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The theme of 'Oppenheimer' is connection: the present to the past, of course, but more importantly, one individual to another. It attempts to show how the effects of one man's actions, for good or ill, radiated out like ripples on a pond to affect potentially millions of other people.

The primary aim of 'Oppenheimer" is thus not to teach the history of nuclear physics in the manner of a documentary, but rather to give viewers an experience - the experience of wielding god-like powers together with accepting the responsibility for the consequences.

It is for this reason that "Oppenheimer" takes the form not of a public, objective narrative, but of an interior, subjective personal interpretation. Everything on screen has been filtered through the consciousness of either Oppenheimer (color) or Strauss (B&W).

This accounts for the rapidity, the abrupt cutting, the condensed dialogue, the abundance of characters and the sheer length. The viewer, almost overwhelmed by the multitude of connections, feels scarcely able to keep up,

If there is a flaw in the movie, it lies in the lack of preparation for O.'s sudden comprehension of his debt to others. As it stands, it doesn't quite make sense. What triggered it?

Ultimately, though, this is more than the story of one man, it is a story of a nation, as relevant today as eighty years ago. It is also - potentially - the story of Artificial Intelligence (AI), as well.

Once, when Bernstein is shown being interviewed on live TV at his apartment, he reveals that he feels split between two sides of his personality; the performer and the creator.

The problem with this film, and, frankly, the reason I stopped watching half way through, is that, while we witness the endless antics of the performer, we never get a view of this creator.

The film doesn't dramatize his inner life; we never see it interacting and, most importantly, conflicting with his other side, the performer. We're given a few hints about his childhood, but Bernstein remains essentially a mystery.

While a shorter film from the wife's POV might have been entertaining, as it stands, there's simply not enough dramatic material here to hold the audience's interest for a two hour film.

As a result, like her, we're stuck on the outside, looking in, and that get's boring - very, very boring.

I wanted to like this. I really did. But I was put off when it turned into a contest between the superb production values versus the narrow-minded preaching. Like the Tacoma Narrows Bridge known as 'Galloping Gertie," you can only suspend disbelief so long before it all comes crashing down.

The problems start in the title. Genetic science shows that blue eyes are the expression of recessive genes. That is, in order for a person to have blue eyes, both parents must bear a copy of the gene and pass it on to the offspring. In the case of BES, that requires that BOTH Mizu's father and her mother have a copy of the gene. So the probability of Mizu actually having blue eyes is 0.0000%.

But that's not the end. In no particular order, a blind sword-forger; a girl who becomes a master swordswoman simply through observation; a mysterious stone that resists being forged - until it doesn't.

One point in particular seems ginned up: did Mizu's European father actually rape her Japanese mother? I don't think you can ignore the possibility that, on the whole, in a society where Japanese are in control, it's much more likely that MIzu is the product of a consensual relationship.

Be that as it may, what is the underlying theme and how does that distort the characters and narrative?

Well, first off, it's the all-too-familiar 'strong female' character, which equates - at least, as the authors would have it - to "Act like a Man." Because men, don'tcha know, do all the cool stuff. They forge swords, get in fights, etc. In short, they rule.

There's a problem here, though, because in BES men are - with only one or two exceptions - toxic a****les. Which wouldn't be objectionable, perhaps, except that ONLY men are depicted as a****les. Never women.

This carries over to the sex scenes. Contrast the positive 'peaches' and 'pumpkins' depiction of female sexuality on the one hand with the way men's sexuality is treated on the other: a man is unceremoniously tumbled naked out the brothel door, exposing his genitals, then calmly walks on as though nothing had happened. The message is clear: this is how men are supposed to be treated: like trash.

(Ringo, as the face of 'unthreatening' - therefore acceptable - male sexuality, is the exception.)

(I guess we're not supposed to remember the very first scene, where the prospect of a life in a brothel was held up as, like, the worst of fates and - ooh! - a sign of how evil men are.)

