By: Henry J. Fromage –
Well, looks like I didn’t make it to 365, but at least I wrapped up a year of movies in grand fashion- hanging out with my wife and Oberst an shooting the shit.
246. Brigsby Bear
This story of a boy kidnapped and raised in a bunker by his “mom and dad” and a cable access-style children’s show that teaches him all about life and mathematics doesn’t go at all how you think it will. A film with more than a surface resemblance to Room, down to same the suburban house, it sure seems, just keeps refusing to make the dramatic choices you’d expect it to. Instead, Kyle Mooney’s film (he stars and writes and it feels very much the product of a singular voice) plays like a strange companion to The Disaster Artist, right down to the strangely uplifting theatrical debut finale. I really quite enjoyed it.
247. Suburban Sasquatch
This is hang out with friends and drink it all in bad movie gold right here- a movie a surplus of ambition and a surfeit of resources and talent, a movie that has never seen a Geocities-level special effect that wasn’t good enough for it, a movie that’s bad dialogue and bad touch that doesn’t know when that girl in the bar just wants you to leave her alone already… it’s oblivious and terrible and a damn good time despite itself. Search it out.
Talk about stumbling onto pure documentarian gold. Bryan Fogel started out trying to make a Supersize Me for steroids, deciding to undertake a professional steroid regiment not unlike too many world-class cyclists we’ve now discovered, to see what affect they’d have on the absurdly difficult non-professional bike race he undergoes every year. As he interacts with this shady sports netherworld, though, he comes in contact with Grigory Rodchenkov, the head of Russia’s antidoping lab, and starts to learn far more about how the Olympic world really works, at least in Russia. What transpires is a fascinating story of international intrigue, crime, and cover-up that is still rocking the news cycle today.
249. The Book of Henry
This polished and completely wrong-headed studio wide release from Colin Treverrow, in the midst of his victory lap for Jurassic World, occupies the same psychic space as Winter’s Tale or Collateral Beauty, a technically polished melodrama full of the dramatic contrivances so ridiculous that they could only have come from a creator with total control and total confidence in their batshit insane choices. I won’t spoil it here, and I will temper expectations a bit by saying it’s not as badgood as those other two, but it really does need to be seen to believed.