
Mufasa: The Lion King
MUFASA: THE LION KING
If Mufasa: The Lion King is a marginal improvement on its very bad 2019 predecessor – director Jon Favreau's deeply unnecessary, frequently shot-for-shot remake that substituted photorealism for traditional animation – it's only because, unlike last time, we don't enter the film knowing precisely what we're gonna get. Except, of course, we do. Disney being Disney, we'll get The Lion King (either version) all over again, only with vaguer threat and weaker songs. If you're sensing some déjà vu with that remark, it's because I used the exact same qualifiers to describe Disney's Moana 2 just three weeks ago. To be sure, the studio never went broke running a good idea into the ground. But I'm really, really wishing it would.
Serving as both prequel and sequel, and one of the last projects you'd ever expect to be helmed by Moonlight director Barry Jenkins, Mufasa opens with mates Simba and Nala (briefly re-voiced by Donald Glover and Beyoncé Knowles-Carter) expecting a new cub and temporarily leaving their daughter Kiara (Blue Ivy Carter, the real-life daughter of Beyoncé and Jay-Z) in the care of eternal sidekicks Timon and Pumbaa (Billy Eichner and Seth Rogen). Understanding this to be a terrible idea, the soothsaying simian Rafiki (John Kani) wisely intervenes, and begins to tell the lion princess her grandfather Mufasa's origin story. Believe it or not, it's a lot like Simba's origin story!
There are differences, of course. Instead of being driven from his pride, Mufasa (Braelyn and Brielle Rankins as a child, Aaron Pierre as an adult) is flooded away from his tribe. Instead of meeting a friendly meerkat and warthog, our title character meets a friendly fellow cub named Taka (Theo Solulu in youth, Kelvin Harrison Jr. in adulthood). Instead of roaming the savannas in search of a new home, Mufasa … . Okay, that part is largely the same, and the been-there-saw-that vibe continues. Once again, there's a feisty yet demure love interest (Tiffany Boone's Sarabi). Once again, there's a vicious, wannabe-ruler lion (Mads Mikkelsen's Kiros). Once again, there's color commentary by that squawking hornbill Zazu (Preston Nyman). And once again, there are songs, the new ones here courtesy of Lin-Manuel Miranda. It's ironic, really. Much of the criticism toward Moana 2 was directed at composers Abigail Barlow and Emily Bear for their tunes not living up to the standard set by Miranda in the first Moana. Now Miranda is being dinged, deservedly, for his Mufasa numbers being pale, obvious imitations of Elton John's and Tim Rice's original Lion King compositions. So the circle of life continues.
Although it'll be obvious to everyone, even the littlest of tykes, within seconds of his introduction, I should probably mention that Taka will grow up to be Mufasa's vile younger brother Scar, Taka's mother having adopted the lost cub after presuming him to be an orphan. Yet this complicates, if not outright contradicts, what we knew about the characters in the first Lion King. Wasn't Scar's hatred of Mufasa based on the idea that he should inherit the throne instead of baby Simba? Why wasn't the fact that Scar wasn't directly related to Mufasa ever mentioned? (The Lion King is about nothing if not bloodlines.) Even granting this left-field development, the least we could expect from Jenkins' prequel is insight into why Scar became so pathologically, murderously jealous when the two cubs started out as the best of pals – a conceit not unlike what we got for those apparent former besties Optimus Prime and Megatron in Transformers One. Instead, screenwriter Jeff Nathanson delivers the oldest broken-bros cliché in the book, Mufasa's and Taka's rift due entirely to having crushes on the same girl. Let's just say that the subsequent falling out was a lot more believable, and enjoyable, in Challengers.
In the manner of all prequels, Mufasa does answer a number of unasked questions. I suppose “How did Scar get his scar?” is a fairly decent one, even if most of us were likely content to go with “He was just born with it.” (Hence the name, right?) But was anyone dying to know how the bird Zazu became majordomo to a lion? Or why Rafiki didn't hang out with other mandrills? Or how he got his walking stick? Because they have a habit of stopping narratives in their tracks, fan-service explanations of this sort are nearly always irritating. Yet they're especially so here, because the movie seems to routinely go out of its way to derail story progression. Miranda's uninspired tunes do a lot of damage in this regard. (Mikkelsen singing, or rather “singing,” Kiros' nefarious anthem “Bye Bye” has the distinction of both killing time and turning the film's meant-to-be-evil villain into an laughable fool.) Even worse, however, are the routine returns to present-day Rafiki, Timon, and Pumbaa, the latter two of whom do nothing but add witless wisecracks and break the fourth wall. Sure, Zasu crooned “It's a Small World” in the '94 Lion King. That break from established reality still wasn't as egregious as Timon telling Pumbaa here to stop bastardizing “Hakuna Matata” before the animals “get in trouble with legal.” Why are we trashing the film's entire reality when the whole point of these CGI “upgrades” is for them to feel as real as possible?