Now, this might be tolerable if it were just in Mizu's head, if these scenes were an outward expression of her inner struggles. But it's not.

The anti-male sniping never lets up. Mizu's first glimpse of Princess Akemi is supposed to suggest the possibility of a different world. But in this world, too, who's a jerk? Only men; never women. Yeesh!

Note, furthermore, the complete absence of mothers. Apparently, a mother can never be a legitimate role for a girl to aspire to. So, if you're Mizu or Akemi, you can either be a victim or you can be a man.

The irony is that a narrative pretending to expand women's choices actually ends up restricting them.

This, ultimately, is why BES feels so constricted. With such limited options, the characters never come alive. In the end, despite all the power they accrue, they remain inhuman.

Watching this film is like toggling between two nauseatingly adolescent cartoon channels: "Josephine the Dominatrix" and "Napoleon the Barbarian" as the film alternates between scenes of Napoleon groveling before Josephine's snatch and him attending choreographed 'Most-Famous Hits' re-enactments of his battles. From time to time, a few slapstick political routines are thrown in for variety.

Giving credit where (scant) credit is due: 'Napoleon' contains some pretty good acting in Joaquin Phoenix's performance as an abjectly needy Emperor. The same goes for Vanessa Kirby's Josephine feverishly lusting for dominance. The costuming and cinematography are good, too. The problem is, that is not nearly enough to hold your interest for two and a half hours.

What's missing is any reason to care - about them, or about any one else on this film, for that matter. The viewer discovers nothing substantial: no character arcs, no unfolding of serious, adult themes, only a hollow core of nihilism. In what world, after all, is the sociopathic behavior of a couple of raging narcissists worthy of sympathy?

What you actually feel, if you manage to make it to the end of this over-long, curiously empty, truth-challenged travesty, is most likely a sense of frustration and anger - "What a waste!"

*****

The theme of 'Napoleon' is male power - sexual, cultural and political - and the subversion of that power.

Take the first scene, the guillotining of Marie-Antoinette. Normally, this would introduce the movie's main character, in this case the frustrated young male striver Napoleon. Instead, the dominant impression is of noble, heroic, and female Marie. Napoleon himself - visible skulking on the edge of the crowd - is marginalized in his own film.

This juvenile assault on white male supremacy proceeds to shamelessly swap the historical Josephine for a twisted "Barbie," while Napoleon himself - insecure, depressed and melancholic - is turned into her Gen-Z incel-type Ken. As Josephine never tires of telling Napoleon, 'You are nothing without me.'

Completing his degradation to pathetic cuck, everything extraordinary or remarkable about him in the historical record has to be turned on its head. This is epitomized in their sex together: nasty, brutish - and short.

(By the way, don't expect any improvement from the 'director's cut.' He's already laid his trump cards on the table.)

Apologies to Oscar Wilde.

The first fews scenes go down easy, like a sip of Bailey's, as, one fine day, Pádraig (Farrell) sets out for his customary meeting with his friend Colm (Gleeson) at the pub.

Then, with no explanation, Colm cuts him off. Mystified, hurt, angry, Pádraig, like the audience, searches for a reason. What follows is his personal journey from being 'one of life's good guys' to a man who can face the pain of real life full on.

At first, it's played for laughs, and the two go at it like Lucy and Desi. But then, as one thing leads to another with the force of a Greek tragedy, things get completely - uh - out of hand. Pádraig's sister, Siobhán (Condon) tries to intervene, but gets sucked into the maelstrom, along with the 'dim' Dominic (Keoghan), .

What takes it to the next level, however, are McDonagh's masterly directing, his trademark dark humor, the compassion, and the magical light of the West of Ireland.

By the time the magic is withdrawn and the credits roll, that sip of Bailey's has been distilled into a powerful draft. Lingering over all is the scent of the love motivating Colm's sacrificial ritual.

