Movie Review: "American Assassin"

"American Assassin": B+.  Since 2005 Momma Cuandito and I have been on the beaches of Bandol, France, Tulum, Mexico and Noto, Italy.  If I had seen American Assassin prior to visiting those foreign sands, we might have stayed home instead.  After you witness the opening sequence you'll know why. 

American Assassin is the first film rendering of any novel by Vince Flynn, a St. Paul native who passed away four years ago from prostate cancer at the age of forty-seven.  Although counter-terrorism/action stories are not my favorite genre of either books or films, I always enjoyed listening to Flynn's interviews with local radio host Dan Barreiro, who invited Flynn as a semi-regular guest on his show.  Flynn always came across as a down-to-earth regular guy who was smart, humble and conversant, complemented with a knack for great story telling.  Coincidentally, what prompted me to see American Assassin was another recent Barreiro interview with Dylan O'Brien who stars as Mitch Rapp, the heroic secret agent in thirteen of Flynn's thrillers, not including Mitch Rapp books written by Kyle Mills after Flynn's passing.

My first impressions of O'Brien were that he looks too young, fresh-faced and lanky to be cast as an assassin of any kind, let alone one who goes after Middle East terrorists.  Second and third impressions?  Yeah, his character can do it all: martial arts, boxing, marksmanship with all makes and models of guns, smarts, drive, hand-to-hand combat skills, strength, bravery and determination. Rapp's biggest weakness is his difficulty obeying orders from his superiors, including orders to abort a mission because of a change in circumstances which makes continuation almost suicidal.  He is bound and determined to right a terrible wrong personally suffered by him at the hands of the terrorists.  If Mitch can do so in conjunction with the CIA, fine; if he has to go it alone, that's okay too.  He's willing to play by the CIA's rules as long as it suits his purposes.  His field superior, Stan Hurley (Michael Keaton), thinks he can keep the reins on Rapp, but that's wishful thinking.

Keaton is excellent playing Hurley, a middle-aged tough guy and a former Navy SEAL whose method of training agent candidates is one step short of attempted murder.  Hurley initially does not want to accept Rapp into his group because of (legitimate) concerns over Rapp's reputation for blowing off orders.  But Hurley's superior, CIA Deputy Director Irene Kennedy, skillfully played by the usually understated Sanaa Lathan, has studied Rapp's behavior and background to the point where she feels confident insisting Hurley take him on.

Of course when you have a good looking macho man like Rapp, it's only natural to cast a female counterpart.  Enter Annika (Shiva Negar), who is described by Deputy Director Kennedy as a CIA spy who's been working undercover in Istanbul for the last five years.  She and Mitch are often paired together in dangerous situations.  For most of the story the two of them, along with Hurley and others, are trying to intercept a supply of plutonium which has been stolen from a decommissioned nuclear facility in Russia.  The Americans fear it will end up in the hands of Iranian hardliners who have big nuclear bomb aspirations.  Following one lead after another, the search takes them to several European cities such as Warsaw, Bucharest and Rome.  No matter where they find themselves, there is danger lurking nearby.

The best way to enjoy this film is not to overthink it.  There are enough plot holes to demand a rewrite.  But this isn't a documentary; it's meant to be pure entertainment.  So, if Mitch is strapped to a chair behind enemy lines in a room full of baddies, and the CIA to that point has never been able to pinpoint exactly where that room is located, don't be surprised if a shootout occurs anyway and Mitch survives.  Director Michael Cuesta is not about to knock him off in the second act.  Each of the action scenes is staged and choreographed splendidly.  Some parts are hard to watch, such as uses of a blowtorch, pliers as a manicure tool, and waterboarding without a board.  Still, it is generally not over the top a la Quentin Tarantino films.

I read that one reason the producers chose twenty-six year old O'Brien for the lead role was that his youth would enable him to play the same character in future Rapp films.  There is an almost endless supply of material, not only because Flynn was a prolific author but also because the franchise is being continued by Mills.  The most famous film agent/double agent of all time was James Bond, a character made famous by Sean Connery who starred in seven Bond capers from 1962 to 1983.  When the first Bond movie, Dr. No, was shot in 1962, Connery was thirty-one years old.  One can imagine the young O'Brien following a similar path.  In fact, the final scene in American Assassin strongly suggests that is the plan.  

