cinema. But when would I have ever had the chance to discover The Rocky Horror Picture Show? Not on Colombian television, that's for sure; I remember the angry parent letters complaining that Ranma ½ was confusing the kids. In late night cinema? No way. My parents enforced a totalitarian curfew. In Catholic school? Unlikely. This movie would have given some of my ordained teachers a heart attack—but not without first giving them a boner.

I made very few queer friends at my hometown, a dangerously homophobic place it took me the first half of my twenties to successfully flee. But even after I learned of the existence of this movie, I wouldn't have been caught dead speaking of it. My brain was still on full alert, watching for the slightest slip of word or body language that could mark me as a target. To most people who knew me, I remained closeted until a month before my wedding. Anything I could have wanted to know from the extensive heritage of queer culture was right there, just one torrent file away, but I still needed to give myself permission to walk under the rain and knock that door.

The Rocky Horror Picture Show is probably the kind of shock treatment I could have used back then, a perfumed, silky glove slapping me in the face, an abrasive bite leaving marks of lipstick and stubble. I lived through times when the thing my oversanitized education needed was something like this story about a couple of proper, well-behaved, straight Christian youth going through a night of wild erotic liberation, first shown on theaters at the same time that Puritan America was being loudly invited to partake in a societal metamorphosis of ways of loving and ways of being, an invitation that continues to be rudely refused for no good reason.

Time to void my queer membership card: I have very little patience for musicals. Just not my thing. The first musical film I ever enjoyed was Happy Feet, because the queer subtext landed close to home for me. But I sense a certain something in The Rocky Horror Picture Show, in its playfully trashy aesthetic, its matter-of-fact subversion of nuptial rites, its unafraid, unashamed disdain for standards of decency. It is the kind of art that fulfills the noble task of comforting the disturbed and disturbing the comfortable.

POSTED BY: Arturo Serrano, multiclass Trekkie/Whovian/Moonie/Miraculer, accumulating experience points for still more obsessions.

On the head-scratching disappointment that is Miraculous: Le Film

It's amazing how a small change of directors makes all the difference between one of the best superhero shows of the 2020s and this bland, uninspired retelling

French cartoonist Thomas Astruc's creation, the animated superhero TV show Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Cat Noir, stands alone in its own league of excellence, and must not be confused with the recently launched Miraculous: Le Film, a watered-down retread of the protagonists' origin story. Both productions can be watched on Netflix, and both come from the same company (ZAG Entertainment), but the experience for the viewer couldn't be more different. While the show offers a wealth of excitement, drama, and action that fans are otherwise starved of in the ongoing stagnation of American superheroes, Le Film fails by every criterion to measure up to the show's quality, and presents a risk to the show's still modest presence among American viewers if this is their first taste of these characters.

Every single episode of the Miraculous show is written and directed by Astruc, although in later seasons he's become more and more assisted by co-writers and co-directors. The effect of his continued authorial hand is a clearly defined tone and a consistent moral stance. In depicting an everyday battle between overemotional teenagers and a manipulative villain whose superpower is to exploits people's emotions, Miraculous takes the side of empathy against callousness, of openness against duplicity, of community against selfishness. Astruc imparts upon the story not only a strong psychological foundation (all the more important in a show aimed at small children), but also a sweet sense of humor and a keen awareness of political issues. This is a story that respects its characters' inner complexity and trusts young viewers to grasp why sometimes people make regrettable choices.

Miraculous: Le Film was made with no creative involvement from Astruc. Its director is Jeremy Zag, who for the past eight years has been producer and composer for the show. Le Film follows the same premise, the same art style, the same general plot, the same character dynamics, the same setting, the same dramatic stakes, and the same magical worldbuilding. Yet the execution noticeably lacks the Astruc touch. Instead of a sensitive, resourceful, good-natured character, this version of Ladybug is mostly defined by her incurable self-doubt and her swings of luck, with her signature creativity having minimal impact on the plot. On the show, each Monster of the Week has a specific motivation based on the human victim that was transformed to create it. This monster is always defeated by Ladybug's cleverness, and the detransformed victim is treated with unfailing compassion. On Le Film, the action is closer to conventional American superhero fights, no attention is given to the detransformed victims' lingering emotional turmoil, and the monsters lack a motivation of their own.