On the surface, The Recruit enjoys a classic set-up: the innocent newbie negotiating the pit-falls of a big organization. The subtext, though, is a little more touchy: the power relationship between women and men. This is not a minor theme, either. It takes up at least half the show's running time.

I know what y'all will say, 'Come on! It's 'only' a TV comedy. Just sit back and enjoy it.' True, it is a comedy. But like all comedy, it comes with attitude, and in this particular case the attitude has a decided edge.

To give you an idea, in Owen's very first time in the field, a female agent rips out his fingernail. Why? Just to show him who's boss.

Nor does it end there. In episode three alone, the show presents issues ranging from the relatively innocent borrowing of household items and not returning them, to the more serious case of refusing to pay child support, all the way up to brutal sexual assault.

How are they handled? It's payback time! Clearly, the theme of getting back at men for their trespasses is not just incidental. It is the point. Take the aforementioned sexual assault. The show has Meladze (Haddock) administering justice by beating the guilty man to a pulp with a tire iron. Moreover, the elaborate way it is staged and photographed makes her deed's heroic overtones unmistakable.

If it ended there, likely no one would notice. Men, after all, are a dime a dozen. But what makes it interesting is that the women in this show still want sex with a desirable man. That is, whereas women may harbor grievances, they still want romance. So how does the show manage to square that circle?

Well, one story line has Owen (Centineo) lose a bet and so is compelled to squire a female colleague on a date. She, as the winner, gets to take charge. She calls the tune on food and sex, goes out of her way to humiliate him, yet he is still expected to pay the tab and open the car doors. He passes. Well-trained.

But is he well-trained enough to stay interesting? Nobody, after all, wants a dishrag for a partner.

****

Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but the verdict after further viewing Is definitive - he's a dishrag.

Worse, it becomes clear that none of the other people held any interest, either. OK, skip to final episode, hoping some tension will manifest itself. Sorry, still the same characters maneuvering without much engagement.

Verdict: there's no 'there' there. Unplug.

Vienna, 1878:

At yet another interminable palace banquet, Empress Elisabeth of Austria (Vicky Krieps) suddenly realizes that, frankly, she no longer gives a damn. In a clear breach of imperial protocol, she abruptly stands and sweeps out of the dining room, flipping the bird at the assembled guests and silencing the tinkling small talk once and for all. It's a revealing moment in the film.

In showing the lengths to which Elisabeth must go to exert some agency in a world dominated by powerful men, the film insists on her status as victim.

But was Sissi really nothing but a puppet - a woman who, despite the power attached to her title, has very little actual control?

Over at Netflix, they have a different take. They have a series called 'The Empress' which covers the very same period and people. And here's the funny thing: according to that show, it was actually WOMEN, not men, who made all the important decisions.

Oh, and what about Empress Maria-Theresa of Austria and Catherine the Great of Russia? Does 'Corsage' mean to say that they didn't have any agency and were dominated by powerful men?

OK, I'm lost. Too much cognitive dissonance. Who's right? Which film is 'real'? Both? Neither? Should I care?

See, here's where my 'suspension of disbelief' crashed - and I could never get it rebooted.

Taking a step back, I think that director believes that by breaking down and 'subverting' the conventions of the costume drama (by using anachronistic sets, for one thing), she will break down and 'subvert' the (male) power structure that, according to her, even today keeps women 'marginalized.'

It's this victimology that weighs down and ultimately sinks the film for me. It's like visual static. Whether you agree with the director or not, it's hard to get past the radical ideology underpinning the film-making choices.

So no matter how detailed the sets and costumes, or how artful the actor's performance, Sissi, unlike Pinocchio, never comes to life as a real human being.

There's a lot to like here - once you accept the limitations. It's situation-driven (melodrama), not character-driven (drama). I mean, the purpose is not to reveal complexity of character, but to create an opportunity for the characters to moralize (display attitude).