Let's Be Honest, Lynx Got Hosed

When it's crunch time, athletes aren't the only parties who are responsible for coming through in the clutch.  The officials, too, have an obligation to perform at their peak.  And just as is the case with players in the field or on the court, the game situation can get too big for some officials resulting in a call or non-call which arguably costs the aggrieved team the game.  Whether you are an athlete or merely a fan, you realize this and accept it.  Some balls are going to be called strikes, some defensive pass interference penalties should have gone against the receiver, some basketball fouls are ticky-tack.  Human imperfections come with the territory.

What I can't stand, however, are the apologists telling the media, "One official's call didn't cost us the win.  We had our chances."  As sure as the sun rises in the east, you can count on some pollyanna making such a statement.  It happens every time.  To those tree huggers my reply is often, "Poppycock!"  Sometimes a bad call does determine the outcome of a close contest.  When coaches or players deny it in a post-game interview, I have to think the fear of being fined or suspended by the league office forces them to fib.  What they really would like to declare is that the bad call(s) did indeed cost them the game.    

There is a frequently aired television commercial for Continental Tire in which ESPN sports show host Dan Patrick is standing on a basketball court, ball in hand, back turned toward the hoop.  Facing the camera outside the arc he asserts, "We're led to believe each individual point is worth the same amount, regardless of when it's scored.  Layups are always worth two points, theoretically.  But fans know that's not the case because here, in the last minute, everything counts for just a little bit more.  Under thirty seconds, three pointers tend to feel like five.  As for buzzer beaters [here Dan flips the ball over his shoulder toward the hoop...swish!] they're worth the whole shebang."

I'm not sure what that shot or his message has to do with a tire company, but I love that TV spot just the same.  When a game is on the line, everything gets magnified.  The difference between a hero and a goat is almost always established when the outcome is in doubt.  Why was the  A's and Yankees' Hall Of Famer Reggie Jackson called Mr. October?  Because in the playoffs, particularly World Series play, he rose to the occasion.

Several years ago in women's college basketball, the two best teams in the country were unanimously considered to be UConn and Notre Dame.  On paper, there was a severe drop off in talent between those two teams and the rest of the field.  The Huskies and the Irish easily won their respective region championships, thus advancing to the Women's Final Four.  But due to a quirk in the tournament brackets, those two teams had to face each other in one of the national semi-finals.  The NCAA, realizing that the UConn-ND tilt was going to be a de facto national championship, assigned its best three-person officiating crew to work that semi-final game, instead of giving that trio the honor of being assigned to the title game.  One of those three refs was Dee Kantner, generally and annually considered the best ref in the women's college game.  (She is also one of only two women ever to be employed as a referee in the National Basketball Association.)  The rationale for the assignment was obvious: The big game demands referees who are the best.

This Sunday the WNBA Championship series begins, featuring a rematch of Minnesota's only professional sports team to win a championship in over twenty-five years, the dynastic Minnesota Lynx, versus the defending WNBA champs, the LA Sparks.  One hopes that the WNBA, which some claim is on life support as evidenced by its financial dependence on the NBA and the extinction of six WNBA teams over recent years, is smart enough assign competent and qualified referees to its showcase series.  They failed to do that in last year's finals when the Lynx attempted to win their fourth WNBA championship in six years.

***

Here is what happened in game # 5 in the best-of-five series.  The winner would be crowned WNBA Champions.

With three minutes to play in the final quarter, the Sparks led 71-63, the largest lead of the game for either team.  A minute and twelve seconds later, a Lindsay Whalen steal of an in-bounds pass followed by her layup knotted the score at 71.  The Target Center capacity crowd was beside themselves with glee.  At the 1:12 mark Sparks all-star power forward Nneka Ogwumike, who would later be selected by the Associated Press as the WNBA's Player Of The Year, sank a two-footer as the Sparks reclaimed the lead.  Her shot came almost simultaneously with the expiration of the shot clock, and the referee closest to the scorer's table made a hand signal above his head to indicate he wanted to review it at the next stoppage of play.  Did Ogwumike get her shot off in time?

