That headline is only a slight exaggeration. It is a huge week for openings—The Brutalist, Hard Truths, Nickel Boys, and The Room Next Door are all among the most critically ballyhooed movies of the past year. As is The Seed of the Sacred Fig, screening as part of the Iranian Film Showcase. My First Film at the Walker (which I have seen) is no slouch either. Happy birthday to me!
Special Screenings
Thursday, January 16
Frances Ha (2012)
Grandview 1&2
I miss Greta Gerwig the actor. Also Sunday. $14.44. 9:15 p.m. More info here.
Idiocracy (2006)
Parkway Theater
“Idiocracy wasn’t supposed to be a documentary!”—the most annoying person you know. $9/$12. Pre-show spelling bee at 7:30 p.m. Movie at 8 p.m. More info here.
The Nerdonauts
Trylon
Friend of Racket Andy Sturdevant promotes the latest publication from his Birchwood Palace Industries publishing house with a screening of the Armageddon commentary track. Sold out. 7 p.m. More info here.
Friday, January 17
The Seed of the Sacred Fig (2024)
Main Cinema
Mohammad Rasoulof’s secretly filmed, critically acclaimed thriller finally comes to town. Part of the Iranian Film Showcase. $12. 7 p.m. More info here.
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Trylon
It’s not just a Christmas movie. $8. Friday-Saturday 7 p.m. Sunday 11:45 a.m., 3 & 6 p.m. More info here.
My First Film (2024)
Walker Art Center
A young woman looks back on her first attempt at filmmaking in Zia Anger’s smart, funny metafiction. Also Saturday. $12/$15; free for students on Friday. 7 p.m. More info here.
Saturday, January 18
Citizen Kane (1940)
Alamo Drafthouse
The Jeanne Dielman of movies about rich guys. $11.50. 12 p.m. More info here.
Death Becomes Her (1992)
Alamo Drafthouse
The original The Substance? $13.50. 3:05 p.m. Monday 7 p.m. More info here.
UFC 311: Makhachev vs. Tsarukyan 2
Emagine Willow Creek
How did 311 get all mixed up in this? $26.60. 9 p.m. More info here.
Boomerang (2024)
Main Cinema
As her parents drift apart, a teen falls in love. Eddie Murphy is not involved. Part of the Iranian Film Showcase. $12. 1 a.m. More info here.
My Favorite Cake (2024)
Main Cinema
A widow starts her life again. Part of the Iranian Film Showcase. $12. 4 p.m. More info here.
Stonebreakers (2022)
Minnesota History Center
A look at the movement to remove racist monuments in the wake of George Floyd’s murder. Followed by a community discussion. Part of the Black Europe Film Fest. Free. 1 p.m. More info here.
The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe (2005)
Parkway Theater
Pass that chronic (what?) cles of Narnia. $5-$10. 1 p.m. More info here.
Working Girls (1931)
Trylon
A day of “working girls” movies begins with this pre-Code satire about two sisters moving to NYC. Presented by Archives on Screen, Twin Cities. $8. 1 p.m. More info here.
The Working Girls (1974)
Trylon
Three roommates in L.A. work odd jobs while following their dreams. Presented by Archives on Screen, Twin Cities. $8. 2:30 p.m. More info here.
Working Girls (1986)
Trylon
The lives of sex workers in ’80s Manhattan. Presented by Archives on Screen, Twin Cities. $8. 4 p.m. More info here.
Sunday, January 19
Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret. (2023)
Alamo Drafthouse
Kelly Fremon Craig really nailed it. $10. 3 p.m. More info here.
To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar (1995)
Alamo Drafthouse
Patrick Swayze, Wesley Snipes, and John Leguizamo are drag queens. Ah, the '90s. $10. 12 p.m. More info here.
The Goonies (1985)
AMC Rosedale 14/AMC Southdale 16/Emagine Willow Creek/Marcus West End
Your childhood was a lie. Also Monday. $13.57. Showtimes and more info here.
Interstellar (2014)
Emagine Willow Creek
The answer to the equation is… LOVE. Also Monday, Wednesday. $10.60. 1 & 5:30 p.m. More info here.
Celluloid Underground (2023)
Main Cinema
The story of a collector who salvaged banned films in the wake of the Iranian Revolution. Part of the Iranian Film Showcase. $12. 1 p.m. More info here.