The strength of the show is that its concerns are the primal relationships: woman/man, father/daughter/son, and the land. It has some of the mythic overtones of Lord of the Rings, also set in a timeless valley. In fact, sometimes I think that, like the Elves, the three 'good' Duttons should wear rings. Their function, after all is the same: to preserve things unstained. Jaime, on the other hand, reminds me of Gollum. Jaime tries to be a Dutton, but it's clear that he doesn't FEEL it, so he has to go with his head, which betrays him. For me, at least, that makes him the most interesting character.

So, as I said, the show does have a definite point of view. Nearly every scene comes laden with a moral. Don't, however, demand irony or moral relativity.. When a Dutton encounters evil, there's a simple Old Testament code that applies: us vs them, an eye for an eye.

Accordingly, violence is never far away.

You can't really blame them. "Outsiders want to seize our land by persuading us that they know better.'

The show's weakness, on the other hand, is that its characters are cardboard cutouts. True, they are strong and well-defined, and the actors bring them splendidly to life, but they never deviate, never develop, never surprise. Thus the show must resort to ever more extravagant situations to keep the audience engaged.

Still, there is much else to enjoy. The show spends a lot of time showing us modern cowboys and Indians, emphasizing the mystique of hard work and horses.

The photography can be exceptional. A sequence following a herd of horses flowing back to the corral over the grassland must be one of the most beautiful ever filmed for TV. Like the show, though, it restricts itself to conventional classic Hollywood. Never does it venture into the expressive distortions that were such a prominent feature of, say, 'Breaking Bad.'

For some people, that may not be enough. Beautifully photographed monotony is still monotony. But for others, the important thing will be the struggles of strong men and women to adapt to modernity while upholding time-honored family values.

Sometimes a movie is more than the sum of its parts. Not this latest LCL. Here the parts stubbornly refuse to come together (pun intended).

In a culture ruled by intellect and divided by class, Lawrence advocated for connection and the body. But sex, for Lawrence, is not solely about climax; it is also a vehicle of self-discovery, a way to transcend class.

Unfortunately, the film demonstrates little of Lawrence's penetration. Instead, Lady Chatterley and her story languish under a frigid ideological lens.

Thus Corrin's Lady Chatterley can best be described as 'disembodied.' The director is more interested in her as an idea than a flesh-and-blood person. Her face registers, but what is missing is the experience of her awkward, boyish body. Honestly, if she manifested a new consciousness in the way she moved and held herself, I sure didn't notice it.

Similarly, she arouses no physical chemistry in a fine-looking O'Connell, who in turn does capture the accent, but not the ecstasy. Their nude scenes together, devitalized by the wan colors of the photography, are the reverse of joyously sensuous.

Speaking of which, has Venice ever been less sensuous?

In the end, the film makes the viewer an intellectual observer, not a partaker. The film's elements, though in ever such good taste, lack that lush, unashamed appeal to the senses that would have immersed us in Connie's and Mellor's awakening to what it is to be woman and man.

Qualified recommendation: despite its shortcomings, a springboard into a more personal, transgressive, and passionate imaginative experience.

This started out well: two edgy grown-up women sharing their grief and becoming friends. But then their moral integrity gets jaw-droppingly compromised as they are made to act like teenagers: avoiding responsibility for the consequences of their own actions.

What makes it even harder to stomach is the way it assumes everyone else is stupid:, the police, the husbands, the children... on and on.

The excuse this fantasy offers for their insouciance is the Never-never-land setting: an impossibly tony West-coast enclave. After all, no one in the real world would behave so outrageously, would they? So just sit back and enjoy. Yuck-yuck!

But that only works as long as the viewer can put aside the pervasive disdain for men, which, to be honest, it doesn't even try to hide. No prizes, then, for guessing that the woman writer is married to another woman.

Feel sorry for the arrested development and lack of compassion of anyone who gets off on this pile.