That stoppage did not occur until Minnesota called time out with just 35.8 seconds left.  It wasn't until then that the three-person officiating crew found out that the WNBA rules do not permit a review of any play in the last two minutes of the game unless there is a whistle immediately after the play in question.  In other words, the referees either did not know the rule or did not apply the rule!  To add salt to the Lynx wound, television replays clearly showed Ogwumike did not release the ball until after the shot clock had expired.  Her two points should have been disallowed.

But, there is more... With 23.4 seconds left and the score tied at 73, Lynx center Rebekkah Brunson was fouled while rebounding a missed shot under her own basket.  The referee who was standing a mere five feet away along the base line, with an unobstructed view, called the foul on Sparks guard Essence Carson, even though the replays indisputably indicate that it was Ogwumike who grabbed Brunson's wrist; Carson was at least a giant step away.  If Ogwumike would have been whistled for the foul, it would have been her sixth, thus disqualifying her from the game.  As many people know, it was Ogwumike who won the game, and thus the championship, for the Sparks when she put in a desperation three-footer on an offensive rebound with 5 seconds left.  That was the sixth and last lead change to occur in the games' frenzied final three minutes.  Final score: Sparks 77, Lynx 76.

To recap, the three person officiating crew made a horrible call with less than thirty seconds to go (begrudgingly, possibly forgivable) and did not know a basic league rule which should have been employed with under ninety seconds to go (unforgivable!).

***

To the league's credit, Rene Brown, its Chief Of Basketball Operations, admitted the next day that the refs blew the call when they allowed Ogwumike's basket to count.  (She did not address the phantom foul called on Carson.)  But, as Lynx superstar Maya Moore stated after being told of the admission, "That doesn't make me feel any better."

The WNBA is a league with ardent followers who, unfortunately, comprise a small fan base.  Many sports fans who are not necessarily male chauvinists do not take the league seriously.  There are more than a couple of reasons:  Teams wear jerseys branded with huge font indicating a corporate sponsor -- for the Lynx it is Mayo Clinic, for the Sparks it's Equi Trust Life Insurance.  (Are the city or team names even on there?  How do they sell any swag?)  There are only twelve teams in the league.  The Lynx, by virtue of their regular season best record, were granted a double bye straight into the semi-finals.  If it's that easy to reach the semis, is it a legit tourney?  The WNBA's pay scale is much less than what the women earn in overseas leagues during the winter.

In short, the WNBA can't afford another championship series where it entrusts the officiating to a trio which should instead be working Monsignor Coates League sixth grade games.  The WNBA, even though thirty-one years old, is still searching for authenticity.  If it hands over the series' officiating duties to a group of amateurs as it did last year, that could be tantamount to a death wish.  To do so would be a disservice to the players, coaches and fans, and would give the sporting public a legitimate reason to ignore women's professional basketball going forward.  In this post-Title IX era in which women's sports are more popular than ever, that would be a shame.  The WNBA's best-of-five championship series should set a gold standard for women's basketball.  Let's hope we don't have a repeat of last year.  

Taking Stock

On the morning of June 14, 2007, I sent the following e-mail to my boss, Marci, two time zones away in San Francisco.  The subject line read, "September 14, 2007": 

Good morning, Marci, 

September 14, 2017 is: 

- Three months from today. 

- Exactly twenty-four years and two days from my hire date. 

- The day I'm going to hang it up. 

John  

Up until that moment, the only Wells Fargo colleague ("teammate" in corporate speak) who knew of my retirement plans was my secretary ("administrative assistant," if you will) of fifteen years, Pam, whom I'd told the day before.  To the extent I may have "looked good" in my job performance during those years, Pam was a big factor and I felt she deserved the heads-up.

Things went more or less as planned during those final three months.  I turned down the offer of a fancy schmantzie Windows On The World retirement party in the IDS tower during my final week and instead opted for a beer bash at Glueks.  Good decision!  The party was on the company dime, and was well attended at least in part because it was also on company time.

