Like John Wick, I’ll waste nary a moment getting to the point: You can just stop reading right now and go see John Wick. 

You… you’re still here? Did you not want to watch Keanu Reeves beat the living shit out of an endless queue of bad guys, racking up a body count in a revenge fantasy action flick that makes Taken look like Frozen?

Oh, that. You’ve seen one of the more laughable trailers (i.e., “They killed the dog my dead wife gave me...”) and thought it sounded like some sort of joke you’d rather not spend $10 to be the butt of. Like you, my friend, those ads left me with zero desire to see John Wick; I assumed this would be yet another "meh" addition to Keanu's résumé. But, interestingly enough, as silly as the premise seems in chopped and condensed 90-second preview format, when said dog actually does get the boot, it’s a lump-in-your-throat-making punch to the puppy-loving heart, and you’ll be in nodding in eager agreement with the ensuing bone-breaking rampage that follows Wick burying his furry friend.

Growing up on a diet of violent video games, I’ve witnessed some pretty horrific, hilarious and horrific/hilarious scenes of staged savagery, but John Wick still finds ways to shock. It’s not that it's especially gory (though, there are a couple gross bits of brain-splatter and blood that will remind you this is definitely R-rated material) but because it feels so raw. Combatants struggle to strangle and stab as they wrestle in battles that rarely end in a clean neck twist. And even when they do, Wick makes sure the deed is done with a bullet between the eyes. The real reason it all works so well is that the close-quarters combat that makes up the bulk of the action is kept in the frame so clearly. Forget the fast cuts of hard-to-follow hand-to-hand showdowns in the Bourne movies and imagine instead a 100-minute film filled with fight scenes like the gorgeous, stationary shot of that choreographed dance between silhouetted Bond and an assassin in Skyfall — then crank up the brutality.

Directed by a pair of stuntmen Keanu met while doing the Matrix movies, John Wick is largely an excuse to move from one skirmish-filled set piece to the next, and it thankfully wastes little time on backstory, dialog or anything that will require much acting from Keanu. This laser-sight focus on action delivers a one-two barrage of badass moment after badass moment, with a few laugh-out-loud bits sprinkled in to break the teeth-gritting tension and let you catch your breath. It’s a series of adrenaline rushes reminiscent of the “it’s about to go down” giddiness Keanu conjured in his glory days in moment's like Neo’s “We need guns. Lots of guns.”

The shots are dark and skew blue with massive amounts of machismo packed into each frame. When he’s not busting skulls, Keanu looks like he’s stepped out of a cologne ad — in a monotone three-piece suit behind the wheel of a classic muscle car in a fog of man so thick you could choke on it. At any given moment, it seems there’s a stubbled man swirling around a fancy tumbler filled with one dark spirit or another. On the other side of the manliness coin is the unfortunate source of Wick’s rage, a weasel-eyed Russian gangster played by the expertly hatable Alfie Allen, Games of Thrones’ poor prick-less Theon/Reek (and real-life brother of Lily Allen), a mobster's bratty kid who screwed with the wrong dude's dog.

John Wick isn't for everyone. People uncomfortable with theatrical violence should definitely steer clear. But if action is what you seek, John Wick delivers a ballet of brutality bound to make it either a cult classic after it bleeds out in theaters or be the first sign of an impending Keanu renaissance (Keanu-ssance?).

--Eric Pulsifer

I liked Juno. I did. I also liked Young Adult. I thought both gave us compelling stories about likable characters in relatable situations. I was hoping to get more of the same from Men, Women and Children. Jason Reitman is a capable director, and I am always interested to see what he does. I'm usually happy with the results.

This film follows a group of high school teenagers and their parents struggling with the minutia of their own lives and how the pervasiveness of various social media affects them. It is clear early on that the attitude towards social media and the accessibility of the Internet, in general, is primarily negative. There is little to no positive interaction between characters that happens online. A running theme through the film is the comparison of humanity's cosmic insignificance and how social networking is so incredibly selfish and egocentric.

The film opens with a shot of the Voyager I craft floating out in space and an explanation of the craft and its mission, showing the picture of earth that Voyager took right as it left the solar system in 1990 entitled Pale Blue Dot. A YouTube clip of Carl Sagan's reflections on the photo also titled Pale Blue Dot is discovered by one of the characters after his mother abruptly leaves him and his father for California and a new life. The emotionally distraught teenager latches onto the video's nihilistic undertone.

