The implications of the papal conclave are fascinating and bizarre. After the death of a pope, cardinals sequester in the Sistine Chapel where they vote on his replacement. Since Catholic dogma says the pope is essentially a conduit for God, there is a spiritual component to a fundamentally political process. What does this mean for those who vote for the wrong man? Is God steering them in the wrong direction? What about those who align with the majority? Is their preference an extension of God’s will? Conclave, the new political thriller about this peculiar election, mostly sidesteps the divine implications and instead focuses on the human drama of warring factions in Catholicism. Strong performances and a tight screenplay make this an absorbing exercise, the kind of film that keeps our attention in the moment, but the impression isn’t lasting.

Director Edward Berger, fresh off his Oscar from his 2022 adaptation of All Quiet on the Western Front, mostly dials back his penchant for bombast. These cardinals speak in whispers—the illusion of power and inevitability is lost when everyone knows your carefully guarded strategy. Our guidepost character is Lawrence (Ralph Fiennes), the cardinal managing the conclave after the death of a beloved pope. Like any political figurehead, this pope had his share of allies and enemies: We learn through Lawrence and his friend Bellini (Stanley Tucci) that the dead pope was a liberal reformer, and Bellini wants to stop his personal rival—the conservative reactionary Tedesco (Sergio Castellitto)—from getting the papacy. As votes and sequestration get underway, we get a sense of Lawrence’s burden: Many cardinals have a secret, like all powerful men must, and he has no choice but to keep them to himself.

Berger’s direction follows the example of the conclave, keeping the drama hermetically sealed within the walls of the Vatican. There are no cuts to an eager public gathering in St. Peter’s Square, and during the rare shots of characters wandering Rome, the streets are empty. Not only does this imbue Conclave with the trappings of a locked room mystery (pun intended), it further suggests the cardinals are out of touch, uncaring to the public, and more in tune with their own grievances. Our only sense of the wider world is through the speeches the cardinals make: In maybe the film’s most intriguing scene, Lawrence argues the case for doubt and humility, implying that any leader must be humbled by a higher calling. With the exception of Castellitto’s flamboyance, all the performances are understated, though in this moment Fiennes has a depth of feeling that seems to elude his colleagues. This is a scene moment because it makes him a sympathetic hero, a nervous man trying to make sense of an extremely complicated situation.

Screenwriter Peter Straughan shrewdly mixes the sources of those complications. Some are obvious, like an outburst that torpedoes the chances of an early frontrunner, while others are just below the surface of the action. Together with Berger, Straughan keeps some of these secrets in plain view, while other characters—such as Lawrence’s right-hand man (Brían F. O’Byrne)—drop heaps of exposition in lulls between each vote. This mix of melodrama and procedural detail is effective and refreshingly old-fashioned: Berger largely trusts that the intrigue is enough to sustain his audience’s attention, even during long periods that unfold in silence. That said, Berger’s penchant bombast can be found in the score by Volker Bertelmann, a refrain of severe-sounding strings that underline scenes already oozing with tension. Maybe it is because of the frequent silences, but parts of Conclave—even when characters are whispering—seem quite loud.

The application of sound and silence comes to a head during the climax, a shocking moment when the outside world crashes into the proceedings. It is a powerful metaphor for the Church’s broader responsibility, and their slow desire to meet it. Afterward, Conclave shifts subtly from a political to a legal thriller. Once again, Berger’s direction is most effective when he stands back and lets his actors chew the scenery. John Lithgow plays Tremblay, a cardinal whose performative humility hides deep ambition, and his dual nature reveals itself in a scene where finally he explodes. (Lithgow opts for a callow performance that once again demonstrates he is always a good sport.) But as the film winds down, the key performance comes from Carlos Diehz, who plays the mysterious Benitez. An outsider to petty squabbles, Benitez serves as a metaphor for the church’s loftier ideals and Diehz’s calm performance is a welcome contrast to everyone else’s bluster.

Like the Thomas Harris novel it’s based on, Conclave elects a new pope and, in doing so, forces us to reconsider everything that happens in the film, and what it means to serve as God’s conduit. Conclave is an agnostic, secular film; it’s unclear whether Berger and his collaborators are religious, but they are sensitive to the Church’s political influence. That approach may frustrate pious viewers, but small moments and plot threads leave enough wiggle room for deeper spiritual implications. 

We’re left thinking that the papal selection process is a mess because it is run by flawed, powerful men, while women, like the frustrated Sister Agnes (Isabella Rossellini), must remain on the sidelines. Anything that champions equality, however incremental and unlikely, might just be godlike because entitlement and power alone are no basis for leadership. Lawrence feels that in the beginning of the film, and by the end, so do we.

Conclave opens in theaters on Oct. 25 in area theaters.

Superhero movies were at the peak of their popularity when Joker first hit theaters in 2019. It arrived months after Avengers: Endgame became a box office megahit, and for fans worldwide, co-writer and director Todd Phillips’ origin story for Batman’s primary adversary represented the genre’s potential to be taken seriously. Although Joker borrowed heavily from two Martin Scorsese films, Taxi Driver and The King of Comedy, the fans got their wish. It made more than $1 billion, and earned multiple Academy Awards, including Best Actor for Joaquin Phoenix’s sinewy, tortured portrayal of Arthur Fleck and his alter ego, a psychopath in clown makeup.

Five years later, and the sequel, Joker: Folie à Deux, arrives at a time when the popularity of superhero movies has waned. Yes, there are still hits like Deadpool & Wolverine, but Marvel is not the juggernaut it once was, and the crossover between movies and TV has diminished overall interest in superhero franchises, to the point where watching the latest entry can feel like a chore. Absent the goodwill of half a decade ago and nearly wringing the genre of any new ideas, Phillips takes a daring gambit with his sequel: It’s a musical co-starring Lady Gaga, one that attempts to litigate the Joker legacy, both literally and by provoking the audience. On paper, no one can say Phillips is playing it safe, and yet Folie à Deux lacks any new insight about Joker’s character or his legacy, and the musical flourishes never quite stir the imagination. It is worse than bad—it is boring.