The reason I wrote "or less" above is that, on my last day, I ended up working until 6:10 p.m.  (The traditional last day exit time is roughly 10:30 a.m.)  I was trying to iron out the last minute details on an ag lending deal for one of my Des Moines banker-clients.  The lawyer who was scheduled to take over my office started moving his stuff in about 4:00 p.m.  We were tripping over each other's boxes.  What a circus!  It wasn't until a gathering at Bunny's later that Friday evening with family and friends that I felt truly relieved and retired.

So, if you've connected the dots to this point you now know that today is the ten year anniversary of my retirement.  If I were more eloquent, poetic or contemplative, I would be able to craft a post which would do justice to the thoughts swimming around in my little noggin.  But, as the saying goes, you've got to play the hand you're dealt, so I am going to keep my epistle limited to two general thoughts which have occupied my consciousness lately.

Believe it or not, the first has to do with a hockey coach, a peculiar notion given the fact that I have never played the sport -- unless you count broom hockey.  I think of retirement as having a lot in common with graduation.  Starting a new chapter, turning the page, and so on.  As a former student, parent and veteran teacher, I have attended many graduation ceremonies.  I could count on a couple of fingers the number of times I have thought about any one commencement speech more than twenty-four hours after its delivery.  The big exception was a speech given at a Benilde-St. Margaret's High School commencement exercise, circa 1996, the year of Gina's graduation.  Varsity boys' hockey coach Ken Pauly was chosen to speak.  A lot of what he said was standard, something like "the world is your oyster," "go forth and do great things," "you can accomplish almost anything if you set your mind to it," etc.

But here is where Ken's talk rose above the usual message.  He said that when a kid graduates from high school, she tends to envision her future in a known world with her then-present family and circle of friends.  He said he felt the same way when he was eighteen.  What opened his eyes is that two of the most important people in his life, his future wife and his best friend, he did not even meet until he was in his twenties or thirties.  His message was something like this: Cherish the people you currently know, but be open to meeting, befriending and possibly caring deeply for new people who just might become key players in your adult life.

His words certainly ring true for me.  As of the date of my retirement I was fifty-nine years old.  Although I had known Luke ever since he and Michael became classmates and buddies in sixth grade, I never would have guessed that he would marry Jill eight years after I left Wells.  Also as of September 2007, I had never met either Gina's future husband, John, or Michael's future bride, Lindsey.  In many ways my three kids are like Mary, but in at least one important category they followed their father's lead by marrying a wonderful person.

The icing on the cake are our four beautiful granddaughters, Rosie, Winnie, Lulu and June.  When June was born two months ago I sent a boastful e-mail to three of my Domer friends.  Referring to the little girls I wrote, "They are always on my mind. It's hard for me NOT to think about them -- a good problem to have."   Ken Pauly's prognostication is proven correct.  I am gaga over those four little peanuts who obviously were not around in 2007.

The second general thought can probably be reduced to one word: luck.  There is an old bromide that one makes his own luck.  I'm not sure I buy into that, at least not totally.  Sure, it starts with Mary.  If it were not for the Viet Nam war I would have never found her; different topic for, maybe, a different future post.  Suffice it to say that we have been married for forty-one years, and I know I am a very lucky man.

Connecting the concept of luck to my retirement goes beyond what I wrote above.  There were five or six Wells Fargo lawyers who were a couple of years older than I and who retired during the two year period immediately preceding my exit.  When they'd return to the office for a visit, their evaluation of retirement was unanimous: "I'm so busy I don't know how I managed to perform a full time job."  They were clearly loving it.

But there was another Wells lawyer, Margaret, who was several years younger and retired in the spring of '07.  (She and I both started working for Norwest in 1983, when there were only six attorneys in the Law Department.)  She was single, the only child of New England college professors who owned a quaint cottage on a small lake in New Hampshire.  Carlton College had drawn her to Minnesota for her undergraduate studies, and she remained here for her career.  Peg kept a picture of that cottage, her next home, on her desk, and was known to say many times to people who entered her office, "If you're looking for me in the future, this is where I'll be."  No one talked about and anticipated life in retirement more than she.  Yet, less than a year into her retirement, she was stricken with cancer and passed away shortly thereafter.