Don't you hate it when they bring one of your beloved books to the screen and throw out all your favorite private moments?

Because they think TV audiences want flash and trash.

Bridgerton gets the TV treatment so hard it's unrecognizable. Glitzy gowns and coronets? Oh, plenty...fabulous interiors and servants? Galore...but charm? No. It's like a ride in a romcom theme-park.

Take, for example, the pall mall (croquet) game in Episode 3. Instead of granting viewers - along with the other characters - the time to discover how each person reveals character in play, the writers spoil it by telling us everything ahead of time: he's this, she's that, etc. All that's left to do as the game proceeds is to check mental boxes : yes, yes, yes. So dull.

Pen's story is boring and Eloise's is artificial. The story of the Club is totally empty of drama. As for Anthony and Kate, even when they get down and dirty, they're animatronic

Moreover, what isn't sentimentalized and crude is brazenly lifted from past series - like Anthony's dunking, which reproduces Colin Firth's dip in P&P.

So do yourself a favor: watch Episode 1, then fast-forward.

P. S. 'Cowper' is pronounced 'Cooper.' But, hey, what do Americans know?

P. P. S. Alternatively, add some spice - since Jonathan Bailey (Anthony) is gay - by turning Kate into Kit.

"If we could only learn not to hate ourselves quite so much!" - Michael, "The Boys in the Band" 1968.

******

Once upon a time, there was a barren, hostile Ranch in Montana where everyone is isolated and alone. The King of this Toxic Wasteland is Phil Burbank (Cumberbatch).

So begins Campion's 'Feminist Western.'

You have to laugh at all the pretentious twits who talk about Campion 'exploring' this or that theme. The truth is she's only out to preach to the faithful on themes taken from the woke handbook: oppression v. Liberation; a man-centered Toxic Wasteland v. A woman-centered Garden.

It comes as no surprise, then, to learn that Campion modeled her film on Sergio Leone's pretentious pseudo-westerns "Once Upon a Time in the West" and "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly."

With Campion, it all revolves around Phil. The 'power of the dog' is eating him up like a black hole. He's obsessive, cruel, and joyless - rather like the movie.

The question is, what does Campion see in Phil?

Campion - along with many viewers - wants Phil to represent 'toxic masculinity,' and therefore have her film 'eviscerate' the American national myth.

The thing is, looking more deeply, the problem is clearly not masculinity, it's love and self-acceptance. ('Phil' means 'love.')

Phil, a closeted gay man pre-Stonewall, loves 'the one forbidden thing.' His problem is that he can't accept it. See him expressing his fury with his own (gay) self in the notorious scene showing him abusing his horse. Contrast that with how he imagines Bronco Henry, united with HIS horse by 'amor,' leaping over impossible obstacles.

So a more accurate diagnosis is that Phil's behavior is an expression of the conflict between what he is and what, based on society's demands, he believes he should be.

The source of the problem, in other words, is not masculinity, but society's - meaning, women's & men's - demands on masculinity.

Finally, ask yourself this: which man would I rather have, doughy George or wild Phil? Campion's choice is George, which should tell you all you need to know.

Moving along, the first hint of an alternative appears when his brother George (Plemons) marries Rose (Dunst) and brings her back to the Ranch.

But poor Rose wilts under the Ranch's grand, oppressive patriarchal lifestyle, symbolized by the "Radetzky March." (Compare Hitchcock's "Rebecca," with Phil as Mrs Danvers and Bronco Henry as Rebecca.)

To Rose's rescue comes her creepy white-hatted son, Peter (Smit-McPhee). Pete is is a younger, woke version of Phil and a self-portrait of Savage, the book's author.

Can he and Phil help to heal the Ranch by establishing a relationship of trust and love?

It is at this point that "The Power of the Dog" goes seriously paranoid. Clearly, though Campion may preach about the power of love to bring people together, her movie is obsessed with the opposite.