Phillips and co-screenwriter Scott Silver set the majority of the film in two drab settings. After being caught by the cops, a depressed Arthur aka Joker (Phoenix) stews in Arkham Asylum, awaiting trial for his murder spree, one that culminated with shooting a late-night talk show host on live TV. Before the trial gets underway, Arthur meets Lee (Gaga), a fellow patient in the minimum security wing. She is obsessed with him, seemingly becoming his lover and accomplice overnight, and the attention inspires Arthur to ditch his medication and take a more active role in his trial—the film’s second drab setting—while his desperate and angry fans gather outside. By the time Arthur ditches his defense attorney (Catherine Keener) and makes a mockery of the courtroom, Lee adopts the Harley Quinn persona and serves as Joker’s biggest cheerleader.

What is strange, even distracting, is Arthur’s passive role in his own story. Phoenix dials back his sinister charisma in Folie à Deux, leading to long stretches that make us wonder whether he will assert himself: In the world of Joker, asserting oneself is synonymous with violence. But save for a handful of musical fantasy sequences that take place in Arthur’s mind, he declines to harm anyone in this film, letting his acolytes act on his behalf. While it is an interesting choice, one that should get the audience to ask why Joker appeals to their biggest fans, a protagonist without much inertia or self-determination can be—and is here—tedious to watch. Instead there are scenes where ordinary people, whether they are prison guards or prosecutors, regard Arthur with more amusement than terror—a strange choice for a film ostensibly about arguably the most beloved, deranged villain in all of popular culture.

The musical elements are the primary reprieve from the halfhearted narrative, and even then they unfold lifelessly. Phillips and Silver opt for a jukebox musical approach, one that includes popular songs like the Carpenters’ “(They Long to Be) Close to You” and lesser known tunes like Daniel Johnston’s “True Love Will Find You in the End,” but the performances here are oddly anemic. Even in the musical fantasy where Arthur and Lee sing and dance, they still move and sound like their characters, barely using the full expression of their instruments.

Put another way, Folie à Deux casts Lady Gaga—one of the most exciting pop stars of our time—then declines to let her character belt out a showstopper. In fact, most of the songs are sung by Phoenix, who can carry tune but lacks Gaga’s expressiveness. Strange choices notwithstanding, Phillips and Silver are vague about the interiority of their characters, so only a few of the musical numbers illuminate or embellish their precise feelings. Some songs are staged in interesting ways, a callback to the splashy musicals of Hollywood’s golden age, yet Phillips fails to do much more than copy the past and slap some makeup on his antiheroes.

After Arthur sleepwalks through prison and most of his trial, there’s a glimmer of hope when he humiliates his attorney and decides to represent himself. Courtroom dramas are inherently exciting, and maybe his twisted self-aggrandizement will turn the trial on its head, right? Any feeling of excitement is short-lived because Arthur, now embracing his identity as Joker, declines to undermine the institutions that the courtroom represents. The trial ends abruptly, leaving the characters to wander through a chaotic situation they don’t understand and that Phillips declines to explain. Once we get past the provocation of a musical, Joker: Folie à Deux is timid to a fault, a film that hides its lack of conviction and ideas in a conceit it half-heartedly explores. The last image should leave an impression—it could feel like closure or leave room for a third film. It does neither. And no matter Arthur’s fate, Phillips has made it difficult for anyone, even the longtime fans of the character, to care either way.  

Joker: Folie à Deux (R, 138 minutes) opens in theaters on Oct. 4.

Washington may fall well short of New York’s sprawling repertory and festival scene. But one major advantage of the DMV is that, in addition to the commercial screenings at AFI Silver Theatre and Cultural Center (a venue that beats any in Manhattan for style and screen size), you can supplement your continuing film education with the free screenings at the local museums’ always intriguing programs. Here are just a handful of the already announced screenings coming to a rep house or museum near you this fall. —Pat Padua

The Latin American Film Fest at AFI Silver starts on Sept. 19

Every year, AFI Silver has multiple festivals that highlight cinema from all over the world. Now that the theater has announced its full lineup for 2024s LAFF, we can see this year promises to be special, with several U.S. premieres such as the tense thriller Ellipsis and the coming-of-age comedy Greice. The Latin American Film Festival runs from Sept. 19 through Oct. 10 at AFI Silver, 8633 Colesville Rd., Silver Spring. $15–$200. —Alan Zilberman

To help readers pick and choose what films to see, Josh Gardner, AFI’s associate film programmer and public relations manager, shared his top five films screening at this year’s fest:

1. In the Summers, the feature film debut from Alessandra Lacorazza, won the U.S. Dramatic Grand Jury Prize and Directing Award at this year’s Sundance Film Festival; screens at 3:20 p.m. on Sept. 22.
2. Gaucho Gaucho, a documentary from Michael Dweck and Gregory Kershaw, screens at 2:10 p.m. on Sept. 28 and 8:45 p.m. on Oct. 1.
3. Mexico 86, a  political thriller from filmmaker César Díaz, who was inspired by his own mother’s guerrilla activities; screens at 7 p.m. on Sept. 28 and Oct. 3.
4. Sleep With Your Eyes Open from German filmmaker Nele Wohlatz; screens at 5:15 p.m. on Oct. 6 and 9:20 p.m. on Oct. 9. 
5. You Burn Me from acclaimed Argentine filmmaker Matías Piñeiro; screens at 3:45 p.m. on Oct. 6. 