Did the youths at my screening enjoy Mufasa, at least? It was hard to tell. Jenkins' film isn't really designed for audible audience response, and it's easy to imagine kids viewing the pretty images with the same disengaged expressions of the photorealistic beasts themselves – blank stares that don't match the words or vocal intent coming out of the creatures' mouths. Like Favreau's Lion King, Jenkins' addition to the franchise merely sits there, hitting the same beats that were already memorably hit 30 years ago in a work that was a full half-hour shorter and infinitely more satisfying. (An opening title card dedicating this release to James Earl Jones is more touching than anything that transpires over the subsequent two hours.) Disney will likely make a mint, but I wouldn't be shocked if most patrons wished they'd instead spent their family time and money on …
SONIC THE HEDGEHOG 3
When asked why he agreed to return to his role as Dr. Robotnik in Sonic the Hedgehog 3 after previously suggesting his retirement from the franchise, and possibly from films in general, Jim Carrey told the Associated Press, “I bought a lot of stuff and I need the money, frankly.” That kind of honesty is refreshing. But I'm wondering if Carrey's response wasn't also a wee bit disingenuous, because it sure looks like he's having a blast in director Jeff Fowler's followup. At the very least, he's providing one.
As in all the Sonics, the plotting here is mostly irrelevant, focusing primarily on another anthropomorphic hedgehog from outer space so consumed with vengeance that he's voiced by Keanu Reeves in full “He killed … my dog” mode. Yet amidst all the formulaic video-game sound and fury is Carrey, not only reprising Ivo Robotnik, but introducing the evil genius' grandfather Gerald, and it's a self-contained doubles act to relish. A Greatest Generation tyrant aghast that the military has actually found room for women, Gerald allows his portrayer to tinker with more specifically satirical comedy than his Sonic duties previously allowed, and it's a kick watching this decrepit dinosaur and his hyperactive grandchild trade punchlines and share surprisingly solid space in the same frame.
On more than a few occasions, though, I was knocked out by Carrey's legitimate power in the part. Like his equally mustachioed relative, Gerald is prone to slapstick shenanigans (their pas de deux in a hall of laser beams is truly inspired buffoonery) and demolition of the fourth wall, which works better here than in Mufasa: The Lion King because the annihilation is legitimately funny. But in playing Gerald's quest for world destruction with his tongue nowhere near his cheek, Carrey demonstrates an imperious forcefulness that we haven't seen from him in decades, if ever. I, for one, hope those oft-heard rumors about retirement are bunk, because against all expectation, Fowler's threequel implies that its human star may still have plenty of tricks up his sleeve.
The rest of Sonic the Hedgehog 3 is mostly the same old tricks, yet I'm happy to report that after the successful recovery mission of 2022's second installment, this series continues to improve. Running 110 minutes, it's still overlong by a good 20, and I'm not sure how much is gained by treating Reeves' character Shadow with such a heavily melancholic backstory; just because he's voiced by John Wick doesn't mean he had to carry so much oppressive emotional baggage. Still, whenever it's focused solely on silliness, the pacing is admirably zippy, the effects eye-catching, Ben Schwartz's Sonic wisenheimer act endearing, and the non-Carrey humans (chiefly James Marsden, Tika Sumpter, the great Natasha Rothwell, and, finally, Lee Majdoub as Robotnik's Smithers-like henchman) winning. Best of all, Idris Elba's hilariously humorless echidna Knuckles is back, and earned bigger laughs from me and my favorite 10-year-old than even Carrey did. My fifth-grade chaperone, a nearly lifelong Pokémon fan, giggled hardest when a Japanese admirer mistook Sonic for Detective Pikachu, leading to Knuckles' amusingly inaccurate impersonation of same. For my part, though, I most adored Elba's shrieking apoplexy over a comedic jump-scare in the 1995 comedy Casper, Knuckles explaining his embarrassing reaction with airtight logic: “There's no such thing as a friendly ghost.”
