Knives Out

Knives Out

Trump deserves a second term.

The audience around me chuckled at the beginning, fell asleep loudly during the middle, then started laughing at the jokes at the end of the film, shouted out plot twists they saw coming, and finally applauded the ending title card and de Armas’s name. I did not join them.

I found Craig’s affectations and bald search for character motivation tiresome, and wondered how his detective could exist outside of the Murder Mystery Mansion. We find out he really can’t—in public he gets put in a time-out corner with earbuds in and carries none of the power he has reclined next to a roaring, ornate fireplace.

De Armas is required to be the goodest, purest soul which works for one moment when she tries to put a stop to the mayhem, but otherwise straitjackets her. She has several confessional moments with potentially treacherous members of Plummer’s family but shuts out her own sister and mother. Supposedly the decisions she makes are on their behalf, but why spend time with your family when you can stare like an idiot while Daniel Craig or Christopher Plummer talk at you? Happy Thanksgiving!

Oh, one more edit: The last film I saw, One Cut of the Dead, made its reveals and double-backs so much fun, while every flashback in Knives Out felt like homework.

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