Although Peg was not a close friend of mine, her passing was shocking to me.  Why was she denied that for which she had worked so hard to achieve?  Why have I been lucky enough to still be around a decade later?  Not only that, but Mary and I have enjoyed relatively good health, all of our kids live close by, and to coin a phrase, life is good.  As I wrote above, this is one of the things I have been thinking about lately.  I especially think about it when I go to church.  I don't go for the music -- there is none -- the scripture readings, the homilies or any of the folderol.  I go there to pray.  I have a lot to be thankful for. 

Movie Review: "Good Time"

"Good Time": B.  Robert Pattinson, whom we last saw earlier this summer in The Lost City Of Z (reviewed here on May 15; B), continues to prove that he is not merely a one-trick zombie, as he stars in newly released Good Time.  Pattinson plays Constantine "Connie" Nikas, an unintentionally humorous small time crook who, for unexplained reasons, decides to bring along his mentally challenged brother Nik on an extremely ill-conceived bank heist.  Apparently the thought never entered Connie's mind that Nik would be useless even if things went smoothly, and a hindrance if things went poorly.  And, poorly they did!  Did Connie never see a TV show or movie where the bank teller surreptitiously plants an exploding red dye canister in the robbers' satchel?  

The entire story is replete with one bad decision after another.  Most, but not all of them, are made by Connie.  Nik picks a fight with a muscle-bound prisoner in a cell filled with hardened criminals, and gets pummeled.  A grandmother allows the fugitive brothers into her Queens residence late at night, falling for some flimsy explanation that they lost the keys to their "nearby" apartment.  The woman then retires for the evening, leaving her sixteen year old granddaughter (Taliah Webster) unattended.  Connie's girlfriend, Corey (Jennifer Jason Leigh), fraudulently attempts to use her mother's credit card to charge $10,000 in a bail bond office, and then is astonished when the bank not only declines the transaction but calls her mother with a fraud alert.

Nik is played by Ben Safdie, who also co-directed the movie with his brother, Josh.  The opening scene in which a psychiatrist (Peter Verby) administers a test to the phlegmatic Nik, asking the patient to explain such common sayings as "The squeaky wheel gets the most oil," is done to perfection, offering a combination of tension and comedy.

But, this is Pattinson's movie, and the story itself does not do justice to his stellar acting.  It is at least initially hard to get a read on Connie.  Is he clever or stupid?  Maybe he's just a victim of bad luck, but stupidity certainly rears its head.  For example, while in the grandmother's apartment, he dyes his dark hair blonde in an attempt to avoid recognition on the streets, yet he leaves his copious facial hair untouched.  When he initially evades the cops he dumps his bright red jacket into a trash can.  What does he wear next?  A different red jacket.  Brilliant!

Pattinson's Connie brings back memories of Al Pacino's Sonny Wortzik in Dog Day Afternoon from 1975 (graded B in my Quarterly Cinema Scan on April 1, 2012).  Both are amateur bank robbers who can't get out of their own way.  There's something about both actors and both characters that wins our hearts, even while they are committing felonies.  The funniest line in Good Time is when clueless Connie, a certified loser, yells at another character, "You're nothing but a [expletive] loser!"  He says it with a straight face, and means it!  

A tip of the cap to David Lopatin, who goes by "Oneohtrix Point Never," for the musical score.  Unlike the music in Dunkirk (reviewed here August 4; C) which drowned out a lot of the dialogue, the music in Good Time has the right combination of relatively high volume during non-verbal scenes, thereby adding to the excitement, but smartly toning down while the characters are talking. 

The story goes from fourth gear to second at the point of the movie when Connie enters an amusement park.  It stays in second too long for my liking, thus slipping its grade to B. 

Movie Review: "Wind River"

"Wind River": B+.  At its core, Wind River is much like the police procedurals which have over-populated television lately.  A teenage girl is murdered, the cops talk to her family and attempt to retrace her steps, and the usual suspects, especially current or ex boyfriends, are interviewed.  If there is a car chase or a shoot out, so much the better.  These things usually don't end with a whimper.