Ladybug's superhero partner, Cat Noir, is in the show a sheltered boy for whom the chance to put on a mask is the much-welcome permission he needs to let loose and express all the joy and goofiness he wouldn't dare show in front of his tyrannical father. In Le Film, his personality is flattened to blank sadness in his civilian life and instant arrogance when masked. Instead of being mainly motivated by his loneliness to seek normal human connection outside of his father's exclusive circle, here he's a recluse by choice (we first meet him hiding from his classmates in the school library) who only displays a personality when in Ladybug's presence.

A similar misstep occurs with the character of Cat Noir's father, who is secretly the supervillain Hawk Moth. From a towering presence of aristocratic disdain, he's reduced to a "mad scientist" archetype who just needs to be understood. Because Le Film makes the mistake of packing five whole seasons of story into one movie, we get the opportunity to see how this version of Hawk Moth is defeated, and the result is another disappointment. The show version of this climactic fight has the tragic gravitas that can only be carried by a character we've grown to know intimately through his interactions; in Le Film, his defeat is almost an afterthought. The psychological depth that makes Hawk Moth a compelling antagonist is here reduced to a colossally ill-advised musical number.

Alas, it's not the only one. The runtime is padded with song after song after generic, boring, inconsequential song, animated with one bit too much plasticity, as if trying to emulate the classic Disney look. Similarly, the emotional beats feel calculated to appeal to American sensibilities, with Ladybug's mission changed from finding strength in her peers to believing in herself and her destiny. The vast, carefully detailed cast of supporting characters from the show is seen in Le Film just filling the background as extras. The gentle, long-suffering Master Wang Fu is turned into a tokenized Mystical Asian caricature. The animal spirits that give our heroes their superpowers are drawn with creepily exaggerated facial expressions, and poor Plagg in particular is turned into a nonstop deliverer of fart jokes.

Over (so far) five seasons, Astruc has taken deliberate care in the way the show reveals information. Fans had ample opportunity to get acquainted with these heroes as they gradually watched their romance grow and ultimately thrive. Such crucial questions as Hawk Moth's identity or the nature of his wish took years to be answered. Le Film takes all that elaborate web of secrets and crams it into mere minutes of obvious and hurried dialogues. Every edge that for eight years has made Miraculous a fantastic story with rich lore, appealing characters, and great humor has been sanded down to just the vague outline of its story and an unrecognizable profile of who its characters are. Despite the slightly improved digital imagery, this film was a bad idea at all levels of its production. Even worse, as a possible first look into this world for new audiences, it's a disservice that the show doesn't deserve.

Nerd Coefficient: 4/10.

POSTED BY: Arturo Serrano, multiclass Trekkie/Whovian/Moonie/Miraculer, accumulating experience points for still more obsessions.

'Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile' is a missed opportunity

This adaptation of an unconventional series of children's books smoothes over the quirks and flattens them under the uniformity of established film tropes

As a rule, book adaptations should be analyzed independently from the source material. A film should be able to stand on its own. However, Sony's new film Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile is so drastically different from the books it's based on that it's worth the exercise to identify the authorial choices that introduced plot points not present in the original story. By studying the new material that was added in the process of translating the books into this film, one can get a glimpse into the thought process that guided the production work.

In the original books written by American author Bernard Waber, Lyle the friendly crocodile forms a friendship with the Primm family after some initial misgivings about hosting a top predator in their house. Curiously, in the books, Lyle grows closest to Mrs. Primm, with whom he shares household chores and shopping trips. In the film, Lyle is closest to the son, Joshua, who is given a central but simple arc as part of a large metaphor about loosening up and embracing your wild side even in the asphalt jungle. This dynamic replicates a fossilized habit of American cinema: the kid-meets-monster plot. So Lyle and Joshua are isolated in their own bubble for a good portion of the movie, at the cost of losing the comedic incongruity of Lyle doing ordinary things in the ordinary world, as happens in the books.

The humor of book Lyle stems from the fact that he's a polite and well-behaved crocodile instead of the sewer crocodile of urban legends. He has the body of a human-eating beast, but he does the dishes and arranges the flowers in the house. That shocking contrast is the heart of the books' charm. It isn't even important that he can perform. On the contrary, Lyle's singing talent is the main attraction of the film, and, in many scenes, the only reason why humans stop fearing him. This diminishes the character of Lyle, reducing his right to be part of society to his usefulness as an entertainer.