Untamed Heart (1993)
Nicollet Island Pavillion
Who knew this Christian Slater/Marisa Tomei weepy was filmed here? Not me! Free. 3 p.m. More info here.
Monday, January 20
Dinner in America (2020)
Alamo Drafthouse
An odd couple on the run! $13.50 7 p.m. More info here.
Troll (1986)
Emagine Willow Creek
The kid’s name in this is Harry Potter. $6. 7:30 p.m. More info here.
WTF! Watch Terrible Films Club
56 Brewing
What terrible film will they inflict on us this month? Free. 7 p.m. More info here.
Star 80 (1983)
Trylon
Eric Roberts could really act once. Also Tuesday. $8. 7 & 9 p.m. More info here.
Wednesday, January 22
The Sacrifice (1986)
Alamo Drafthouse
Tarkovsky does Bergman. $10. 6 p.m. More info here.
Marked Men: Rule + Shaw (2024)
AMC Rosedale 14/AMC Southdale 16/Emagine Willow Creek/Marcus West End
Is this a Fast & Furious spinoff? $16.11. 7 p.m. More info here.
Where Is the Friend’s House (1987)
Trylon
No one directs kids quite like Abbas Kiarostami. Part of the 2025 Mizna Film Series. $10. 7 p.m. More info here.
Opening
Follow the links for showtimes.
The Brutalist
This is one of my favorite social media accounts.
Hard Truths
A new Mike Leigh film is always something to celebrate
Nickel Boys
RaMell Ross’s formally daring adaptation of the Colson Whitehead novel, shot in first-person POV.
One of Them Days
Can SZA act? We shall see.
The Room Next Door
Almodóvar, Tilda Swinton, Julianne Moore—what more do you want?
Wolf Man
Darling this is no joke, this is lycanthropy.
Ongoing in Local Theaters
Follow the links for showtimes.
Anora
From Kitana Kiki Rodriguez’s enraged trans sex worker in Tangerine to Simon Rex’s washed-up porn star in Red Rocket, Sean Baker knows how to let a character loose upon a movie, and Mikey Madison’s Ani may be the most fully realized of Baker’s high-powered, self-deluded survivors. A stripper and occasional escort whose charm and sheer self-determination haven’t failed her yet, she’s eking out a life in Brooklyn’s least glamorous southern reaches. (Sheepshead Bay, Brighton Beach, and Coney Island are captured in all their drab, offseason outer-borough-ness.) Her life changes after a dance for a Russian oligarch’s son parlays into a paid fuck, which in turn goes so well he hires her for an extended stint. Baker captures their whirlwind spree through all forms of excess, ending with a Vegas wedding, as an audiovisual sugar rush that makes Pretty Woman’s shopping montage look like amateur hour. But when Ivan’s parents find out, they sic his handlers on him; he runs off like the spoiled little fuckboy we always knew he was and Ani is left to unleash her rage on the hired muscle as they hunt for him. Madison can be as subtle here as she was on Pamela Adlon’s Better Things and even more furious than she was in Once Upon a Time … in Hollywood before Tarantino thought it’d be a hoot to immolate her with a flamethrower. This decade, we’ve seen plenty of commoners enter the worlds of the wealthy, often ending with fantasies of vengeance. Anora’s trip through the looking glass ends on a far more ambiguous note. A
Babygirl
I know many misguided youth feel deprived that Adrian Lyne’s alleged prime ended before they hit puberty, but take it from grandpa, erotic thrillers were rarely this self-assured in ye olde 20th century. Nicole Kidman is a tautly wound robotics exec who still packs her daughters’ lunches, Harris Dickinson is the intern who sniffs out the need to surrender beneath her hypercompetent sheen. And let’s not forget Antonio Banderas, who ably fills the traditional Anne Archer Hot Spouse role. What writer/director Halina Reijn gets about America’s official contemporary sexual ideology is that while no kink may be shamed—certainly not the fairly tame obedience training Kidman undergoes here—sex with an intern is a taboo we daren’t treat lightly. And what Kidman captures in her performance, especially in the petulance that precedes her submission, is that every kink feels like an unimaginable transgression to the person overcoming her shame. She’s a genuine auteur of self-degradation—truly, no one this side of Isabelle Huppert can match her freak. Yes, it’s “sometimes a bit much,” to quote the quibbles of one AP critic, which is like noting that “there are a lot of songs” in Wicked, but give in to your uncomfortable snickers, even if they emerge as full LOLs. The fun here is never knowing when to be turned on, amused, anxious, or outraged. As for Dickinson, he smolders credibly as Samuel, a kid whose instinct for dominance outpaces his competence or authority, and I promise never again to confuse him with George McKay. A