Double Suicide in 35mm at the Freer on Oct. 9

If the National Museum of Asian Art’s spooky exhibit Staging the Supernatural leaves you hankering for more, then join them when they turn out the lights for a 35mm print screening of Masahiro Shinoda’s 1969 dramatic thriller. Double Suicide is an adaptation of a Bunraku puppet play. Like much of the Japanese cinema of the late ’60s, this creepy, sexy thriller fuses traditional forms with the kind of modern sensibility frequently telegraphed by Toru Takemitsu, who composed the score. The film screens at 2 p.m. at Freer Gallery of Art’s Meyer Auditorium, 1050 Independence Ave. SW. Free, but register in advance. —Pat Padua

Nosferatu the Vampyre at Alamo Drafthouse on Oct. 9

Robert Eggers will modernize this silent horror classic for today’s audiences this holiday season, but Werner Herzog’s 1979 take on Nosferatu is stunning in its own right. Come for the rich atmosphere, and stay for Klaus Kinski’s singular take on the repulsive, beguiling horror legend. The film screening starts at 7:30 p.m. at the Alamo Drafthouse, 630 Rhode Island Ave. NE. $11. —A.Z.

Those Who Dance at the Library of Congress on Oct. 10 

This rarely screened 1930 crime drama is loosely based on the real story of a Los Angeles cop who went undercover to build a case against the mob figure who killed his brother. Director William Beaudine cast bit parts by comparing actors’ headshots with mugshots from L.A. Police Department. The Laurel and Hardy short “Blotto” will also play at this screening. [Editor’s Note: Pat Padua works at the Library of Congress but did not program this film.] The film screens at 7 p.m. at the Mary Pickford Theater in the Library’s James Madison Building, 101 Independence Ave. SE. Free. —P.P.

Noir City D.C. at AFI Silver runs Oct. 11 through 24

It was a cool fall night when you grumbled to yourself, “I like my movies like I like my eggs: hard-boiled and salty.” AFI Silver continues its annual film noir festival with host Eddie Muller. The noir film fest runs from Oct. 11 through 24 at AFI Silver, 8633 Colesville Rd., Silver Spring. $18-$200. —A.Z.

Noir City’s Opening Double Feature: Le Samourai and This Gun for Hire at AFI Silver on Oct. 11

This year’s noir festival aptly begins with an homage to the late Alain Delon, who died on Aug. 18 at the age of 88 at his home in France. Delon’s cold-blooded assassin in Jean-Pierre Melville’s 1967 drama, Le Samourai, puts a samurai-like twist on the typical contract killer. The film, of course, also serves a generous dash of 1960s alienation. Le Samourai shares a double bill with This Gun for Hire, the classic 1942 vehicle for Veronica Lake and Alan Ladd as a surprisingly modern couple. The double feature with an introduction by Muller, host of TCM’s Noir Alley, starts at 2:45 p.m. at AFI Silver, 8633 Colesville Rd., Silver Spring. $18. —P.P.

Early Color Cinema and Impressionism at the National Gallery of Art on Oct. 19

With live musical accompaniment by pianist Andrew Simpson, this is the first in the series Color, Cinema, and the Impressionist Moment, held in conjunction with the gallery’s current exhibit Paris 1874: The Impressionist Moment. Joshua Yumibe, a professor of film and media studies at Michigan State University, will introduce the films of 1890s cinema, some of which were “hand-colored, frame by frame, often illuminating [women] dancers moving in a rainbow of hues,” according to NGA. The screening starts at 2 p.m. at the National Gallery of Art’s East Building, 4th St. and Pennsylvania Ave. NW. Free. —P.P.

Count Gore De Vol presents The Texas Chainsaw Massacre at AFI on Oct. 26

Along with Night of the Living Dead, Tobe Hopper’s 1974 chestnut is one of the standard bearers of low-budget horror, and remarkably, it hasn’t lost an iota of its chill factor in the half century since its release. Can host Dick Dyszel’s amiable showmanship cool down the feeling of existential dread that oozes from its now digitized pores? Or does an audience screening, no matter how convivial, only add to the sense that the human race is doomed? The screening starts at 7 p.m. at AFI Silver, 8633 Colesville Rd., Silver Spring. $15. —P.P.

Go at E Street Cinema on Oct. 29

I’m willing to go out on a limb and say that 1999 was the best year in recent film history. Go, starring Sarah Polley (long before her Women Talking Oscar win), Katie Holmes in her Dawson’s Creek era, Taye Diggs, and Timothy Olyphant, is a long-slept-on adventure/buddy/crime comedy about a Christmastime drug deal gone wrong. Told from the perspective of several characters, you’ll get rave scenes, car chases, Breakfast Club references, a killer soundtrack, and even a talking cat. It’s fun, chaotic, and an oddly poignant capturing of life on the brink of Y2K. The screening starts at 7 p.m. on Oct. 29 at E Street Cinema, 555 11th St. NW. $6.25. —Sarah Marloff

Psycho at Angelika Pop-Up opens Oct. 30

Alfred Hitchcock falls on the list of despicable men, but I’ll shout out Psycho for ushering in a new wave of horror films. Despite being 64 years old, Janet Leigh’s shower scene remains one of the most unnerving moments in film history and Norman Bates still gets under your skin in the creepiest ways. The screenings start on Oct. 30 and run through Nov. 5 at Angelika Pop-Up, 550 Penn St. NE. $14. —S.M.

Psalmayene 24, known as Psalm to his collaborators, is arguably the most exciting theater director in the D.C. area. Over the past few years, his productions have focused on the Black experience in innovative new ways. This spring, his take on Mary Zimmerman’s Metamorphoses, which explored Greek myth and legend through the lens of Black culture with an all-Black cast, was a thrilling hit. It also acted as an announcement of a new era for the recently reopened Folger Theatre. 

When Psalm, also an acclaimed playwright and actor, shared with City Paper the fall events he’s most interested in, one similarity emerged: He continues to be drawn to artists that refuse to be pigeonholed.

What are your most anticipated events of the season?

I am wildly excited about André 3000 coming to the Kennedy Center this November to do his New Blue Sun album live. I think he is one of our generation’s most interesting, thrilling artists, and it is a rare opportunity to have him in our backyard. To have him do something other than what he’s known for—phenomenal lyrics and hip-hop—fascinates me. André 3000 performs at 7:30 p.m. on Nov. 9 at the Kennedy Center, 2700 F St. NW. $90.85–$310. 

He’s just doing the jazz album, right?