What sets Wind River apart from the ordinary is the setting, which comes into play in at least two important ways.  First, the mountains.  Although the film was shot in Utah, the story takes place in the snow-covered, majestic mountains of Fremont County, Wyoming.  Cory Lambert (Jeremy Renner) is an agent of the US Fish & Wildlife Service.  One of his main responsibilities is to assist ranchers in protecting their livestock from four-legged predators such as wolves, coyotes and mountain lions.  When he is asked how well he knows the territory, his response is, "Like I live here."  So true.  Every peak, canyon, plateau, mountain pass, creek, ranch, fence line and trail is embedded in his mind.  Although he usually wears a cowboy hat, Lambert comes prepared for the cold.  He drives a pickup, but this is western Wyoming where the roads are not only few but often impassable.  Hence Lambert's winter mode of travel across this remote terrain is a snow mobile.  He carries with him all the gear and equipment necessary for his line of work.  Such items include a powerful rifle with a telescopic sight, binoculars, crampons, a hunting knife, goggles and blankets.  He might look silly in his camouflaged white 'biler suit, but nobody's gonna call him a sissy.  He is an expert hunter and tracker.  What he is not is a law enforcement officer, which brings us to our second "setting" topic, the rez.

Wind River is a 2.2 million acre Indian reservation.  Poverty, alcoholism and drug abuse run rampant.  It is an extremely sad irony that in a jurisdiction which theoretically should qualify for a beefed up police presence, just the opposite is true.  The criminal justice system on a reservation is unlike any other part of the country.  The Bureau Of Indian Affairs is in charge.  The local sheriff is Ben (Graham Greene) who knows Agent Lambert very well.  Ben has only a half dozen men to keep the peace in an area the size of Rhode Island.  Lambert and Ben hold each other in high regard.  When the situation calls for it, the two cooperate.

The dead teenager's body is discovered by Lambert who has followed a trail of blood up a steep ridge into the wilderness.  He alerts Ben, who calls in the FBI, hoping they will take over the case.  Lambert and Ben are disappointed, but not surprised, when the Feds send in a neophyte FBI agent, Jane Banner (Elizabeth Olsen).  She tells the men that she flew in from Vegas, but she hails from Florida.  In truth she looks like she belongs on a beach, not in the treacherous rez mountains.  When the coroner advises that, notwithstanding evidence of rape, he cannot establish that the girl was a homicide victim -- she may have frozen to death -- Agent Banner realizes that she will have to solve this crime without FBI resources.  "We're used to not getting backup around here," Sheriff Ben laments to her.  What he is intimating is that the Feds put crimes involving Native American victims at the bottom of the triage.

It doesn't take five more minutes for Banner to admit she is in over her head. The first indication is that she does not have clothing which would enable her to survive the high altitude wind chills.  She is smart enough to know she's going to need Lambert's help.

There have been news articles throughout the year about the criminal activity which has run amok on several Indian reservations.  Within the last month, the opioid epidemic, which has been labeled a national health emergency, has taken the lives of hundreds of people throughout the country, including a noticeably disproportionate number on the Red Lake Reservation in northern Minnesota.  A couple of years ago, a multi-page spread in the Star Tribune labeled Cass Lake, on the Leech Lake Reservation, the most dangerous town in Minnesota.  The same dreaded conditions on Wind River exacerbates the challenges faced by Lambert, Ben and Banner.  Couple that with the added crime associated with the nearby oil drilling operation, a magnet for trouble makers who curse the western plains and the Rockies, and the prospects for law-abiding peace are glum.

The script for Wind River was written by forty-seven year old Texan Taylor Sheridan, who also directed.  Sheridan's ability to incorporate the hostile, dangerous environment of the reservation into its ironically beautiful surroundings is praiseworthy.  He keeps the central plot advancing yet spends time developing his main characters.  The first time Agent Banner unloads her service revolver into a loathsome scoundrel, we realize her girlish good looks belie her professional toughness.  Lambert, once married to an Arapahoe, still mourns his daughter who was murdered a couple of years back.  This puts him in a unique position to empathize with and give comfort to the newly deceased girl's father, Chip Hanson, well-played by Native American actor Martin Sensmeier.