Indeed, by the end, Campion may have Peter smile in self-approval, believing that his deed has lifted the blight hanging over the Ranch and freed his mother to bloom. But the fact is he is driven by hate and vengeance and tainted with blood.

It's safe to predict that the Ranch has only exchanged one tyrant for another.

The power of the dog still rules. The Wasteland will endure.

Despite the subject matter, and occasional nudity, everything is so cool and in such 'good taste.', Just once, I wanted someone to break through the director's deliberate pacing.

The set design and photography are fascinating, the actors give adequate performances, but History seems to win out over humanity, and in the end it seems as cold and brittle as the porcelain jars so prominent in every room. The music, too, keeps the viewer at an elevated, rarified remove. I found myself fast forwarding half the time.

.

Beautiful young people, handsome horses, the glow of summer, the pallor of winter...all superbly photographed, and yet - it feels thin...padded. It is only fair to say that this is 'inspired by' the original, not the original. ....something is missing:

More than a century has elapsed since the events depicted, and therewith has vanished something of what imbues the book - and previous versions - with pathos: characters swept up in the whirlwind of history, ground down by the vicissitudes of revolution, yet they remain true to their kind and to each other.

Yes, I fell for it; lured in by a splendid cast list, but I gradually realized I'd been conned..

There's no one to relate to. The main characters are not just unlikeable, they're repellent. They have no redeeming qualities - none. If you met someone like them on the the street you would run the other way.

What's more, the plot is designed to drive you crazy. People do things completely out of character. And there are so many holes and impossibilities that you want to scream.

Don't be fooled; it's not about 'strong women.' It's about a psychopathic feminist who thinks nothing of threatening to rip off a man's genitalia. Only in Hollywood!

Stone attempted to top Orson Welles's portrait of a complex character, but couldn't pull it off.

Basically, because he didn't have Mankiewicz to write it.

Stone got the green light only because he was the first person to turn in a completed script - not the best script, just the first, and it shows. Without a secure scaffolding to hang the story on, he's all over the place.

No focus, no grandeur, no intimacy, nothing to touch the viewer. It's mostly tell -patronizing Ptolemy is the worst -and very little show, as though Stone had no confidence in the viewers' ability to relate to people in costumes..

About the accents: here, at least, they got things right. Alexander's generals are given Celtic accents, conveying that, like the Irish, Welsh and Highland Scots in Georgian UK, they hale from the fringes of the civilized world.

Olympias (Jolie) has a foreign accent because - she is a foreigner. Olympias was not Greek or Macedonian, but from the neighboring state of Epirus, which at the time was a wild, relatively primitive place, even as compared to Macedon.

If you squint, you can see what they might have been going for here, but the producers never wholly commit themselves to a consistent tone. The result is a curious patchwork of genres. Suspense and intrigue jostle for attention with family comedy and small-town melodrama. Crime vies with the wholesome, drama with farce, the dark night of the soul with mundane shop-keeping. . . .

As a result, nothing comes across with conviction, it's all sort of doughy, which is a shame, because the set-up has promise.

There's a great story here, but the writers load it with so much extraneous baggage, it gets bogged down in sentimentality Spike, man, sometimes you need to prune; drop the political tirade and just get out of the way. We don't need it, the actors will show us all we need to know about their characters.

As it stands, it's too long, and too complicated.

.

"The Irishman" is about life, friendship and death.

Early on, speaking of his war experience, Frank (DeNiro) sums up for Russ (Pesci) the way he sees things, what the French call his 'philosophy of life.'

Russ: "Were you afraid of dying? Frank: "Always afraid. Everybody's afraid. I prayed a lot. I prayed that I'd never sin again if could just get out of here. But the the fighting starts and you forget about everything. You're just trying to survive, stay alive. Whatever happens, happens. You just follow orders."

For Frank, then, as presumably for Scorsese, life is mostly just trying to survive. It's just one damn thing after another. And you forget the spiritual.