My guess is that it won’t even sound like anything on the album, since that was also improvised. It will be a journey for him and us.

What about events relating to theater?

Arena Stage is doing a play called The Other Americans this October and November. The writer and star of the play is John Leguizamo, another artist who fascinates me because of his ability to straddle the world of theater and film. He cannot be pinned down, either, and in this he is going outside his usual form. This isn’t a solo play, a one-man show—it’s an ensemble instead. John Leguizamo’s The Other Americans opens Oct. 18 and runs through Nov. 24 at Arena Stage, 1101 6th St. SW. $59–$99.

Anything else that is not theater or music-related?

I want to mention a conversation that will happen between Supreme Court Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson and Elizabeth Alexander, president of the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation. The event will happen at the National Museum of African American History and Culture, and it’s free. You just have to register. 

I actually had an opportunity to meet Justice Jackson, and she was truly a down-to-earth, kind person. She was generous of spirit in a way I really appreciated, so I imagine that conversation should be really cool, especially since Elizabeth Alexander is really interesting in her own right. Simmons Talk: A Conversation With Supreme Court Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson starts at 7 p.m. on Sept. 24 at NMAAHC, 1400 Constitution Ave. NW. Free.

How did you get to meet Justice Jackson? Was it related to theater?

It was, actually. I was fortunate enough to eat dinner with her at Arena Stage’s opening night reception for Tempestuous Elements, a play that I directed [earlier this year].

Any final recommendations?

Okay, so this is an evergreen thing, but in the fall I think Rock Creek Park is a great place to visit. The weather is not oppressively hot, and it’s not frigid yet. I go all year round, but this is the best time to take advantage of this jewel in our city.

Since you’re an accomplished artist, I wonder whether you go there to be inspired. Maybe you visit for photography?

I do take photos sometimes, but visiting there is more a part of my artistic practice. I walk the trails, where I can channel whatever inspiration the Gods want to bestow me.

Check out more of our 2024 Fall Arts Guide here.

Spanish filmmaker Víctor Erice has not made a feature-length film in more than 30 years. His debut, 1973’s The Spirit of the Beehive, was an instant classic of Spanish and global cinema—it’s currently ranked 85th on the prestigious Sight & Sound list of the greatest films ever made. So any new film from him is a capital “B” Big Deal, as is the case with Close Your Eyes, which made its American premiere last month.

It’s unlikely we will get another film from Erice, who is in his mid-80s, and if he ends with this one it will be a fitting swan song. At once grounded and haunting, Close Your Eyes is the kind of carefully observed drama that you want to savor, to let it consume and ultimately overwhelm you. No superlative will quite do it justice, and in order to find anything worthy of comparison, you have to look deep into movie history. Like Ingmar Bergman and Andrei Tarkovsky, Erice uses his advanced age to explore memory and death with poignance and wisdom.

The first scene is a film-within-a-film. It is 1947, and, within the walls of a gorgeous mansion, a wealthy older man (José María Pou) hires a younger man (José Coronado) to find his missing daughter. This could be the setup for a noir or a mystery, except the screenplay by Erice and Michel Gaztambide avoids any genre trappings. The opening scene unfolds unhurriedly, giving us time to appreciate the gorgeous cinematography that frames the old house like a painting from a Dutch master. 

We eventually learn this scene is the opening from The Farewell Gaze, an unfinished film by Miguel (Manolo Solo), Erice’s protagonist. Miguel could never finish his feature because his best friend and star, Julio (also Coronado), wandered off the set and disappeared. Now a true crime TV series wants to look into Julio’s disappearance, which stirs something in Miguel, leading him on an unlikely journey to find his friend.

Close Your Eyes has a lengthy middle section where Miguel, now living a quiet life as a translator, reconnects with key figures from his past. Julio’s memory seems to haunt everyone even though they’ve allegedly made their peace with his absence. Mostly they talk quietly, almost shyly—as if experience and age has diminished their youthful exuberance. Miguel’s ex-editor Max (Mario Pardo) is now a film archivist who doesn’t dwell on the futility of preserving film prints with few projectors to show them. Julio’s daughter (Ana Torrent) now works at the Prado Museum in Madrid, and has buried any grief over her lost parent. If Torrent’s name sounds familiar it’s likely because, as a child, she starred in Spirit of the Beehive—giving one of the greatest performances from a child actor. By casting Torrent in Close Your Eyes, Erice creates multiple opportunities for reflection, whether it’s on the time periods in this film or how these actors and directors fit into film history. By thinking about the material on several levels, we can engage the characters on a richer emotional level: Maybe Miguel once resented Julio’s disappearance, but now we can see how something more wistful and bittersweet replaces all those feelings.

The references to film history do not stop with Torrent. At one point, a drunken Miguel plays “My Rifle, My Pony and Me,” a song popularized by Ricky Nelson in the classic 1959 western Rio Bravo. What does the song mean to Erice and Miguel? Close Your Eyes doesn’t provide a direct answer. The film strikes a good balance between what is specific and what is elusive, allowing the ambiguity to intrigue us more than frustrate us. Throughout Miguel’s methodical journey, we see a man forced to accept a modest life, and find camaraderie among the others—including forgotten friends—who live with a mix of contentment and resignation. The arc of these characters, their reluctance to litigate their pasts, and how they guard dormant feelings is an affecting way to explore the nature of aging. Even if you’re nowhere near the ages of these characters, Erice finds something true and universal through conversations that suffuse nostalgia with pain.

An investigation is central to Close Your Eyes, but it’s not really a mystery film. We already know from the true crime program that Julio’s body was never recovered, which leaves a lot of room for the film’s third act to unfold. Erice avoids any big “eureka” moments and the actors are utterly convincing. With no affect or false moments to their performance, even little moments can be moving. There is a terrific, unforced scene in which Miguel uses a segment of rope to test the idea of muscle memory; it builds toward a minor victory that sets up a singular finale.