Sheridan also wrote the scripts for two other highly acclaimed movies which I intended to see but missed: Sicario, a 2015 crime thriller focusing on murderous Mexican drug lords, and last year's Hell Or High Water, which Sheridan also directed, a modern western nominated in the Best Picture category for an Academy Award.  Sheridan has become one of a small group of filmmakers whose very name alone attached to a movie is probably reason enough to see it.   

Movie Review: "Maudie"

"Maudie": A-.  When the Canadian film Maudie hit town almost two months ago, there was not much buzz about it.  Its stars, Ethan Hawke and Sally Hawkins, are veteran actors, but not the marquee names which guarantee box office success.  The film was invited to play in a handful of well-regarded festivals, including Toronto and Telluride, but took top honors only in Vancouver; maybe not that big a shock given the geography of the pertinent parties.

Be that as it may, Maudie has turned out to be one of the surprises of this summer, at least on the Twin Cities scene.  It has been playing at the Edina Theater since late June, with no short-term end in sight.  Although the film was not heavily promoted here, its popularity may be attributable to word-of-mouth and repeat paying customers.  Minnesota movie goers might also relate to the Nova Scotia setting as well; beautiful for three seasons of the year, and miserably cold and snowy for much of the fourth.

The film, based on the true story of Maud Lewis, is a fascinating tale of how one woman overcame imposing odds and downright cruelty to become a successful artist and appreciated wife.  When the story opens, Maud (Hawkins) learns that her heartless, scheming brother Charles (Zachary Bennett) has sold the house which once belong to their deceased mother.  He coldly tells Maud that he had the right to do so, since their mother bequeathed the house to him alone.  Maud, who seems like a gentle, happy soul in spite of her severely arthritic condition, gets no sympathy from her cold-hearted Aunt Ida (Gabrielle Rose) with whom she lives.  Shortly thereafter, Maudie determines to change her living conditions and get out from under the thumb of Ida.

Hawke, as Everett Lewis, makes one of the great screen entrances I can remember witnessing in the last decade.  Everett is a gruff fish monger who lives like a hermit in a small shack on the outskirts of the seaside village, Marshalltown.  The shack is in total disrepair, and the interior has probably never seen a broom or a mop.  Everett, finally deciding he needs a housekeeper, walks into the general store to post a notice for a cleaning woman.  Since he is illiterate, he prevails upon the shopkeeper to write the notice to be tacked onto the store's bulletin board.  Everett's frustration over being unable to come up with the exact wording for the notice card causes him to go briefly ballistic.  His profane tantrum had me laughing out loud.

At the same time, Maud is in the shop but unseen by Everett.  When he exits she plucks the card off the board and the next day shows up at Everett's shack to apply for the position.  And thus begins the relationship between the sweet but crippled Maud and the stern humorless Everett.  The evolution of that connection is the heart of the movie.

The movie is superb on so many levels, starting with the writing and the acting.  There are not many scripts calling for the subtle change and development of even one character, but Maudie, written by Canadian Sherry White, features two of them.  Most obviously, Everett starts out barely tolerating Maud's presence in his cabin, even though he is the one who hired her.  He doesn't want her to move any of his "stuff," which is next to impossible since it's scattered all over the small space.  He looks upon her as more or less an obscenely underpaid slave, and a maltreated one at that.  He shows her no respect and is embarrassed to be seen with her in public.  In short, he is lewd, crude and rude.

Everett's behavior would drive most women away.  No job is worth putting up with that insolence and lack of dignity.  But thick-skinned Maud sticks it out, working hard and turning to painting as a distraction from Everett's abuse.  The two dynamic leads gradually, very gradually, come to a meeting of the minds, and more.  Every step of the way impressed me as being authentic and realistic, a tribute not only to the acting chops of Hawkins and Hawke, but to the mastery of Irish director Aisling Walsh.

I loved the performance of Hawkins.  Her character is physically weak, which causes other people in her life to equate that mistakenly with dullness.  In fact, she is quite intelligent, with a keen wit and the ability to read others accurately.  The proverbial wheels in her mind are always spinning.  I liked her from the moment she first appeared on screen, through to the end.  I have always thought of Hawke as underrated, perhaps because 1995's Before Sunrise in which he starred with Julie Delpe is one of my favorite romance stories.