This is what the movie tries to embody: a long sequence of 'whatever happens, happens.

What redeems life is friendship. In the same scene, Frank and Russ form a sacred bond - sacred because it is solemnized over bread and wine. Basically, the story of "The Irishman" is the story of their friendship, how it is formed, strengthened, and tested. More broadly, you could say that the subject of the film is men's friendships and falling outs, as experienced with Hoffa, 'Pro,' and the Kennedys.

Note that, in Scorsese's film, men's friendship stands as a bulwark against a threatening world, a shadowy background of uncontrollable necessity (here represented by the mob).

And then there is death.

"Maybe they thought that if they did a good job, the guy with the gun (Death) would change his mind."

Scorsese seems to be saying that, no matter how well made your movies, you still end up in the same place.

Against this background, Scorsese plays with a number of metaphors. Life as a journey, a road trip. At the end, what? Thus the long introductory tracking shot suggesting confession and absolution, but also playing chess and putting together the pieces of a puzzle.

The film succeeds as an attempt to embody a mature view of life, But that is not enough. After so many scenes, the viewer asks himself, "what was that about?" old actors grotesquely unconvincing as young men; too many of those exchanges where one man drags another's feelings out of him; and not enough action scenes to balance them. Ultimately the viewer leaves with the prime question unanswered: "What kind of man is Frank? What is his character? What drives him?"

A dull rehash of Season 1.

Whereas Season 1 was partially redeemed by a couple of odd-ball detectives, here the humor has gone missing. Not even Ali's deeply felt performance can make up for the thin material stuffed with clichés, leaden dialogue, and the monotonous pacing.

As a thirty year old costume drama set in a period now more than a century past, you'd be forgiven for thinking that by now "Maurice" must be awfully creaky and mildewed. But, in fact, it has aged splendidly. It still breathes youth and freshness. Good bones, as they say, will tell. . That's due partly to its excellent production values.. Director James Ivory drew sensitive performances from the stars and supporting cast alike, most notably from Hugh Grant. Too, the taut script, the luscious cinematography and set design, coupled with a haunting score, go far to make 'Maurice' a clear stand-out from the Masterpiece Theatre crowd.

Then there's the fact that it's more than a simple love story. (Actually, of course, it's two love stories, which accounts for the way elements from the one are repeated: phrases, for example, or whistles, or Maurice opening doors.) Forster's motto was 'Only Connect!' So at its heart, keeping it evergreen, is a timeless tale of the power of love to awaken the soul, and James Wilby's performance is excellent at showing Maurice's growth. Indeed, my favorite Maurice is his last bit at night in the garden with Clive.

As if that weren't enough, "Maurice" is also historically unique. As the first ever positive film about gay men for those of us raised in the repressive period after WWII, and coming in the middle of the AIDS crisis, when our world was threatened with destruction, its message of affirmation provoked a profound emotional response. I will never forget my own reaction: at the end, as the credits rolled, for the first and only time in my life at a movie, I stood, unable to move, and cried my heart out.

Right up front, this is a masterly production. Everyone - writers, director, actors, photographers, editors, sound designers - comes together beautifully.

But what also impressed me is how perfectly it conforms to the structure and themes of Film Noir: The flashback structure and then flashbacks within the flashback; the rough, working-class milieu; the violence and sex; the grinding weight of the past;; the scars left on the innocent people around them.

No question, this film feels contrived - too contrived, actually. More than one viewer has ended up like Verna. " I don't understand. I don't care!"

But if you like puzzles - the more intricate, the better - this is for you. It's rich in manipulations, betrayals, doublings and triangles.

Some viewers may sense a void at the heart of the film. The characters, with their dry, hard-surfaced performances, give very little away. Where is the emotion powering the whole complex machination? The name for it, in Leo's words, is 'joy de veever," and Verna, the 'angel,' embodies it.