A Complete Unknown
Timothée Chalamet’s relative success here—he gets that Bob Dylan himself has always been a guy performing as Bob Dylan—is just one reason that James Mangold’s new biopic is so relatively un-embarrassing. The source material also helps: Elijah Wald’s Dylan Goes Electric! is a thoroughly researched and reported account of Newport ’65 that’s preceded by an even-handed evaluation of what was at stake. Wald represents the ethos of the folk scene with a respect that rockist triumphalists could never see past their ingrained generational narratives to allow, and the film’s climax, Dylan’s amplified defiance of the Newport folkies, doesn’t feel as triumphant as we might expect. Dylan comes off less as a genius coming into his own than a cornered, confused guy lashing out at whoever comes closest; when his pal Bobby Neuwirth asks him point blank who he wants to be, it’s hard not hear a hollowness in the defiance of Dylan's reply: “Whoever they don’t want me to be.” When he returns to visit Woody Guthrie one last time after Newport, reflecting on what he’s done and lost, Bobby Zimmerman is now as completely Bob Dylan as Anakin Skywalker is Darth Vader at the end of Revenge of the Sith. How does it feel? Not great, Bob. Read our full review here. B
The Count of Monte Cristo
France’s highest grossing film of 2024 distills 1,200 pages of Dumas père down to a brisk three-hour romp through 19th century France with impressive economy and clarity. At no point during Matthieu Delaporte and Alexandre de La Patellière’s adaptation do you wonder “That must have made more sense in the book” or “Why did they leave that in?” or really anything besides “What next?” The first half feels a bit rushed—the movie's gotta get framed innocent Edmond Dantès in and out of prison ASAP so he can seek his revenge as the mysterious count. And that's where the film settles down and the fun kicks it. Still, the characterizations could be bolder—Pierre Niney’s Edmond just kinda feels like some guy who does stuff rather than a wronged hero who's corrupted by his life-changing decision. And the filmmakers could showcase pivotal moments more dramatically, so that the pacing isn’t just a continual onward rush. And all this could've been done without sacrificing narrative efficiency. Those are the kind of decision that could make a film great rather than impressive. B
Gladiator II
Gladiator worked as well as it did (which might not be quite as well as you remember) because Ridley Scott stocked his swords ‘n’ sandals rehash with hams who knew how to spout nonsense about "the dream of Marcus Aurelius" and "the glory of Rome" as though it were meaningful, nay crucial. And this sequel is almost worth seeing solely for Denzel Washington, who accepts his role as a challenge, supercharging the eccentric cadences that made his Macbeth a darkly comic curiosity a couple years back—his “I own … your house. I want … your loyalty” may be the line reading of the year. As the wily former slave Macrinus, Washington traipses, flounces, pounces, smirks, exclaims, and keenly outwits his dim foes. Close your eyes and he could be playing an evil Disney tiger. But poor Paul Mescal looks as out of place as a puppy at a Senate budget hearing. He’s surely swole enough as the son of Crowe’s Maximus (and a rightful heir to the imperial throne) to credibly wallop challengers in the arena, whether corporeal or poorly animated. But we all know Paulie’s a weeper not a fighter. Every generation needs its moody dreamboat, and Aftersun and Normal People made Mescal that nontoxic totem. As for the combat scenes, if the first Gladiator challenged Scott to revamp a genre for modern audiences, all his sequel can offer is more. Read our full review here. C+
The Last Showgirl
