
This is the story of a troubadour's journey in the last years of the twentieth century. Jerry Jeff Walker's music has led him from the nation's biggest arenas to hundred-year old honky-tonks; from upstate New York to the beaches of Key West and the hustling sidewalks of New Orleans to the solace of the Texas Hill Country - and for beyond. He's been a cog in the wheel of the recording industry's star-making machinery and an involuntary pioneer on the frontier of artistic independence. He wrote one of the biggest mainstream hits of all time and still managed to help jump start a maverick musical movement.
Holiday hijinks ensue when a recently separated couple are both accidently invited to same holiday celebration.
Him is visually stunning—all concrete cathedrals and bone-rattling impact shots that look like a nightmare highlight reel. Marlon Wayans is magnetic as this legendary quarterback who's basically selling salvation with a smile that never quite reaches his eyes. But the story keeps running in circles: more tests, more cryptic pep talks, more ritualistic drills. The sports-as-religion metaphor beats you over the head when subtlety would've been more effective. The middle drags, and that finale chooses spectacle over substance. It's undeniably stylish, but left me cold. Also worth noting: despite the Monkeypaw connection, this isn't actually a Jordan Peele film—he didn't write or direct.
One thing’s for certain: Holmes has star power. We may not be able to see everything, but we’re certainly all watching.
The multifaceted musical represents America in the 1960s and the battle against bigotry as an ensemble cast portrays how to fight for the limelight.
If the message here is that without a support system, grieving people turn into monsters, it’s not really well-delivered and may be flawed as a message itself.