THE SIX TRIPLE EIGHT
Between 2006 and 2019, I reviewed 18 movies written and directed by Tyler Perry, so I suppose that I was due for a break, as were all of us. Still, in the months pre-COVID, I couldn't have conceived that it would be more than five years until I reviewed another, nor that it would be one as earnest, engaging, and deservedly reverential as The Six Triple Eight, newly streaming on Netflix. A number of the auteur's traditional failings are in evidence here, among them overripe dialogue, obvious stereotypes, and unmissable thematic pushiness. Yet none of that mattered as I sniffled my way through this true-to-life World War II tearjerker, one boasting a subject so inherently worthy that it's a shock – yet, sadly, not much of a shock – that it hadn't been granted non-documentary treatment before.
With Perry's latest adapted from Kevin M. Hymel's 2019 WWII History magazine article “Fighting a Two-Front War,” its title refers to the 6888th Central Postal Delivery Battalion, an all-Black, all-female group of Women's Army Corps troops who, toward the war's end, were stationed in Europe to sort through reams of undeliverable mail – a backlog estimated to include roughly 17 million items. Aside from Ebony Obsidian's Lena Derriecott, with whom we spend the movie's first 20 minutes as she basks in the affection her beau and then mourns the soldier's death overseas before enlisting, none of the 6888th have much in the way of discernible personality. Yet they're still an empathetic, moving unit of fighters for national morale. And besides, all of the personality in the room is effectively stolen by Kerry Washington, who suggests what Sheryl Lee Ralph would've done with Louis Gossett Jr.'s drill sergeant role in An Officer & a Gentleman. Ferociously professional and exuding unshakable dignity, Major Charity Adams – a historic figure and eventual co-namesake of Virginia's Fort Gregg-Adams Army headquarters – is one of the fiercest protagonists Perry has given us, and the role allows Washington to deliver a fire-breathing performance laced with uncertainty and heartache. It's handily the finest big-screen work the gifted Scandal star has yet offered, and The Six Triple Eight, barring a few of the more wrenching scenes in his 2010 For Colored Girls, is easily Perry's new directorial peak.
That's why it's maddening to see the film land so unceremoniously on Netflix – not only because Perry's and Washington's fine work isn't being granted the proper scale, but because this is a Crowd-Pleaser with a capitalized “C” and “P.” I'll admit that the appearances of Sam Waterston and Susan Sarandon as Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt teeter on SNL caricature, and Dean Norris is stuck playing one of those loathsome, sputtering Southern racists that no actor can pull off successfully. (Oprah Winfrey also has a cameo as civil-rights activist Mary McLeod Bethune, and is able to exit the premises before Perry's blatantly on-the-nose speechifying banalizes her beyond recognition.) But there are lump-in-the-throat and stand-up-and-cheer set pieces for days, much as there were, in a similar tale of unrecognized Black-female service, in 2016's box-office smash Hidden Figures. And with Netflix's Oscars-promotion dough apparently all tied up with the deadening Callas bio-pic Maria, the awkward August Wilson adaptation The Piano Lesson, the fraudulent Will & Harper doc, and Jacques Audiard's Emilia Pèrez – a musical drama that only reviewers who aren't me appear to like – it's a shame that Washington, especially, isn't getting the attention or push she deserves for The Six Triple Eight. (It's probably little consolation that the best of Netflix's 2024 bunch, Richard Linklater's Hit Man, is being all but completely ignored, too.)
Still, let's not give up hope on the film's statuette chances quite yet, because its submitted original song “The Journey,” performed by Academy Award winner H.E.R., was penned by Diane Warren. The Susan Lucci of the Oscars, Warren has now been nominated 15 times without winning – including every year of the past seven, and for “Huh?!” titles including Four Good Days, Tell It Like a Woman, and last year's Cheetos origin story Flamin' Hot. For Warren, a nod for a power ballad in a World War II saga is a gimme – though I think I know what Major Charity Adams would have said about an over-acknowledged white woman securing the first-ever Oscar nomination for a Tyler Perry film. I'm just not sure it's printable.