Gia Coppola’s determination to reward Pamela Anderson with a star turn is as phony as a rhinestone. The camera lingering on that unmade up 57-year-old face, the low-res shots of Anderson against the backdrop of the Strip set to the whooshes of ambient soundtrackcore, that persistent and deliberate deglamorization of everything the camera sees—Coppola hauls out every nu-showbiz trick there is to signify “reality” in this film about a Vegas lifer being put out to pasture. And yet, line by line, Kate Gersten’s script pops, and everyone here does it justice: Dave Bautista as the show’s vulnerably gruff producer, Jamie Lee Curtis as a weathered dancer-turned-cocktail-waitress, bitchy Brenda Song and sweet Kiernan Shipka as younger dancers, and yes, Anderson as the chirpy Shelly, struggling to reorient herself as life undermines her cherished identity as a showgirl. But oy, the plot. Of course Shelly has an estranged daughter (Billie Lourd, doing what she can). Of course Shelly’s audition for a new gig doesn’t go as planned. Of course Curtis gets a “supporting actress” moment of her own, set to a blaringly obvious song choice. If it’s endearingly gentle of The Last Showgirl to refuses to fully puncture Shelly’s illusions, its pulled punches are also unfair to her, to us, and to Anderson, who should be given a character to act, rather than a routine to perform. B
Nosferatu
Who needs a vampire to drain the life from a town when you’ve got Robert Eggers directing? Wisborg, the German community that Count Orloc (Bill Skarsgård) will eventually infest with plague, is so gloomy at the start of Eggers's take on the Dracula story that the fiend has hardly got any work to do. And the wan woman Orloc is drawn to (Lily Rose-Depp) already endures joyless orgasmic gasps and speaks in trite Emily Dickinson first drafts. Like any well-prepared corpse, Nosferatu can be striking, even beautiful, in its airless, stylized way. For the German scenes, Eggers favors a blue filter familiar to admirers of The Piano or the first Twilight movie, and some of his fussily framed shots do rise to a Barry Lyndon quality—no mean feat. Orloc’s castle is a black-on-black-on-black realm of shadows within shadows, a daring and somewhat frustrating design for those of us who like to occasionally see what we’re looking at. Willem Dafoe’s mad, chaotic Prof. Albin Eberhart Von—ah fuck it, I’m just gonna call him Van Helsing—brings a mad touch of chaos to the proceedings, but much of Nosferatu advances with the grim inevitability of a fairy tale. Skarsgård’s Orloc, a hulking, shadowy beast with the bristly mustache of an ancient warlord and a booming, electronically modulated voice, is a beastly embodiment of menace, a dark force awakened. But without pathos or malice, he’s just acting on instinct. Turns out pure evil can be almost as boring as pure good. B-
Sing Sing
From trailers (I know!) I mistook this worthy project for pure Colman Domingo Oscar-bait (which wouldn’t exactly make it unworthy). In fact, Domingo’s production company centers this film on the Sing Sing Correctional Facility’s real-life Rehabilitation Through the Arts theater program, and most of the cast are formerly incarcerated RTA alums. Domingo is Divine G, a stalwart of the RTA’s productions who’s certain he’ll be sprung after his next parole board hearing. His clashes with a tough newcomer to the program (an incredibly charismatic Clarence "Divine Eye" Maclin) to form the dramatic backbone here. Even if you’re a bit leery of art as therapy, watching these men learn to communicate emotionally with one another is moving, and their faces are made for the screen. (Will we ever have enough decent film dramas for all the great unsung Black actors out there?) But Domingo hits some off notes. He remains too commanding a presence (the bass notes in his voice make me want to watch his films in Dolby) to blend in with the ensemble, and while I wouldn’t say he turns in a bad performance, his moments do feel the least authentic. Almost like he’s angling for an Oscar. B
Wicked
Thinkpieces are surely in the works about how Wicked, the story of a good woman who is cast as an enemy of the people by authoritarians using fiendishly disseminated lies, is a perfect Trump era fable (just as it was a perfect Bush era fable two decades ago). But maybe the best topical lesson that Wicked offers is that villains are often more entertaining than heroes. If anything, Cynthia Erivo has too much screen presence for her already underwritten part, and her almost-adult dignity undermines her character arc. Her Elphaba (a.k.a. the Wicked Witch of the West) is no ingénue misled by foolish dreams, and seems incapable of humiliation. Meanwhile, Glinda is a dream of a role that Ariana Grande floats through with perfect timing, flaunting her shallow vanity, scene-stealing blonde hair tosses, and comically sudden upshoots into her showy soprano. And while I’ll take songwriter Stephen Schwartz’s generically inspirational pop over the wan schlock of the dreaded Pasek and Paul, I have seen better movie musicals set in Oz. Read our full review here. B
