Liars and Saints

 A main strength of historical fiction is that it allows for "windows and mirrors" comparisons: We can see another world (through a window), but we can also see ourselves (through various mirrors).  "The Choral" (with its irritating, twee title) is partly just about getting laid: The gay pianist wants some kind of arrangement with the gay musical director, the virginal postal worker wants to make plans with the local prostitute, the wounded soldier wants a hand job from his ex-girlfriend. Love is always troubling; war makes love *more* troubling. In one scene, a young woman confesses that she just wants her special friend's status shifted from "MIA" to "dead," so she can move on with her life. At the same time, there are reminders that we are *not* in the present: the blithe assumption that a Black woman wants a handout and not an audition, the elaborate effort involved in *not* using the word "gay," the skeptical, snobby attitude t...

  An early scene in Alex Garland's savvy script traces the journey of one piece of bacon. Aaron Taylor-Johnson has prepared it for his son. "Dad, you should have some," says Little Son. But Taylor-Johnson claims he ate his own portion of bacon *while* preparing it. This is sort of sweet--but it's also clearly a lie. So we learn something about Taylor-Johnson. He lies. Little Son then takes the bacon to his mother, who is sick and possibly dying. She is too addled to eat the bacon--so it rots. And we learn something about Jodie Comer. She cannot feed herself. All of this information is evident to us--and it's *not* fully evident to Little Son. He will continue to worship his father, until various signs are too overwhelming to ignore. Little Son will continue to make attempts at "feeding" Mom, until Ralph Fiennes delivers an important speech at the eleventh hour. Stripped of illusions, Little Son becomes an adult. He helps to send his mom on her journey to...

 "Conclave" follows the template of a murder mystery; crimes occurred in the past, and it's one man's job to uncover the crimes. As he does his investigative work, new threats arise, in the present, and we may sometimes wonder if our detective might soon lose his own head. Like "Murder on the Orient Express," "Conclave" gives several hammy actors an opportunity to chew scenery. This is delightful. We may not "believe" everything we see on screen, but if Reverend Mother Isabella Rossellini gets a chance to "sass" Ralph Fiennes, who will object? If the script asks John Lithgow to have a high-stakes, public tantrum, are we going to worry about the details? No. We are going to enjoy the tantrum. The other obvious treat here is the "Vatican imagery." I don't think this film deserves the Oscars it seems to be courting, but I had a good time.

As everyone knows, January is where movies go to die. If you're a Hollywood movie with a January release date, then someone powerful really has very, very little faith in you. That said, the contrarian in me always welcomes January, as a break from all the leaden Oscar-courting films of the fall. No longer do I need to say, disingenuously and halfheartedly: " I almost didn't mind the four-hour length because Joe Pesci was so intriguing! " Or: "Sure, it's two old men talking for the entirety of the movie, but Anthony Hopkins is so subtle!"  A big, wacky failure can be more entertaining than a careful, buttoned-up "King's Speech"-esque outing. And so I'm particularly drawn to: *"Underwater." This is Kristen Stewart battling aliens, like Sigourney Weaver in "Aliens," but everything happens underwater! *"Like a Boss." This alluring film smashed the Bechdel test--the director is Miguel Arteta, wh...