In a fitting end to a discomfiting year, my holidays were canceled in lieu of a protracted illness absent even the minor satisfaction of a diagnosis, or that glorious, wished-for but likely apocryphal fatigue and rest we sometimes associate with influenza. No, this was an unrelenting, tasteless sapping of strength and enthusiasm that, as it wanes, seems like a hangover without the drunk with which to greet a new year.
This period of inactivity has, at least, allowed for some catching up, both in terms of low-mid ’80s and ’90s schlock (read: soul food) and of some buzzed-about but as-yet unseen features from the year past. And so:
RED ROOMS. I’m not often or easily unnerved by movies. In fact, I’ve frequently returned to numerous examples that internet listicles would cite as something to never watch again. Still, I’m not immune: Irreversible (2002) did what it was supposed to, watching at home, knowing what to expect; Prisoners (2013), especially on the big screen, triggered emotions even in a non-parent that felt real, almost dangerous.
But both of those examples were graphic, manipulative in the extreme (although in very different modes) and insistent on directing the audience’s eye toward their horrifying subjects. Red Rooms, the first work I’ve seen by Pascal Plante, exists in a similar space but cultivates its horror by omission, absence and sly reference.
In Montreal, Ludovic Chevalier (Maxwell McCabe-Lokos) is being tried for the abduction and torture-murder for money (in dark web “red rooms”) of three teenage girls. In the gallery is an enigmatic model and semi-professional poker player named Kelly-Anne (Juliette Gariépy), whose fascination with the trial is driven by obscure motives. As the trial progresses, Kelly-Anne becomes ever more deeply entangled, even for a short time developing a friendship with a Ludovic groupie/defender called Clementine (Laurie Babin), and the movie reveals, excruciatingly methodically, that Kelly-Anne is much closer to the crimes in question than anyone could possibly know.
Plante’s visual style, constantly but gradually transforming throughout the course of the narrative, moves from stately, almost staid pans in the opening courtroom scenes to not-quite frenzied handheld work as we move into Kelly-Anne’s entropic, fixated personal life. It’s an ideal pairing with a narrative that unearths the horrors beneath horrors, and grapples with the motivations behind acts of unthinkable violence and, deeper than that, a world within the world that will perhaps always seek to profit from that violence.
I’m not sure Red Rooms is an indictment of anything (other than human nature and its increasing ability to honor its worst impulses), but it is the rare example of a movie that forces us to examine horrific acts without putting them directly before our eyes. R. 118M. PRIME.
KNEECAP. Not long ago, a dear friend who has lately become strangely but unsurprisingly fascinated by K-pop expressed some concern that a member of BTS rapping on a single might be considered an example of cultural appropriation. I appreciated this both as an adorable example of my friend’s pre-woke sensitivity and as something of a meta-joke. My reply, perhaps not worded as delicately, was that I see hip hop as a universal language, a mode of expression that, while native to this continent and Black originators, should be used as a tool and an artform without boundary or border.
This opinion is both confounded and supported by the fact that rap has in fact become the dialect du jour in global pop music and, in and of itself, has perhaps reached its nadir as a form of expression. I’m up on the porch with the hose again, but show me a metric by which Trippie Redd should enjoy generational wealth while Double K and Gift of Gab should die in relative obscurity and … well, I’ll still just spray you with the hose. Even though hip hop — at least in this country — may have been reduced to pallid imitations of late-20th century European dance music foregrounding (often unintelligible) nonsense lyrics, the medium remains vital.
Enter Kneecap, a band from Belfast of which I had never heard. Point of fact, I assumed they were a fictional construct until after I watched the movie; they’re not. They are, rather: Liam Óg Ó hAnnaidh, Naoise Ó Cairealláin and J.J. Ó Dochartaigh. They’ve all got stage names, but that can be gleaned from the movie, which is in fact an origin story about two youngsters and a teacher/frustrated producer who came together to make rap music in defense of the indigenous Irish language and the sovereignty of the Northern Ireland. And to talk about drugs and sex and frustration and stuff.
Co-written by the band and director Rich Peppiatt, Kneecap pulses with rebel music and the strain of disenfranchisement, but rendered with grand humor, American action movie pacing and an appropriately scaled sense of sentimentality. In another time, this might have been a landmark of crossover cinema. Now it’s buried in the streaming landslide but still very much worth seeking out. R. 105M. NETFLIX, PRIME.
John J. Bennett (he/him) is a movie nerd who loves a good car chase.
NOW PLAYING
BABYGIRL. Nicole Kidman stars with Harris Dickinson in a drama about a married CEO who has an affair with an intern. R. 114M. BROADWAY, MILL CREEK.
BETTER MAN. Robbie Williams biopic with a CG simian lead. R. 134M. BROADWAY.
A COMPLETE UNKNOWN. Early Bob Dylan biopic starring Timothée Chalamet. R. 140M. BROADWAY, MILL CREEK, MINOR.
DEN OF THIEVES 2: PANTERA. A greasy Gerard Butler and O’Shea Jackson Jr. mingle with European mobsters over diamonds in the heist action sequel. R. 144M BROADWAY, MILL CREEK.
THE FIRE INSIDE. Boxing biopic about Olympiad Claressa “T-Rex” Shields. PG13. 109M. MILL CREEK.
FLOW. Latvian animation about a cat that joins a boatload of animals escaping a flood. PG. 85M. MINOR.
GLADIATOR II. Bread and circuses with Paul Mescal and Connie Nielson, and Roman zaddies Denzel Washington and Pedro Pascal. R. 148M. BROADWAY.
HOMESTEAD. Post-nuclear prepper drama. PG13. 112M. BROADWAY.
MOANA 2. A sequel for the seafaring animated heroine. PG. 100M. BROADWAY, MILL CREEK.
MUFASA: THE LION KING. Animated prequel directed by Barry Jenkins. PG. 118M. BROADWAY (3D), MILL CREEK.
NOSFERATU. A gothic reboot with Bill Skarsgård, Willem Dafoe and Lily-Rose Depp (*clutches garlic). R. 132M. BROADWAY, MILL CREEK, MINOR.
SONIC THE HEDGHOG 3. More live action and animated wackiness with Jim Carrey and Keanu Reeves. PG. 110M. BROADWAY, MILL CREEK.
WICKED. Cynthia Erivo and Arianna Grande star as young witches in the musical Oz prequel. PG. 160M. BROADWAY, MILL CREEK.
For showtimes call: Broadway Cinema (707) 443-3456; Mill Creek Cinema 839-3456; Minor Theatre (707) 822-3456.
This article appears in The Battle Over Bear River.