At a run time of nearly three hours, Close Your Eyes somehow never feels too long or languid. Erice opts for elongated dialogue scenes, and yet we need the extra time to understand characters who never once act like they’re in a melodrama—except for Julio, of course, who literally starred in one. The film-within-a-film creates a striking contrast for the central drama, since real life lacks the resolution or denouement of the movies, and Erice avoids further cliche by avoiding histrionics and underplaying otherwise big revelations. 

All the groundwork, each of the preceding three acts, pays off with a climax that shrewdly synthesizes the plotting and thematic work that precedes it. Close Your Eyes ends with an ambiguous image, a fade to black that could be interpreted a number of ways. We cannot know the mind of Miguel and the others, just like we cannot know Erice’s, and it is only through pure cinematic power that we can find hope for any meaning. Such a realization could be maudlin in the hands of anyone else, but Erice demonstrates he still has the same ability, not unlike his hero, to captivate us just like he first did all those years ago.

Close Your Eyes (169 Minutes, not rated) opens at AFI Silver on Sept. 20 and runs through Sept. 26. silver.afi.com.

If you have any interest in documentary cinema, you probably know Sky Sitney. She is the festival director of DC/DOX, the city’s new-ish documentary film festival that ran for the second time earlier this summer. A cinema professor at Georgetown University, Sitney attracts luminaries in the nonfiction film world, and sometimes even the subjects of the films themselves. It is no surprise she is also deeply plugged into the city’s arts community, and she’s looking forward to a wide variety of events in a number of disciplines this season. She was kind enough to share those events with City Paper.

What are your most anticipated events of the season?

First of all, what strikes is the amount of stuff going in D.C. I appreciate an opportunity to look at everything. In terms of theater, I am excited that Matthew Broderick will come to D.C. at the Shakespeare Theatre this October. I’ve seen him on Broadway multiple times over many decades, and even though the play—Babbitt—might be a conventional choice, I think it will be very interesting. Babbitt opens Oct. 1 and runs through Nov. 3 at STC’s Harman Hall, 610 F St. NW. $39–$160.

I’m unfamiliar with that show!

It is based on a beloved Sinclair Lewis novel. I have never read it, but knowing Lewis, it’s probably satirical. I do know it is about a middle class man who is never satisfied, always aspiring for more, which leads to catastrophic results.

What about music you plan to see?

I do hope to see the Magnetic Fields, who are coming to the Lincoln Theatre this October. They’re doing the 25th anniversary of 69 Love Songs, performing the album in its entirety. The Magnetic Fields play at 8 p.m. on Oct. 17 and 18 (the Oct. 19 show is sold out) at the Lincoln, 1215 U St. NW. $49.50 – $79.50.  

Air is playing the Anthem on Oct. 18, where they will be playing Moon Safari, so that is another kind of anniversary show. Air play Moon Safari at 8 p.m. on Oct. 18 at the Anthem. $75–$125.

Any other kinds of art you want to mention?

I love photography, I try to see all the photography here, so I am excited about the National Gallery’s upcoming The ’70s Lens: Reimagining Documentary Photography. It is going to have over 100 works from [more than] 80 different artists, looking at the style of the period and a radical shift in the nature of documentary photography itself. The exhibition opens Oct. 6 and runs through April 6 at the National Gallery of Art, 4th Street and Constitution Avenue NW. Free.

I also love textiles, and there’s an exhibit at the National Museum of Women in the Arts called Myth from Matter, which focuses on the Guyanese artist Suchitra Mattai. It looks amazing. Suchitra Mattai: Myth from Matter opens Sept. 20 and runs through Jan. 12, 2025, at NMWA, 1250 New York Ave. NW. $13–$16.

It would be remiss not to ask you about film, since that is your wheelhouse: What film events are you excited about?

The Middleburg Film Festival is an exciting event for film folks. In many ways, it is like Telluride [another major film festival] coming to D.C. It is just kind of astonishing what they are able to bring: incredible filmmakers, almost all of whom are present to talk about their work. These films typically end up being the talk of awards season. Admittedly, the festival mostly covers the narrative space, not the documentary world, but I had such a blast last time. The film festival runs Oct. 17 to 20 at the Salamander Resort, 500 North Pendleton St., Middleburg. Most advanced ticket passes have sold out.

What did you see? Did you get a chance to talk to any filmmakers?

I saw Saltburn, and after an intimate talk about her film, I got a chance to chat with writer and director Emerald Fennell. I also saw Alexander Payne, who was there for his film The Holdovers, and his Q&A was a standout. Last year, I was only there for two days, but this year I rented an Airbnb with friends and we plan to be there the entire time.

What other film events are on your radar?

Every year the National Gallery of Art has a silent movie day, usually with a live accompaniment, and this year they’re showing the Jean Epstein classic Cœur Fidèle. Silent movie day with live accompaniment by Andrew E. Simpson on piano starts at 2 p.m. on Sept. 29 at, NGA East, 4th St. and Constitution Ave. NW. Free. 

I also always love AFI’s Latin American Film Festival, and I plan to go there later this fall. I haven’t deeply immersed myself in their lineup, but I will definitely catch a few of those films. The film festival starts on Sept. 19 and runs through Oct. 10 at AFI Silver, 8633 Colesville Rd., Silver Spring. $15–$200.

Check out more of our 2024 Fall Arts Guide here.

City Paper’s contributors have their fingers on the pulse of what’s happening in and around the city. These arts events, however, could be overlooked if you aren’t paying attention. Lucky for you, we are.  

Below you’ll find some comedy, a folk fest and craft show, and two book talks—Emma Copley Eisenberg discusses Housemates and Bob Boilen joins Joe Boyd for a conversation on the music producer’s latest book, And the Roots of Rhythm Remain.

You’ll also get a chance to see what the two new but not yet built Smithsonians—National Museum of the American Latino and the American Women’s History Museum—have to offer with an event dedicated to Celia Cruz.

