Film Buffa: Reviews of ‘American Fiction’, ‘Saltburn’, ‘Bye Bye Barry’, and a few words about Tom Wilkinson

Let’s talk movies, and remember a great actor.

The movie release schedule gets wacky this time of year, as one weary calendar hands off the keys to a fresh set of 12. Movies that film critics have been in touch with for weeks are finally hitting Midwest audiences. Films like American Fiction, which started playing in St. Louis theaters this weekend.

Brilliantly written and intimately directed by Cord Jefferson, the plot revolves around Thelonius “Monk” Nelson, a novelist who finds his go-for-broke book to be rejected while other “lesser” products find publishers and notoriety. This wouldn’t bother Monk if it weren’t for the clear fact that the masses are consuming stories that are built on half-baked stereotypes and not the truth about African American culture. So, he decides to join the resistance and publish the kind of below belt commentary that the masses seem to prefer. Family history and reap-what-you-sow shenanigans soon follow.

After decades of stealing scenes from the movie star, the gifted Wright assumes the top spot in a sly way of fact and fiction meeting with the role of Monk. Armed with the #1 spot on the call sheet, he adds the usual potent blend of grace and stalwartness portraying an old lion in a new literary arena. He’s also a guy whose mother (Leslie Uggams) had just been diagnosed with a life altering disease, and is clashing with a younger brother (Sterling K. Brown) who lacks commitment in many parts of his life.

“You can’t intrude; you’re family.”

The female firepower in American Fiction is ironclad. Myra Lucretia Taylor owns one of the best lines of the movie listed above, and Erika Alexander, Issa Rae, and Tracee Ellis Ross radiate. Brown adds a layer of bracing cynical weariness that can produce deft humor. He’s award worthy.

Jefferson’s says a lot while resisting the urge to preach, allowing one of the year’s best screenplays to speak for itself. It’s a great film.

Saltburn isn’t a great film, but it’s an ambitious feature from the always aspiring Emerald Fennell. Barry Keoghan’s Oxford student follows a boy crush (campus ladies magnet Jacob Elordi) to his family estate, where the young rags to riches lad can slowly infiltrate a powerful but highly flawed family. Approaching this one like a wicked dark comedy carrying a high WTF reading is the best way to appreciate what Fennell is going after.

Saltburn is more raw and erratic but just as curious and watchable about the human species as her last (and much better) feature, Promising Young Woman. Rosamund Pike, Richard E. Grant, and Carey Mulligan all master the art of portraying a human form of delirious salt. As bodies fall in mysterious ways, you’ll find it hard to look away. Watching this movie is like watching a Mazda slowly take out a bunch of shiny Maseratis.

Just don’t expect to love all of it, but I’m sure this piece of dirty will become a lot of cinephile’s fancy. I may have admired it all more than adoring it, but I’ll be in line for Emerald’s next.

Millions of NFL fans would stand in line to watch Barry Sanders line up behind center again in Motor City blue, waiting to see magic. Some de-aging and supreme conditioning would be necessary, but they would come. I’d imagine you could fill a couple football stadiums worth of Lions fans if Sanders agreed to sit down and tell them and the world why he suddenly quit playing in the prime of his career decades ago.

They made a documentary instead. “They” being co-directors Paul Monusky, Micaela Powers, and Angela Torma. Amazon Prime’s 83 minute film details the humble beginning, legendary heights, and peculiar end to Sanders’ football career.

Without completely spoiling his very normal reasons for stepping away, I can tell you the reality isn’t mind blowing. Fans of former NHL defenseman Dustin Byfuglien will get it. Sometimes, there is no hardcore reason for a choice. It isn’t a solitary factor, but a combination of reasons. If you don’t absolutely love what a job is doing to your body and potentially the mind as well, stopping before the train catches you on the tracks is a wise move.

But don’t watch it like a sports conspiracy detective; watch it for Barry. Watch it to relive that elite brand of greatness at a tough position. If anything about Sanders is solitary, it was his talent. Standing shorter than the chests of his linemen and low enough to fool a linebacker in stride, he fleeced many defensive units with a quickness and burst they’d hadn’t seen since Walter Payton. So many defensive coordinators lost their minds and jobs over trying to stop Sanders.

That’s a legendary run even without a nice, tidy end to the dominance. Would you have rather see him play out his final days like Willie Mays, displaying only a fraction of his original talent? It’s funny how we demand so much of players while forgetting they’re actual human beings.

Sanders went out his way, quiet and stoic. He went out on top. Tune into Bye, Bye Barry to witness the soulful portrayal of the relationship between the player and his outspoken father. Papa Sanders was his inspiration, his PR rep, agent, and coach all in one entity. Near the end of the movie, Barry is sitting at a lunch table fielding the tough questions, from his own sons. It’s a good scene and wrap to a revealing documentary.

I don’t think we all had to think too hard about why Sanders retired. Why does anyone decide to retire? Seeing how on top he still is provides a refreshing closure to the semi-mystery.

Tom Wilkinson’s talent was no mystery. The always dynamite screen presence died suddenly Saturday at the age of 75, which broke a levee of support and reflection on his fine career as an actor. He could play a crime boss menace, construction foreman breaking into nude dance, a lawyer who has either gone mad or found his conscience; all of it was sincere and driven.

If there was a single moment or scene that personified his talent and wicked ability to see scenes from the movie’s star, Michael Clayton is hard to top. Wilkinson’s top rate attorney is helping a law firm bury a very real case from a small town whose water was contaminated when suddenly he flips out and changes teams, going on the offensive against his own employers. George Clooney’s fixer is brought in to wrangle him in, leading to a tense final scene between the two in a New York alley.

Knowing Clooney’s Clayton turned in his lawyer pinstripes for bagman clothes a long time ago, Wilkinson’s Arthur reminds him that a head on duel isn’t a wise card to play. What follows is masterful, and it’s for both actors bringing it. Tom had more heat on this fastball though.

Everything Wilkinson touched turned to gold, no matter the amount of screen time given or humanity left in the character. He may be gone, but all of his work remains for us to plunder our souls with.

That’s the great thing about words and creators. The people who make and play them come and go, but the end product remains for us to remember how good they were.

I think that’s enough for tonight. Time for some steak and Reacher.

Photo Credits: Focus Features, Amazon Studios, Warner Brothers Entertainment Group.