On the other side of that, one of the characters is an incredibly self-involved teenage girl who, with the help of her mother, has a “modeling” website dedicated to just pictures of her in marginally provocative poses. The film succeeds in showing us that we should all take a step back from our Facebook,Twitter etc., and stop to realize that we as individuals are not the most important things in the universe. Score one for Nietzsche!

While the message is clear (internet: BAD!), the film tries to show us all of the new problems that the internet has caused, but ends up just showing us new spins on old favorites. Infidelity existed before Ashley Madison.com. Parents were overbearing before keystroke counters, history searches and GPS phone tracking. Teenagers hated their bodies before anorexia encouragement sites. There were asshole dudes before text snubbing. Parents made some questionable decisions in the name of helping their children before modeling websites. I kept thinking it was Fast Times at Ridgemont High but with the Internets!

With only about two likable characters in the movie and meandering plot threads that just kind of bump into one another, this film feels self-indulgent and a little messy. Attempting to split the focus on so many characters can be difficult. Here, it results in a number of unremarkable and underdeveloped stories that don't deliver on their own and, unfortunately, don't come together to form a cohesive narrative.

To be fair, though, the film is adapted from the novel of the same name by Chad Kultgen, and as everyone is well aware, the detail and complexity of a novel is quite difficult to replicate on film. Having not read the book itself I can't possibly pretend to know how the movie and book line up, but I felt it deserved a mention.

But, that is not to say I give Men, Women and Children a pass; it still failed to hold my interest in all but one character's story. It felt bloated and plodding, never giving enough attention to any one character at a time. What we end up with is a film that is like a giant bowl of oatmeal with only half a dozen blueberries. Sure, the blueberries are in there, but there is just far too few of them to make the oatmeal enjoyable.

—Eric Harrelson

The Judge is locked in a furious internal battle. It’s not an unredeemable film, but it is a terribly confused, meager film. There are notable moments, even good moments, but they are obscured in a cage of exhausted tropes and sentimentality. Like a premise Frankenstein, The Judge lumbers around trying to carry the burden of not one, but three tired stories. Each as stale as the last—the prodigal son, the death of a parent, and…wait for it…a murder trial—the film fails to even have fun with this hydra like exercise in routine. At the center of it all is Robert Downey Jr, and try as he might, even his concerted effort couldn’t lift this picture above its mess of flaws.

This is most certainly Downey’s film to carry, but not in a complimentary way. It’s as though Downey was the only one unaware this was roughly a 45% effort kind of shoot, and his 100% just seems…out of place. Not to denigrate the fine performances by Robert Duval and Vincent D’Onofrio, but everyone seems to clear the way for Downey. And watching so much talent line the gangway while RDJ struts about at full crank is not flattering. Not to the film, nor to Downey's wealth of talents. He goes all in, you can’t deny it, but to overplay such a putrid hand is less noble than it is self-indulgent.

Enough fault cannot be levied against the lackluster screenplay at the root of this film. Downey plays Hank Palmer, and where this may sound incredulous, Palmer is a white hot, sharp tongued, and morally ambiguous defense attorney. You seen this? You head about this? Hank Palmer lives in The City, a bad place where cheating wives live, but he is quickly called to his long forgotten home in The Country. 

You can tell The Country is inherently good because the music is brighter and white kids hold fishing poles. But this is a sad trip because Mom is dead, and Estranged Father is a jerk who never quite ‘got’ his renegade son. Did we mention Estranged Father is a judge? Get it? 

Oh, and Hank’s high school sweetheart, jilted when he turned tail to never return, still works at the local diner. No you’re not unconscious. No, you didn’t hallucinate this premise that reads like a ransom note cut from other mediocre film summaries. This is the effort of four (yup, one, two three, and four) screenwriters who must be convinced you’ve never seen a movie before.

David Dobkin’s direction is wildly inconsistent in every facet of production. Hop scotching from serio-dramedy to procedural to stark realism, none of these concepts are allowed to flourish in the face of such tonal inconsistency. Dobkin will give some moments the soft lens treatment and then counter with a scene where Dax Shepard blows chunks. No innuendo here, we get the full spray multiple times. This isn’t to say these things can’t be in the same film, but there was never solidified feeling enough to prop up these varied elements. Instead, The Judge is cluttered and uneven, but this hackneyed monster does shamble into a fine moment or two.