Takoma Park Folk Festival at Takoma Park Middle School  On Sept. 8

First held in 1978 and run entirely by volunteers, the painfully charming Takoma Park Folk Festival highlights living traditions of Takoma Park and Silver Spring communities and the surrounding areas. This year, the free one-day festival is featuring more than 40 acts across six stages covering a wide swath of vernacular musical stylings, plus a jam-packed juried craft show running the gamut from metalwork and jewelry to food and fiber arts. The festival runs from 10:30 a.m. to 6:30 p.m. in the Takoma Park Middle School gymnasium, 7611 Piney Branch Rd., Takoma Park. Free. —Amelia Roth-Dishy

Joe Boyd With Bob Boilen at Politics and Prose Union Market on Sept. 14

You know if a book begins with the sentence “Malcolm McLaren was bored,” it’s going to be great. Record producer/writer Joe Boyd (Pink Floyd, R.E.M., Nick Drake) follows up his memoir, White Bicycles: Making Music in the 1960s, with And the Roots of Rhythm Remain, a look at the history and sociology of popular music, which he will discuss with Bob Boilen at Politics and Prose. The conversation starts at 6 p.m. at Politics and Prose Union Market, 1324 4th St. NE. Free. —Christina Smart

Emma Copley Eisenberg at Lost City Books on Sept. 19 

Emma Copley Eisenberg’s road-trip novel about friendship, creation, queer coming of age, and unearthing lost histories is one of my favorite books of the year. Housemates is best enjoyed in the shade of a good tree, while listening to a nostalgic playlist your best friend made for you. Or, for one night only, it might best be enjoyed with Eisenberg, who will be in town to discuss it. The discussion starts at 7 p.m. at Lost City Books, 2467 18th St. NW. Free. —Serena Zets

An Evening Celebrating the Life and Legacy of Celia Cruz at the National Museum of American History on Sept. 20

You can’t really celebrate the life of the reigning Afro-Cuban salsa queen without a little azucar. To officially cement Celia Cruz’s legacy on the 2024 Celia Cruz Quarter, the National Museum of the American Latino, the American Women’s History Museum, and others host a free night covering all things Cruz—from panel discussions recounting her legendary status, to salsa lessons, and a dance party to the all-woman salsa band Lulada Club. The celebration starts at 7 p.m. at the Museum of American History, 1300 Constitution Ave. NW. Free. —Heidi Perez-Moreno

Craft2Wear at the National Building Museum starts on Sept. 27 

It’s D.C.’s own Project Runway, except these carefully selected designer finds are going on sale. The annual Smithsonian Craft2Wear Show will showcase jewelry, wearable art, and accessories from more than 93 artists working in contemporary American fashion. An additional 10 artists will show traditional and modern crafts from South Korea. The event runs Sept. 27 through 29 at the National Building Museum, 401 F St. NW. $20–$95. —Heidi Perez-Moreno

John Early at the Black Cat on Oct. 16

More than any other entertainer, actor, and comedian, John Early is the patron saint of dunking on millennials. Come check out his October set so you can find out how you’re still cringe, even when you’re pushing 40. The show starts at 7 p.m. at the Black Cat, 1811 14th St. NW. $45. —Alan Zilberman

William Gropper: Artist of the People at the Phillips Collection opens Oct. 17

For those looking for something quieter, a small exhibit of 30 pieces across two galleries highlighting the social realist painter and cartoonist William Gropper at the Phillips Collection will provide a jolt. The son of Jewish immigrants and a radical child of Lower East Side tenements, Gropper made unabashedly political works combining a satirical propensity for ghoulish villains—corrupt bosses and greedy capitalists chief among them—with a painterly attention to light and shadow. William Gropper: Artist of the People opens Oct. 17 and runs through Jan. 5 at the Phillips Collection, 1600 21st St. NW. $20. —Amelia Roth-Dishy 

Check out more of our 2024 Fall Arts Guide here.

Nearly 40 years after he captured the imaginations of Gen X goths everywhere with Beetlejuice, its sequel, Beetlejuice Beetlejuice, is a return to form for Tim Burton. After a series of duds from Alice in Wonderland to his Dumbo remake, the director’s work on the Netflix series Wednesday seemingly reawakened Burton’s enthusiasm and sense of fun. Instead of the usual CGI slop of modern special effects, in Beetlejuice Beetlejuice he opts for practical effects and sets, including some animatronic creatures that seem destined to become an audience favorite. Like the original Beetlejuice, this sequel is a bizarre clash of disparate stories—some are satisfying, others don’t withstand scrutiny. In fact, some subplots are so utterly superfluous that they nearly derail the film entirely. It’s the palpable goodwill of the cast and crew that smooths over these rough spots. It is a minor miracle the original Beetlejuice even exists in the first place thanks to its strangeness and defiance of simple categorization, and so it is easy to root for a return to its macabre, cheeky sensibility.

When we last saw Lydia (Winona Ryder), she was a strange and unusual high school student living in a haunted house with her father, Charles (Jeffrey Jones), and stepmother, Delia (Catherine O’Hara). We meet them again in 2024, after Charles dies unexpectedly and the mostly estranged Lydia and Delia return to the house to mourn him. This is where Alfred Gough and Miles Millar’s script quickly dispatches actors from the first film: You may recall that Jones has rarely acted, and rightly so, since becoming a registered sex offender, while Geena Davis and Alec Baldwin have aged beyond the married ghosts permanently stuck in their 30s. No matter, since the sequel supplies a host of new characters, including Lydia’s sullen teenage daughter, Astrid (Wednesday star Jenna Ortega, a worthy successor to Ryder), along with Lydia’s boyfriend, Rory (Justin Theroux). As this confluence of characters descends on the old house, it awakens Beetlejuice (Michael Keaton), the uncouth bio-exorcist who still pines for Lydia. A strange turn of events leaves Astrid in the underworld, so a desperate Lydia has no choice but to ask her demonic ex-fiance for help.