Shifting the focus of the plot from Lyle's relationship with the city of New York to his singing career is yet another example of the homogenization of American cinema. It's a worrying display of lack of imagination that this film cannot make a case for Lyle's dignity apart from his exceptional (and exploitable) skills. In the books, Lyle is ultimately accepted in society because he's an intelligent creature that can make friends and express empathy; in the film, he's accepted in society because he wins a talent show.

The treatment of the antagonist, Mr. Grumps, is the best illustration of how this story was flattened for the screen. In the book, Mr. Grumps is an understandably concerned neighbor who only fears Lyle because he hasn't yet met him properly. When Lyle saves his life from a house fire, Mr. Grumps immediately sees that he had no reason to be afraid of him and becomes another of his friends. The underlying message is that Mr. Grumps was too hasty to judge Lyle, but he was mature enough to change his mind once he saw a demonstration of Lyle's kindness. In the film, Mr. Grumps is a one-note character who may as well have a neon sign painted on his face saying "bad person." Because US films have this anxious need to culminate in a victory over an opponent, Mr. Grumps is turned into a caricature that is only in the story to be defeated. Such deformation has repercussions beyond this character: in the books, Mr. Grumps's growth is contrasted with his earlier decision to have Lyle sent to the zoo; since the film doesn't reconcile him with Lyle, it's Mr. Valenti, Lyle's oldest friend, who sends him to the zoo, and the script does painful mental gymnastics to try to justify this choice.

The expanded characterization for the Primm family doesn't do the film many favors, either. This version of Joshua is the millionth timid child who finds his courage and saves the day after a near-fatal car chase. Mr. Primm is the millionth uptight adult who learns to channel his inner child. Mrs. Primm is the millionth mid-career professional who has an epiphany and reinvents herself. We've seen these stories before. They're the go-to stock characters with first-world problems in a standard children's movie. They're cinematic shorthand for the smallest amount of conflict that will still sustain a plot. They're a disservice to the source material.

Now, to be clear, I'm not making all these comparisons just to claim, "they changed it, so now it sucks." That's not the point of this exercise. It's entirely possible to make a book adaptation that takes huge liberties with the plot yet still understands the themes and the tone. It's even possible to make a wildly loose, even unrecognizable adaptation that makes use of that freedom to propose a new angle and interrogate the assumptions of the original version. The Starship Troopers movie is not a Starship Troopers movie, but it's the best conceivable Starship Troopers movie. The best adaptation of Hamlet has talking lions.

Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile does the opposite of that. It takes a story with a unique sense of humor and turns it into every children's movie we've seen: a microcosm of the American Dream where all you need to do is pursue your ambitions until, with some luck, a TV contest changes your life. Book Lyle earns a place in the human world when he proves that, despite looking like a beast, he's just like a regular person. Film Lyle isn't allowed to live in peace until he proves he's exceptional. So this is an adaptation that not only fails to understand the story it's adapting, but also reinforces the laziest clichés of American cinema.

The Math

Baseline Assessment: 5/10.

Penalties: −1 because movies seriously need to stop using asthma as a metaphor for a child's self-confidence issues.

Nerd Coefficient: 4/10.

POSTED BY: Arturo Serrano, multiclass Trekkie/Whovian/Moonie/Miraculer, accumulating experience points for still more obsessions.

The new Cinderella has no use for princesshood, thank you very much

This entrepeneurial heroine is too busy pulling herself up by her own bootstraps to bother with glass slippers

These days it feels like we're up to the brim in fairy tale remakes. When Amazon Studios announced that it was preparing its own version of Cinderella, many obvious questions emerged: Who needs this? Who asked for this? And what new angle can you possibly add to the overcrowded menu of fairy tale musicals?

As it turns out, the new Cinderella knows fully well what media ecosystem it's entering, and it replies with a resounding justification for why this needs to exist.

You see, after the end credits, there is the obligatory disclaimer, "This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and locations portrayed and the names herein are fictitious, and any similarity to or identification with the location, name, character or history or any person, product or entity is entirely coincidental and unintentional."

Don't believe one word of that statement. This is a movie about Meghan Markle.

Principal photography for Cinderella started in early 2020, just as Megxit was blowing up, and the parallels are impossible to ignore. A brown-skinned commoner with her own fashion line who rescues a reluctant prince from the strict expectations of the royal family? A movie produced by James Corden, the same who welcomed the ex-prince and ex-princess to Los Angeles and has publicly come to their defense? A heavy-handed critique of the ways life in the palace turns women into props for the ego of kings? A romance fantasy where everyone speaks British except for the American-accented heroine?

