The Legend of Ochi (PG)
“The Legend of Ochi,” A24’s first venture into the world of family entertainment, has the unique distinction of being a film for kids with the overall aesthetic of dread that has become the company’s bread and butter. This is not a knock against the film, a lovingly laconic, winsome story about the ability of song to unite species previously believed to be enemies. The film follows the efforts of a young Yuri (Helena Zengel) as she tries to transport her new friend, a lost orange monkey/bear hybrid puppet creation called an Ochi, back to its family’s ancestral mountain home before her father, a dawdling delusional deadbeat played with exquisite melancholy by Wilem Dafoe, can lead his small army of boy soldiers to snuff out the troublesome creatures at the source.
As the film unspooled, it was clear that Director Isaiah Saxon was surely taking narrative inspiration from classic family adventure movies, with “E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial” being the obvious guiding star, yet his temperament and style are much more serene and yawning, presenting a movie that feels less thrilling than calmly dangerous in the same way that mountain mist smells inviting yet alien. Despite the film’s soft focus whimsy and creature antics, I couldn’t help but feel a malevolence at the corners of the frame; the sure assertion that something catastrophic, if not horrifying, might occur despite the family-friendly packaging. Chock that up to the A24 effect, where any pleasant island community, seemingly harmless drunkard, or band of boys with war paint and guns eventually descend into madness and murder. Yet, there is a pure message of love buried in the film’s serenic heart, masked by the stench of centuries-old moss and majesty of mountains where no human ever should have journeyed. To that end, I find it interesting that by upholding these tropes and spinning them in a manner accessible to kids, with Yuri herself as distrustful of her family and brethren as anyone, Saxon has somehow made a movie that feels honest about the bloody dangers of paranoia, while also being a fun, if muted, adventure that might prove an effective primer for children about the devastation of destroying cultures we barely understand.
The true star of “The Legend of Ochi” is the puppet work that brings the little orange fur balls to life. Artistry so convincing that many online believed this movie to be partly crafted by generative AI, the Ochi are actually hand-crafted creations; puppeted on set daily by a team of green-suited wizards who are somehow able to instill life into a mass of what looks like orange yak fur with black marbles for eyes. The Ochi are undeniably adorable, with our main little guy a true wonder every time he’s on screen. A movie of the “E.T.” variety is only as good as its creature work, I’m looking at you, “Mac and Me”. “Ochi” excels in this arena, with the most memorable scenes being the ones where Yuri and the Ochi are simply spending time learning from each other, showing kindness and companionship, and ultimately learning to communicate. There is a sweet naivete to their relationship, a kinship that feels earned and honest; a familiar alchemy that burns bright at the center of the film and leaves a lingering warmth after the film’s quietly ambitious third act concludes and the credits finally roll.
Also starring the always excellent Emily Watson (“Chernobyl,” “Punch Drunk Love”) and Finn Wolfhard (The “Stranger Things” star who I’m convinced only took this roll to hang out with Wilem Dafoe in the mountains, and who can blame him), “The Legend of Ochi” is an earnest, silly adventure that is, frankly, eons more sophisticated and beautiful than most children’s movies that come out these days. If you’re looking for a respite from the chaos of “The Minecraft Movie”, “The Legend of Ochi” has a quiet calm all its own and holds within it a wide, wonderful world worth exploring for kids and parents alike.
“The Legend of Ochi” is playing at The Broad Theater and Prytania Theatres at Canal Place.
The Shrouds (R)
A chilly picture of hot-blooded passion and the invasive nature of decay, the legendary filmmaker David Cronenberg (“The Fly,” “Videodrome”) cobbles his latest, “The Shrouds,” from the shrapnel of grief in the aftermath of his own wife’s death and creates something hopeful and despondent in equal measure.
Starring Vincent Cassel (“Black Swan”), the film follows a widower, Karsh, who has turned his morbid obsession with crawling into the grave with his long-dead wife into an innovative business of “Smart Graves” where mourners can watch their loved ones rot in real time. We learn about this venture during a disastrous first date between Karsh and a lovely woman for whom these cadaverous pursuits are not her cup of tea. If there is any shame in this exploitation of the dead, Karsh shows no signs of it. It seems, in fact, that he relishes the intimacy he still holds with his departed wife, perhaps is even aroused by it. As the film spirals through an interweaving catacomb of paranoia, affairs, and even AI panic, “The Shrouds” forces the enterprising crypt keeper to contend with his truth in the face of tragedy and find meaning in the rotted remains of his beloved.
Cronenberg is at his best when the Venn diagram of death, technology, and sex forms a morbid circle. “The Shrouds” fits squarely within that dynamic with fantastic dual supporting roles from Diane Kruger (“Inglorious Bastards”), as both Karsh’s former wife and sister in law, and a fantastically sniveling Guy Pearce (“The Brutalist”) as Karsh’s pathetic, yet tech-savvy brother-in-law. While Cronenberg throws in a dash of his patented penchant for body horror, his utilization of it feels harsher, more personally invasive than heads sucked into TVs or Brundle Fly abominations. Upon the death of his wife and creative collaborator, Carolyn Cronenberg, David seems to have taken that pain and crafted less of a film than and more a bas relief of his own despair; something gaping and empty at first glance, not unlike a mastectomy scar, yet rich in it the secrets it masks within it’s shadows. Much like the spectral tech robes that enclose the deceased in Karsh’s cemeteries, “The Shrouds” knows that the creeping dread of love long lost is all-encompassing, suffocating, and far more disturbing than any literal desecration of the flesh, either living or dead.
With the old masters shedding this mortal coil in ever-frequent bursts, we are profoundly lucky to live in a world where Cronenberg can casually drop something this weird, mournful, and entertaining. So, put on the shroud and crawl down into the grave with one of the greatest to ever do it.
You’ll be glad you did.
“The Shrouds” is playing at The Broad Theater and Prytania Theatres at Canal Place.