The story, unfolding in scenes that play almost like tableaux, introduces its themes at once. For starters, there's the lighting: bright for public spaces, dim for private. Then there's the color scheme: green for Tom and 'friendship', red for Leo and passion,

The driver of the plot is, as Casper declares right at the beginning, ethics, i.e., moral choice, right and wrong. Accordingly, Leo asks Tom 'which side' he's on today. That is also why there are so many scene doublings as the choice is repeated in a slight twist.

The characters represent at least four standards of morality. 1) Beasts, like Mink, who have no sense of right and wrong, merely acting on their drives, creating anarchy, the jungle. 2) Caspar, who uses the 'fear of god,' i.e., threats of violence or death, to establish order. 3) Leo, the Lionheart, who helps friends and hurts enemies. 4) Tom, who icily judges gains and losses. Tom - and only Tom - is addressed, 'Jesus, Tom,' or 'Christ, Tom,' and he can raise the dead.

'God invented cards,' declares Tom, and he seems to believe choice is limited: you have to play the cards you're dealt; but you have a moral choice about how you play them.

Money, as often in Coen Brothers movies, corrupts relationships. That's why Tom rejects Leo's offer to square his accounts with his bookie.

Maybe in the end the key to the secret motive is to be found in the dreamlike sequence of the wind-blown hat (like so many scenes, doubled later in the film). Oddly, the dream hat is not Tom's. Tom wears a gray-brown fedora. The dream hat is black. Who wears a black fedora? The Dane? Leo? My interpretation is that the first part, with the green title cards set against a cathedral of green trees and accompanied by intensely emotional music (I leave it to the viewer to put a name to the emotion.), represents Tom's 'friendship' with Leo. The second part, with the red (Leo) title card "miller's crossing' leading to the hat sequence, represents Tom's apprehension that the relationship is threatened..

There follows a brief black-out, and Tom is shown waking from his dream. Returning to a world of lies and manipulation, he asks, "Who're you gonna believe?"

With its music and appealing stars, it's at once one the Coens' most accessible and most complex, layered films.

The plot is a kind of Odyssey - 'coming home' - about a couple of strays. The songs are more than mere decorations amidst the gauzy photography, they are windows into Llewyn's soul.

It's also one of the Coens' most personal works. If Llewyn is the cat, he is also a stand in for the Coens: art as self-expression v. art as a way to pay the bills; the fear of selling out v. the yearning to connect with people: . . . .in the end, too, it's an attempt to do with film what 'Young Bob' exemplifies in music: making something new and relevant out of classical materials.

Fwiw, the part where Llewyn's partner Mikey jumps off the George Washington Bridge probably echoes an incident in the news around the time of the film. A student at Columbia leaped to his death after being ridiculed on social media when he made sexual advances to and was brusquely rejected by his male roommate.

I saw this when it first came out and a recent viewing hasn't changed anything: I walked out then - one of the very few times when I did - and I almost didn't make it through the restored blu-ray reissue.

First of all, it is not really a 'western.' A 'western' is based on frontier myth about European settlers replacing the 'savages' and transforming the American 'wilderness' into civilization. Americans lost interest in the 'western' with the growing recognition in the 1960s that Native Americans were not savages and, accordingly, the American West was not a wilderness.

What it is, then, is an Italian fable in Western trappings. And in fact it has more to do with the Sicily of 'The Godfather II" than with the American West. Many have commented, for instance, that it is 'operatic,' with Mexican-Americans standing in for peasants, railroad magnates for land holders and the outlaws for the 'banditti-for-hire.'

Even so, it leaves a lot to be desired. It's an action film without much action, a character drama with 'Western' puppets, a story that is simply an elaborate excuse for a series of 'greatest hits' confrontations, a film littered with second-hand references and homages....

P.S. I tried giving it a second - no, third - chance, but gave up because, when I wasn't fast-forwarding, I kept laughing in the wrong places.