JUROR #2
Entertaining, even gripping, without being particularly good, director Clint Eastwood's Juror #2 received arguably worse treatment than Perry's offering, with Clint's longtime home base of Warner Bros. ignominiously dumping the legal drama into a few dozen theaters in November with no plans for expansion (the studio didn't even report box-office tallies!), and streaming it on Max, just yesterday, with nothing in the way of fanfare. I've hated many of Eastwood's recent films, most fervently 2021's Cry Macho and 2018's one-two groin punch The 15:17 to Paris and The Mule. But come on: Unforgiven! Mystic River! Million Dollar Baby! American Sniper! Clint delivered boatloads of prestige, Oscars, and box office for Warner Bros. over numerous decades, and this is the thanks he gets? I'd raise a bigger stink if Juror #2 were a better movie, but the shunning still demonstrates a startling lack of respect for the studio's – for any studio's – most revered and prolific 94-year-old.
Although you may have to twist yourself in knots to even grant the film's central premise, it's still a juicy one, because screenwriter Jonathan Abrams essentially gives us a 12 Angry Men in which the murderer is Henry Fonda. Unhappily summoned and accepted for jury duty in Savannah, Georgia, Nicholas Hoult's Justin Kemp begrudgingly attends his first day in court, and is flabbergasted when he discovers that the murder trial's victim is – dun dun duuuuuun! – someone he himself possibly killed. That's not what Toni Collette's prosecuting attorney thinks, having instead set her sights on the dead woman's thuggish boyfriend (Gabriel Basso). But Kemp, a recovering alcoholic who was at the same bar at the same time as the deceased and her beau, recalls driving home in the rain and hitting … something … and becomes increasingly convinced that the something was human. This human. So what to do? Does Kemp turn himself in? Or, does he use his position on the jury to persuade the other 11 into finding the accused not guilty, thereby freeing an innocent man while simultaneously letting himself off the hook?
I've seen plenty of similarly far-fetched courtroom dramas with conceits not half as enjoyable as Abrams'. It's such a delicious one, in truth, that you're able to go with it despite the arrival of additional, equally ridiculous coincidences and contrivances, among them Kiefer Sutherland as Kemp's AA sponsor who also happens to be a defense attorney, and J.K. Simmons as a fellow juror who also happens to be a retired detective hungry to investigate the case further. The setup is ludicrous and the jury-room conversations even goofier – though, maybe in deference to Sidney Lumet's 1957 masterpiece, it was nice to see Eastwood and Abrams give us characters unmistakable as Lee J. Cobb, Martin Balsam, and Jack Warden equivalents. (For the 12 Angry Men homage to be complete, however, Hoult really should've been playing Juror #8.)
For all of the movie's built-in flaws, though, Eastwood's latest (last?) is saved by both its irresistible hook and its cast that redeems even Abrams' nuttiest scenarios. From the start, for the narrative to work at all, you have to believe that Collette's angling-for-an-upgrade assistant DA and Chris Messina's public defender are two of the more incompetent lawyers working the Georgian judicial system. (The idea that our victim was killed in a hit-and-run is pretty quickly agreed upon by the jurors without the possibility ever once coming up in court.) Yet both actors are believably determined and frazzled, and I was delighted to see that wonderful character actor Amy Aquino as the trial judge; her recognizably frizzy brunette 'do is now all sleek silver, but she remains as fabulously dry as ever. Zoey Deutch is granted several delicate, touching scenes as Kemp's wife Allison, whose high-risk pregnancy would keep her in a state of exhausted nervousness even without her husband's caginess to contend with. (In the film's edgiest “Oh noooooo ...” encounter, Allison gets an unexpected visit from Collette's prosecutor.)
Hoult, meanwhile, delivers maybe his most expressive screen performance to date, Kemp's exterior guilt and interior pain making all of Abrams' (too-blatantly) vocalized points about guilt and honor and justice awfully superfluous. It's hardly Clint at his best, or even best-adjacent. But Juror #2 manages to hold your interest and then some, and for a certain sect of viewer, it might be worth a watch solely for the 22-years-later reunion between Collette and Hoult, who were mother and son in that 2002 favorite About a Boy. Turns out there are worse things than watching your kid get co-opted by Hugh Grant.