After testing you for 25 straight minutes, the film’s central arc, a murder mystery, emerges with some vigor. There are few pleasant moments with Downey and Emma Trembaly, the actress cast as Palmer's (precocious, duh) daughter Lauren. Dax Shepherd brings some levity, there are a few Downey/Duval sparks sprayed from the screen, and we're even treated to a Billy Bob Thornton sighting. But The Judge has one superb moment all to itself. As unflinching a portrayal of an ill parent as I’ve seen, an authentic experience works its way onto the screen. It’s only a moment, but it was honest, a trait conspicuously missing from the film.

There is some talk of legacies in The Judge. Duval’s is intact and Downey still has some crowning achievements in store for us, I’m sure of it. But the question of a Downey in full in a post Iron Man world is growing hazy. Since he donned the candy chrome super suit, his non-Marvel Universe films have been forgettable at best, and detestable at worst. It's tricky to navigate the waters away from and icon, but Downey's biggest Iron Man asset was he was only having to play himself.

Where I once adored his films for being an emblem of exactly where Downey was at that exact moment in his life, perhaps the dirty secret is he can't play anyone but himself. And maybe it's just me, but I don't need another film about rich, attractive assholes learning trite lessons. Because if the Downey as Downey theory holds, the lessons become interchangeable, and the rich asshole emerges as the legacy.


—Monte Monreal

In keeping with The Equalizer’s grim efficiency I’ll keep it short and sweet. The sort of review you could look at your watch beforehand, say “16 seconds,” and know you’ve gotten to the meat of the matter: It’s good. It’s brutal.

Though not particularly sophisticated, The Equalizer is heady—and downright delicious—in its ability to plumb the depths of knowing exactly what it is. Has Denzel played this riff 13 times before? Duh. Are we watching yet another iteration of the lone, just-ish man a la Yojimbo, Death Wish, or Neesons given your particular era? Uh…that’s kind of the best part. Should you care about this film? Well, no one’s asking you to start a charity for the damn thing. All The Equalizer asks of you is to cozy up with your favorite corkscrew and let a movie so good at being a movie just be a movie.

The most commendable part of the film is the element most readily apparent, Denzel Washington. Denzel saunters through this picture like a Bengal Tiger stalking around his supplicants. His acting, though nothing outside of his ken, vibrates with tuning fork like perfection and consistency. Playing a character who’s not so much a Robert as a Mr. McCall, he’s a deadly man conspicuously hiding in the cage/façade of ‘regular’ life. Part guidance counselor, part lonely widower, part unknowable man, it’s the best version of Denzel Denzel has played in a while. 

Never once does this film set itself up to be something it’s not, or should even aspire to be. Equalizer, fittingly enough, understands the sort of balance a film like November Man clumsily grabs it. We’re given our motivation, our villain, our ultra-violence, and little else. All in tidy fashion, all just the right amount.

All in exact proportion, the film has an uncanny sense of what doesn’t matter. The Equalizer asks you to invest in Mr. McCall’s mission via a character—Teri as played by the ascending Chloe G. Moretz—who we see for maybe four minutes. Our villain, Martin Csokas, we know better, and not by much. But the scenes where these characters lay their cards out for one another, the engine hums with the same certainty as it does during outrageous ass kickery. Sewn together with deft touches of dialogue and decent book references turned framing device, The Equalizer casts a shadow without the gaudy action pieces.

But let’s not overlook gaudy action pieces. I’d never tell tales out of school, but I feel obligated to articulate my reaction and my lingering impressions. My reaction, once the fisticuffs hit a rolling boil, was a gleeful giggling, “Whhhaaaatttttt?!?!?” I’m not sure how that’s supposed to look as decided by MLA standards, but it’s the only way a man knows how to say a thing. “Whhhhaaaatttt?!?!” 

The fight sequences are tight, savage, well-choreographed, and deeply satisfying. My favorite wrinkle? Mr. McCall rarely uses guns because, “guns don’t kill people, people kill people.” ‘Real’ men kill with their bare hands. You want these one dimensional baddies to be run through, and Denzel lives up to the task with tangible zeal. After I left the theater, lingering in a mist of blood and slo-mo rain, it occurred to me what the writer had accomplished. He thought to himself, “You know, if you had to fuck up a whole grip of dudes—and make it, like, awesome—THIS would be the place.” And he takes us there. He takes us deep down into that black and blue Promised Land.

The Equalizer is crazy good fun. I could sit here and bemoan what we all already know about this picture, but the movie deserves better. Because there is really only one thing we definitively know: The Equalizer is a moving picture show. And it’s so good at just that, a celebration is in order. 

—Monte Monreal