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‘Four Mothers’ Review: James McArdle Delights in a Toasty-Warm Irish Mother-Son Comedy

Guy Lodge Film Critic That the mother-son film movie remains, for some reason, the least-covered quadrant when it comes to parent-child relationships on screen may say something about patriarchal bias in the industry — though the best examples say plenty themselves about how men are raised and made. A modestly framed domestic comedy with surprising reserves of wisdom and sadness, Darren Thornton‘s thoroughly disarming sophomore feature “Four Mothers” earns itself a place in the mother-son pantheon only a few minutes in, as mild-mannered writer Edward (James McArdle) helps his disabled mother Alma (Fionnula Flanagan) select and put on an outfit for the day, drily hamming up the routine to distract from the pain of her dependency.
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‘Nimona’ Review: Pink Hair, Punk Spirit and a Formula-Thrashing Story Set This Rebel Toon Apart
Peter Debruge Chief Film Critic Once upon a time, animated movies made it easy to tell the heroes apart from the villains. Now, the trend is for princesses to remain happily unmarried (“Frozen”), for kids to know better than their elders (“Encanto”) and for monsters to be revealed as misunderstood allies (“Luca”). For a while, those twists on the Disney fairy-tale formula felt surprising to audiences, aligning nicely with where the cultural conversation was headed. Through repetition, however, such enlightenment has become its own cliché. Enter Nimona, who brings a fresh dose of attitude to such inclusive messaging. She’s a monster, but doesn’t like to be called that. (And who can blame her?) Apparently the only one of her kind in a fictional kingdom where medieval customs and flying cars aren’t mutually exclusive, Nimona is capable of shape-shifting into practically any species — be it a shark, a rhinoceros or a ginormous dragon — though her hot pink hair/fur/skin makes it kind of hard to blend in. When she first appears in the rowdy Netflix animated feature that bears her name, Nimona is sporting a pixie-punk haircut, piercings and an insatiable desire to do maximum damage to the society that’s been demonizing her for roughly a millennium. She is not what anyone would call a good girl, and that makes her a far more interesting character than practically any princess.
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‘Rock Hudson: All That Heaven Allowed’ Review: Doc Twists Classic Clips to Illuminate Closeted Star’s Private Life
Peter Debruge Chief Film Critic During his lifetime, Rock Hudson was a model for American masculinity. That changed after his death, when the strapping, straight-acting (but occasionally sensitive) hunk from Winnetka became the poster boy for Hollywood homophobia: a closeted star who’d been forced to play a role his entire career that wasn’t true to himself, on screen and off. “Rock Hudson: All That Heaven Allowed” treats that compromise as a tragedy, leaning on the fact Hudson died of AIDS to underscore the injustice, but Stephen Kijak’s documentary does him a disservice, reducing Hudson’s career — in exactly the way he went so far out of his way to avoid — to the dimension of his sexuality. Built around interviews with a handful of former lovers and friends, Kijak spills private details from Hudson’s personal life, ranging from whom he shagged to how he arranged such trysts in the first place. A secretly recorded phone call reveals Hudson to be a “size queen,” audibly excited by the prospect of meeting a tall, well-endowed stranger. The whopper — which underscores the kind of salacious gossip Kijak gravitates toward in the film — comes from Joe Carberry, who recalls, “Rock had a sizable dick, but he tried to put that thing up my ass, and I couldn’t do it.”
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