Ashley Bratcher displays realistic, suitable restraint and persuasive agony as Abby Johnson, a Planned Parenthood director (and real-life person).  We miss her, in the faith-based Unplanned (2019), every time she is not on screen.

Whatever moral merit exists in Planned Parenthood—and filmmakers Chuck Konzelman and Cary Solomon do not believe there is very much—the movie is hot and bothered that bloody abortions are taking place in P.P.’s private rooms; and well it should be.  Abby herself has had two abortions and scarcely cares that her Christian parents and her husband are offended by her director job.  However, P.P.’s garbage, its evildoing, becomes too much for her.  She actually seeks help from anti-abortion protesters.

Unplanned is a powerful film until its last twenty to twenty-five minutes.  Then its artistry starts failing.  There is not enough build-up to Abby’s decision to leave Planned Parenthood, and the script begins to propagandize for the pro-life movement.  The movie ends up being less successful than Gosnell.  But for a long time that artistry is there.  And Bratcher’s performance is there.  Final word:  However much Pure Flix recoils from it, the movie’s R rating is justified.

Saturday Afternoon (1926), a silent Harry Langdon flick, is a little over 26 minutes long and un-tediously endearing.  Langdon plays a mild-mannered gent married to a shrew (Alice Ward), probably because of which he agrees to join his portly pal (Vernon Dent) for an afternoon tryst with two lovely dames.  Suspense builds as he tries to avoid his wife’s suspicions and animosity, but it’s not as though we actually sympathize with Harry:  he’s a milksop who, inarguably, should have told the dames he is married.  He also gets stupid with two other freewheeling young women and a brick he is holding.  So it’s Harry, warts and all, and he soon takes a necessarily rough ride.

Competently directed by Harry Edwards, the film is funny without being too much, and Langdon is marvelous with his committed acting and man-child face and body activity.  The other actors are good too.  The best thing about the short script is its unpredictability.

Maybe, just maybe, Saturday Afternoon is art.

Saturday Afternoon (1926), a silent Harry Langdon flick, is a little over 26 minutes long and un-tediously endearing.  Langdon plays a mild-mannered gent married to a shrew (Alice Ward), probably because of which he agrees to join his portly pal (Vernon Dent) for an afternoon tryst with two lovely dames.  Suspense builds as he tries to avoid his wife’s suspicions and animosity, but it’s not as though we actually sympathize with Harry:  he’s a milksop who, inarguably, should have told the dames he is married.  He also gets stupid with two other freewheeling young women and a brick he is holding.  So it’s Harry, warts and all, and he soon takes a necessarily rough ride.

Competently directed by Harry Edwards, the film is funny without being too much, and Langdon is marvelous with his committed acting and man-child face and body activity.  The other actors are good too.  The best thing about the short script is its unpredictability.

Maybe, just maybe, Saturday Afternoon is art.

I haven’t been seeing very many current movies, and this even includes The Death of Stalin.  But I did read the graphic novel, The Death of Stalin (2017), by writer Fabien Nura and artist Thierry Robin—it “inspired” the making of the movie—and I enjoyed it.  The pictures are stark and tough-minded, the writing is magnetic.

The monstrous Stalin dies early on.  The monstrous Lavrentiy Beria is first shown raping a hapless girl (for a rapist he was), and it isn’t long before we see just how contemptuous of Stalin the barbarous official is.  After the big guy dies, Beria schemes.  Depicted here is a cold hell, a bleak, loveless, secular domain where violence can be employed at any time and self-seeking dominates.  When criminals are in power is the book’s theme, and it’s virtually relevant for the situation in socialist Venezuela when Madura blocks foreign aid from reaching his distressed people.  I repeat:  socialist Venezuela.

A Catholic nun-to-be, Ida (Agata Trzebuchowska), learns that she is Jewish and that her parents were murdered in an anti-Semitic Poland during WWII.  The person who discloses this information is Ida’s aunt (Agata Kulesza), a disillusioned former state prosecutor for the Polish commies. . . This is all I wish to say about the plot of the well-received Ida (2014) since so many reviewers have already described it, so I will go on to pronounce it a solid work of art about which Peter Rainer is absolutely right in his view that the film is “about the spiritual agonies of postwar Poland.”

What’s more, it exhibits how people respond to the fragility of their own lives in a place like postwar Poland:  Ida, after all, is quietly rattled by what she learns.  Patently, there are good responses and bad responses.

Pawel Pawlikowsky, the man who directed the annoying (to me) and ignorant My Summer of Love, has acquitted himself nicely with Ida, a film of black-and-white pictorial benefits.  I mean shots such as that of Ida standing in a circular, below-the-ground spot for which the clergy surely have a name and telling a statue of Jesus situated there that she’s not yet ready to take her vows.  Or the one where, at a fork in the road, she kneels and prays before a station of the cross while her aunt waits beside her car and smokes.  With images like these, the movie cannot escape providing at least hints of depth and significance.

(In Polish with English subtitles)

English: Agata Kulesza – a Polish actress. Busko-Zdrój, 30.06.2010 r. Polski: Agata Kulesza – polska aktorka na planie “Ojca Mateusza”. Busko-Zdrój, 30.06.2010 r. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)