Mark is a high school senior who makes a personal problem out of his parents break-up when his mother leaves home for another woman. The thought of being the butt of jokes for "having two fathers" horrifies him. All these worries and angst take the backseat when a new teacher comes to campus. Her name is Connie and she is an instant hit among the boys. It is love at first sight for Mark. However, Connie has an affair with Vincent, a married man.
If you are a discerning movie watcher and/or an African-American with a modicum of Black consciousness, this film isn’t for you. It would be better to watch the documentary ‘They Fight’ to see the impactful, emotional story of Walter Manigan and the young men of DC’s Ward 8.
Netflix’s new rom-com, Voicemails for Isabelle (dir. Leah McKendrick), isn’t just heartwarming, funny, and an achievement in female directing - it’s also an instant classic. Following 20-something aspiring baker Jill (Zoey Deutch), Voicemails for Isabelle tells a story of grief, self-discovery, and fateful connections. Ever since her beloved sister Izzy’s (Ciara Bravo) death, Jill has been leaving her hilarious, extremely TMI voicemails about her chaotic love life and miserable day job as a prep cook. Little does she know that a handsome and unsatisfied real estate agent in her hometown has inherited the number and practically fallen in love with her by listening to her stories.
This coming-of-age movie discusses immigration issues in the United States through the eyes of two exchange students in Brazil.
The history of Hollywood is as ugly as it is beautiful. Most notably absent from Hollywood history are Black-produced films. “They’ve Gotta Have Us” explores the rise of Black cinema.
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.