Yeah, this is Megxit: The Movie. That's the unifying explanation for the massive revisions done to the source material.

Classic Cinderella isn't the most proactive of protagonists. Her happy ending is not caused by anything she does, but by who she is deep inside. This does not have to translate into an indictment of the tale's quality; she can be read as what writer and editor Vida Cruz recently called a mountain character, one who is besieged by every type of injustice and whose mere daily survival is already a victory. Thus, most adaptations of Cinderella used to focus on its moral side, as a tale of quiet kindness receiving its prize while active meanness was punished. Even Disney's 1950 version avoids asking anything of the heroine; the fairy godmother is summoned by her faith alone. In the sickeningly saccharine 2015 remake, at least this scene is more causally grounded: the fairy godmother first tests Cinderella's kindness by posing as a beggar in order to establish that she's worthy of a miracle.

In 2021, the rags-to-riches aspect of Cinderella is fully Americanized into a Horatio Alger tale of social mobility. This time, our heroine's ticket out of poverty is not via marriage with a noble; her sights are firmly set on the merchant class. If it weren't for the electric saws featured in the movie's first musical number, we might situate this story near the end of feudalism, when a rising wave of new money challenged the rigid layers of medieval society.

That she happens to seduce a prince is secondary to her aspirations.

As the fabulous godmother explains in a voiceover, "Here everyone had a part to play, and they played it without question. [...] This village of hardworking citizens moved to the same beat day after day, generation after generation." The choice to open the movie with Janet Jackson's "Rhythm Nation" takes what was a straightforward moralizing tale of virtue rewarded and recontextualizes it into a parable about social exclusion. This theme is reinforced by the deliberate selection of songs by Black artists: the self-improvement anthem "You Gotta Be" by Des'ree, the aspirational yet poignant "Am I Wrong" by Nico & Vinz, the whimsical "Shining Star" by Earth, Wind & Fire. Through these musical numbers, Cinderella sustains a note of uniquely American timbre: the determination to keep believing in the American Dream in spite of all the structural injustices that create millions of unknown Cinderellas.

These issues are finally articulated in explicit form in the spectacular new song "Dream Girl." The quick shots of the palace women repeating the three lines of the chorus are the single most powerful moment in the entire movie. The problem facing Cinderella is not just classism; it's patriarchy intersecting with classism. (Because this is a kid-friendly fantasy, it doesn't go into the racism involved in the whole Megxit situation, but the pieces of Black music included elsewhere in the movie tell the rest of the story.)

Of course, bootstrapped success is also a fairy tale. No amount of singing "Million to One" is going to tip the scales of what passes for meritocracy, and Cinderella doesn't seem to acknowledge that her ascent to the bourgeoisie leaves her overworked neighbors exactly where they started. There's a brief suggestion that the new queen may have a serious plan for poverty reduction, but the movie can't have its anti-monarchy cake and let the people eat it too.

In its defense, Cinderella knows that the monarchy is absurd and ridiculous, and squeezes every possible laugh out of it. Pierce Brosnan invests full sincerity into the role of a pathetic excuse for a head of state, while his hypercompetent daughter doesn't miss a chance to put her elders to shame; and our designated Prince Charming, the blandest Central Casting face who ever central cast, can't wait to run away from the pomp of arranged marriage.

That the monarchy is a bad system is news to no one, least of all to Americans. But in our current era of soulless and toothless fairy tale remakes, the youngest viewers need a counterpoint to Disney's omnipresent and uncritical glorification of the royal lifestyle. This new Cinderella didn't even need to get married to land herself a guy. That's a lesson for the ages.

The Math

Baseline Assessment: 7/10

Bonuses: +1 for a spot-on selection of songs, speaking of which, +3 for the new song "Dream Girl." This, and not "Million to One," is the true thematic core of the movie.

Penalties: −1 for a sometimes too simplistic picture of the patriarchy, −3 for ableist jokes about mental health, −1 because we really didn't need to know how James Corden feels about peeing.

Nerd Coefficient: 6/10

POSTED BY: Arturo Serrano, multiclass Trekkie/Whovian/Moonie/Miraculer, accumulating experience points for still more obsessions.