There is a lot to manage here, including Beetlejuice’s disgruntled ex-wife, Delores (Monica Bellucci), so sometimes it feels like Burton is directing traffic rather than a film. He bounces across multiple sets and planes of existence, so it is no surprise that his film is most engaging when characters are given time to breathe. O’Hara makes the most of her dialogue-driven comic scenes, playing a cliche of a pretentious modern artist with her head in the clouds, and it is all the disarming when she sees through the facade of Lydia, Astrid, and others with a witty one-liner. Other characters are nearly dead on arrival: Theroux stumbles through a thankless, unsalvageable character, but at least he has many lines that help set Lydia’s arc in motion. All the subplots and characters are ultimately a blessing in disguise. They never take up too much screen time, and Burton is hurtling toward his next set piece before the audience can lose their patience.

Maybe the most brilliant thing about Beetlejuice was its vision of the afterlife. Instead of fluffy clouds or constant hellfire, Burton imagines a shabby, green-hued bureaucracy where all the ghosts and dead people use immortality to sharpen their cynicism. There is a lot of the same imagination here, including an office where Beetlejuice manages a team of head-shrunk office drones who have their mouths sewn shut. Practical effects make these hapless bureaucrats come alive, proving that actors like Keaton do better work when they can react to something physical, rather than some CGI creature added in postproduction. The most expressive ghost is Bob, the leader of Beetlejuice’s office, and Burton portrays Bob like a loyal, sad puppy. At the screening I attended, I could feel the audience identify and fall in love with Bob—he just might become a perennial favorite Halloween costume. Beetlejuice Beetlejuice also uses animatronics to capture the sandworms, the bizarre Dune-like creatures from the original film. They don’t look real in any conventional sense, but still have a tactile quality that looks like they’re crafted with joy and patience, rather than rushed.

If Beetlejuice Beetlejuice is lacking any quality from the first film, it is a sense of sophistication. The original may have been embraced by younger audiences, despite the script including jokes and references that went over their heads. Ghosts casually referred to their own suicides, Beetlejuice talked about his time at Juilliard, and a Dick Cavett cameo gave a better sense of Delia’s bohemian art world than anything O’Hara’s character says. Just take a look at Cavett’s kiss-off line from the first Beetlejuice: “Delia, you are a flake. You have always been a flake. If you insist on frightening people, do it with your sculpture.” Gough and Millar do not let anyone here sound so erudite, and instead lean in to crass gags provided by Keaton’s manic performance, along with his ability to transform at will. A better script would mix the urbane with the uncouth, providing a kind of balance. And while there are some strange sequences—like a sudden shift to black-and-white Giallo-esque horror—Burton would rather please his fans than potentially confuse them.

No one who sees this film should expect tight plotting. For all the goodwill Burton earns with his collaborators, there is something brusque about how he resolves certain plot threads. Beetlejuice does not let anyone say his name three times, except when it is the most convenient for the plot. Bellucci adds glamor to the action, and yet her character is completely inessential, to say nothing of Willem Dafoe as a supernatural cop who hams it up whenever he’s on camera. It is a testament to Burton—with a major assist from composer Danny Elfman, returning with his iconic score—that so much of Beetlejuice Beetlejuice succeeds despite its stumbles. (At City Paper, we can only imagine that the need to win over audiences made him reunite with Elfman despite several allegations of sexual misconduct made against the composer, but it doesn’t say much about Burton as a human.)  

At its core, Beetlejuice has always been a “hang out movie,” the kind you put on and enjoy almost as background noise, but also the kind you start watching midway through and cannot help but finish. When the musical sequences are more memorable than the plot itself, what befalls Lydia and her family is practically incidental. As The Handbook for the Recently Deceased assures us, death is never the end.

Beetlejuice Beetlejuice (PG-13, 104 minutes) opens in area theaters on Sept. 6.

Since the release of Rushmore 26 years ago, Jason Schwartzman has specialized in playing morose, peculiar characters with hidden feelings. You can see it in Asteroid City, his most recent collaboration with Wes Anderson, and even his turn as the more boyish than regal Louis XVI in Marie Antoinette. His career has been building toward a film like Between the Temples, an unconventional comedy where he plays a widowed cantor in a New York synagogue, as his precocious teenager ennui has matured into full-on middle-aged malaise. Directed and cowritten by Nathan Silver—a stalwart of the indie scene with his first potential hit—this is a film about behavior, not religion, and how Jewish people reconcile their traditions with modernity. The premise could be fodder for an easy formula, but a few filmmaking decisions elevate the material so the characters and situations feel utterly alive.

When we meet Ben (Schwartzman), he’s too shy, or traumatized, to sing at regular shabbat services. But instead of letting Rabbi Bruce (Robert Smigel) cover for him, Ben makes a scene by running out of the synagogue. Adrift and alone, Ben finds himself in a bar where his guardian angel of sorts, fellow patron Carla (Carol Kane), takes pity on him after he loses a fight with a stranger. As the two talk, Ben learns two surprising things about Carla: She was his music teacher many years ago, and she wants to be his bat mitzvah student. They forge an unlikely teacher/student pair, with Ben leading her through her Torah portion, while she charms him with details and stories from her past. Meanwhile Ben’s mother, Meira (Caroline Aaron), is on a mission to see him married. She sets him up on a series of disastrous dates, until things go slightly better with Rabbi Bruce’s daughter, Gabby (Madeline Weinstein)—at least until these plots converge on a tense Rosh Hashanah dinner.

Along with co-screenwriter C. Mason Wells, Silver takes a wry approach to the ways in which Jewish life can liberate or trap its adherents. Sometimes the traps are small, like when Ben and Carla find themselves in a restaurant and Ben accidentally breaks kosher rules by eating a cheeseburger. Sometimes they’re bigger, like when Ben feels suffocated by a community that only grows smaller after Gabby comes into the fold. Unapologetic and strange, Kane is pitch-perfect as Carla, the only character who liberates herself by choosing which customs she wishes to follow. But Between the Temples is not merely a critique of religion or culture; instead it empathizes with people who must reconcile their identity with their desires. This is never clearer than the “date” scenes with Ben and Gabby: two lonely adults who are still effectively chaperoned by their nearby elders. The two take sanctuary in a cemetery, which leads to a seduction scene that’s a highlight of the film. It begins as something transgressive and strange, only to become tender and sharply observed.