The scenes of Marshalltown are gorgeously shot by cinematographer Guy Godfrey.  Walsh cleverly marks the passing years with periodic shots of the snow-covered terrain  The story is straightforward and simple but with interesting main characters.  Additionally, there is a new, almost mysterious arrival in the form of an elegantly dressed woman named Sandra (Kari Matchett, who faintly resembles Lisa Kudrow from Friends) from New York, and the revelation of a heart-wrenching secret.

Two of my granddaughters have shirts with a heart drawn on the front.  Inside the heart is the word "Loved."  I thought of those shirts while watching Maudie.  When Maud was living with her Aunt Ida, she was unloved.  Going to work for, and living with, Everett did not initially fill that void.  We viewers' hearts go out to her.  Maud's hope, basically but in her case seemingly unreachable, is one day to be loved.  The story of her quest to reach that point in her life is one of the best I have seen.

Movie Review: "Dunkirk"

"Dunkirk": C.  Despite the use of hundreds of extras to populate several scenes, Christopher Nolan, writer-director of the war movie Dunkirk, has taken a minimalist approach to telling the story of the 1940 rescue of British troops from the north coast beaches of France.  There is hardly any introduction to the setting, thus leaving it up to the viewer to figure out for herself how the infantrymen managed to find themselves not only stranded but fearful for their lives as they await evacuation before the Germans annihilate them.  Nolan's strategy might have worked better if the audience was limited to history majors and World War II buffs, but for the rest of us it was not user-friendly.

Exacerbating the problem is that the dialogue is, naturally, spoken with a British accent which is often hard to decipher.  Many of the young men facially resemble each other, especially with their helmets pulled low just above their soot-stained cheeks.  On second thought, maybe it's not so important that the audience is able to distinguish the characters because their is no character development to speak of; except for a handful of officers, the men are fungible.  That point is driven home in the closing credits, where many of the soldiers are not even given the honor of having a name.  Instead we see characters listed as "second gunnery mate," "third rifleman" and the like.

Another related topic given short shrift is the rationale for the Germans basically ignoring their cornered enemy, the Allies.  Only a couple of Luftwaffe planes appear sporadically to strafe the human sitting ducks below.  By the same token, only a pair of Spitfires are on hand to help out their British brethren.  I found the midair dogfights to be the most entertaining facet of a film which otherwise drags.   We learn in the second half of the movie that the English brain trust, most notably Prime Minister Winston Churchill, came to the conclusion that only a single destroyer could be spared, from other parts of the war effort, to sail across the Channel to rescue the semi-abandoned troops.  Still, that does not explain why the Germans were practically no-shows.

Because of Churchill's questionable decision regarding use of military assets, it was left up to civilian mariners to tackle the hazardous rescue mission in their own vessels.  Another odd choice by Nolan is to show only one such boat owner, Mr. Dawson (Mark Rylance, who won an Academy Award for his work in 2015's Bridge Of Spies), taking on the perilous challenge.  We wonder, "Is Mr. Dawson the only boat-owning English civilian who was up to the task?"  The answer is not disclosed until near the end.

The story rotates, at times almost in staccato fashion, among the land, the air and the sea.  Some critics might find that approach creative.  I found it to be annoying and artificial, rendering the film choppy and disjointed.

Finally, a couple of notes about two other actors appearing in the movie.  Kenneth Branagh is a heralded and highly decorated Irish actor known mostly for his portrayal of many of Shakespeare's leading men.  He is wasted in Dunkirk as Commander Bolton, the pier master during the evacuation.  Bolton's main (and apparently only) duty is to stare out to sea, as if in a hypnotic trance, searching for any rescue ship that may appear on the horizon.  Sometimes, for variety, he glances up at the sky.  Those vacant, distant glares cause me to nominate Branagh's performance for the Henry Fonda Bad Acting Award.

I knew Harry Styles was cast in this film, and as someone familiar with the pop boy band One Direction, I predicted that I'd easily be able to identify him in Dunkirk.  Wrong!  I had to search the cast list to find out which of the several distraught yet brave young soldiers was he.  Answer: Alex.  Maybe if I were a thirteen year old girl it would not have been a problem.