The film’s look and editing deepen its astute sense of timing and observation. Between the Temples was shot on 16mm film by cinematographer Sean Price Williams, which gives each scene a glow and texture that most comedies never bother to explore. Although Silver sets this film in the present day, the shots have a timeless quality, an impression that people like Ben have struggled with love and loss over centuries. Some scenes are also quite beautiful, like when a desperate Ben wanders into a Catholic church to talk shop with a priest. By avoiding the sheen of digital photography, the film finds a wordless way to make us believe these splotchy, pale characters who live modestly are always authentic.

Cinematography notwithstanding, the film’s real secret weapon, the thing that elevates it beyond another quirky comedy, is editor John Magary. In 2014, Magary wrote and directed The Mend, an offbeat comedy that unfolds with a type of naturalism that veers toward cinematic anarchy. That same sensibility is also in Between the Temples—scenes never cut in a way you would expect. Even a simple dialogue scene follows a unique rhythm, and this steadfast avoidance of typical patterns leaves the audience with no choice but to be on guard and more engaged—not unlike how Ben stumbles through one strained social situation after another. Unconventional editing also means the film eschews normal comic timing, which further blurs the line between comedy and cringe.

Between the Temples had its premiere at this year’s Sundance Film Festival in January, since then it has undergone significant revisions. Silver has shaved 20 minutes off the film, mostly around the ending, and changed the focal point of Ben’s character arc. This sharper, tighter edit is less about Ben’s return to the synagogue, and more about him finding a deeper purpose outside a role that stifles him. Silver and his collaborators nonetheless preserve some ambiguity in the relationship between Ben and Carla, which starts professional and platonic, then veers toward something else. Everyone who sees this film may have a different idea about their future, but there’s no denying that the only way through tradition is to embrace the ones that work, then jettison the ones that don’t.

Between the Temples opens in area theaters on Aug. 23.

The film distributor NEON has been on a streak of horror films starring young blonde women. Earlier this year we had Immaculate, in which Sydney Sweeney plays a nun impregnated by deranged priests. Last month’s Longlegs stars Maika Monroe as an FBI agent tracking down a serial killer who might be executing the literal will of Satan. They say you need three examples for a trend, and now we have Cuckoo, in which Hunter Schafer (Sweeney’s co-star on the HBO series Euphoria) plays Gretchen, a young woman trapped in a mountain resort where strange, deadly things happen without any rational explanation. Writer and director Tilman Singer refuses to explain too much—hoping the macabre imagery will speak for itself—but he leans too far in to unabashed weirdness, which ultimately removes any real catharsis from his film.

The setting is a neat inversion of The Shining. Instead of a summer resort that’s empty over the winter, Singer opts for a winter resort in the Bavarian Alps that is mostly empty over the summer. At the center of the film, Gretchen is forced to go on a mountain retreat with her family against her will. Desperate for time away from her stepmother, Beth (Jessica Henwick), and younger half-sister, Alma (Mila Lieu), the sullen teen quickly accepts a receptionist job at the resort after its director Herr König (Dan Stevens) takes pity on her. But when Gretchen starts working the late shift, she notices a strange, perhaps demonic woman wandering the otherwise abandoned roads. Singer keeps us invested by keeping us unsure—though her glowing red eyes offer some clues.

At first, the culture clash between Europe and the United States is enough to unsettle Gretchen, and the audience by extension. Stevens delights in this kind of a role, an unwaveringly polite weirdo whose deference is a mask for his true, sinister nature. Gretchen sees right through him almost immediately, and indeed Schafer’s commanding performance is the best part of Cuckoo. She starts as a rebellious teen, the kind who is bad at her job through laziness and eventually outright malice, only to develop into a terrified, resourceful young woman who has no choice but to trust her instincts. Singer also attaches us to Gretchen by injuring her throughout the story. Her cast and head bandage make her into an unlikely looking heroine, but it also leads to moments of sympathy: She has no choice but to fight through the literal pain.

If Gretchen’s character arc is the best thing about Cuckoo, then the resort’s dark nature is where the film falters. Singer introduces some intriguing flourishes, like when the aforementioned demon woman seemingly has the ability to manipulate time and control minds with her piercing siren (the sound designers chose a truly unsettling scream—a callback to the shriek you would hear in the score from the Alien franchise). The film also offers a subplot involving a cop (Jan Bluthardt) seeking vengeance against his dead wife, and while he is Gretchen’s ally for a time, they reach an impasse the script barely explores. In these cases and others, the film has a reluctance that ultimately seems more lazy than uncompromising.

Unlike many of his genre contemporaries, Singer is happy to keep his audience in the dark, and there are long stretches of the film where we have no idea what’s really happening. It only works because we are right there with Gretchen, and by the time her worst suspicions are confirmed, the lack of adequate follow-through denies Schafer true “final girl” status. Trust is implicit in this relationship between the filmmakers and the audience, and while Cuckoo is not the kind of film where we need a detailed explanation, the big reveals are a letdown because the first two acts are so audacious. If a horror film does not abide by many genre rules, it is self-defeating when the climax devolves into another boring and cliche ending.

In the recent NEON horror trend of frightened young blonds, Schafer gives a true breakout performance. Sweeney and Monroe had already been more established when their films premiered. Here, Schafer imbues Gretchen’s backstory with genuine heart—like when she mourns for her dead mother by leaving her voicemail messages. That kind of mourning could be considered overdone, and yet Schafer’s plays these scenes so convincingly that the familiarity hardly matters. These scenes indicate Singer’s deep affection and empathy with his flawed protagonist, and so his relative disinterest to develop real conflicts for her means Cuckoo is kind of lopsided. A worthy hero needs a worthy foe, and no matter how much Singer wishes otherwise, the promise inherent to an unusual horror atmosphere is not enough.

Cuckoo (R, 102 minutes) opens in area theaters on Aug. 9.