One of the embraceable notes of contemporary horror cinema is the allegorical nature of the themes pictured. Of course, horror cinema going so far back as “Carrie” or “The Shining” have dealt heavily in commentary passing off as subtext but the volume of this in modern indie cinema has been admirably high. Zach Cregger’s accomplished sophomore effort, “Weapons” treads this path in a deliberate fashion, punctuating all the relevant notes of this sub-genre with aplomb. It also endeavors well to pull tricks from a wide cinematic encyclopedia, resulting in a deliciously enjoyable and accessible experience at the theater.

“Weapons” surrounds a mysterious event in an archetypal American suburb where 17 third graders, all belonging to the same class, go missing one night. Trouble is, security footage shows that they all seem to have left home on their own volition, running out the front door with their arms stretched wide open to the side. Another curious wedge in this mystery is that only one kid in the class has remained, along with the class teacher. After a brief vocal introduction to this premise, “Weapons” drops us into the aftermath of this event and the unfortunate ripples it creates in the community.
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​The ingenuity of the movie is in how it shifts its focal points to relatively unconventional areas to both dramatic as well as documentarian effects. We wade through the wake of the kids’ disappearance by being witness to how five members of the community are dealing with the shock, portrayed in somewhat non-linear, slightly overlapping episodes. Justine, the class teacher is targeted by the community under suspicion of having done something to the kids. She has a troubled relationship with propriety and starts scratching under unwarranted surfaces in the hopes of finding clues that could solve the puzzle she has been slammed into. Questioning her innocence and also everything else around him, is Archer, the father of one of the missing children. He has been sucked into the vortex of grief, anger, and incredulity of the situation and fashions himself into a vigilante. We also meet Marcus, the principal of the school trying to run a crumbling ship, and Paul, an alcoholic cop who is down on his luck and can’t seem to stop making questionable choices. The quintuple is completed by a seemingly non-related junkie whose affliction compels him into the wrong places at the right times. ​

And party they will. “Peanut Butter Falcon” takes the both of them on an unsuspecting, dangerous, riotous, and even extremely cathartic journey. Apparently influenced by the classic Huckleberry Finn adventures, the movie finds emotional buoyancy in its characters and their interactivity, delivered by clear, original writing and composition. Lebouf and Gottsagen are exceptional in their imbibing of these roles - honest, visceral, plugged in. Dakota Johnson’s frazzled caretaker Eleanor, tasked solely with the hapless recovery of Zac back to the senior center - offers effective levity to the intense chemistry between the other two rowdier leads. Her pursuit inevitably brings the three together into one serendipitous unit - a found family forged by compassion and humane choice.

Through this journey, Tyler and Zac’s fraternity takes us through a cycle of revelations of their inner selves - of grit, kindness, sympathy, penance, and redemption - all under the pretext of a very funny yet charming endeavor. Zac, having grown up watching wrestling videos and ads for a wrestling school in South Carolina, escapes the senior facility to train at said school and become a wrestler. Tyler, having recently lost his brother, might be looking for an emotional anchor, a bond with a bodily soul that can cut through the rugged molasses of grief encircling him. Tyler takes it upon himself to train Zac whilst on their search for the wrestling school, a venture that helps them both deny the shortcomings of fate and burn brushes in search of alternate trails.
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​“Peanut Butter Falcon”s biggest triumph, in a world of cinema that is increasingly devoid of optimism, is finding the notion of sheer unadulterated hope and joy. Even at the risk of appearing cheesy, it stays stubbornly in a rosy realm, and manages to win you over. That win doesn’t come about by a simplistic formula of a clean 3-act structure or a gratifying climactic elevation aided by pop music revelry. There is surrealism, for sure, but also, there is a staunch faith that the universe is perpetually barreling towards all things positive, aided by people who have the best at their heart despite their darker proclivities. And amidst these beautiful people, you find a family. You find that you’re not alone, cheered on by the goodwill of compassionate souls egging you onto whatever crazy endeavor you have lined up next. You find a world unbridled by the chains of convention, governed only by rules you make up.

Of which, rule #1 is to party.

With a semi-satirical accent, the first few minutes of “Promising Young Woman” manage to both clearly establish and protest the painfully ludicrous reality women experience on a daily basis, in the face of misogyny, sexism, and wanton sexual harassment. A trio of male colleagues, befitting all the slanderous accompaniments of the term “bro”, are at a bar half-drunk, and cribbing about a female colleague’s rational outcries about workplace discrimination. They deem themselves rightful in their petty arguments. Noticing a very drunk woman slouched over on a couch, their discourse then pivots to moral-shaming her - about alcohol abuse, provocative attire, promiscuity, the works. One among the trio approaches her under the veil of helping her, and before you know it, the woman is at his apartment. Pretending and proclaiming to be a nice guy, he then proceeds to force himself upon her, while she faintly protests. That’s when the tables turn.
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​Writer-Director Emerald Fennell curates the movie with an amusing irony. Cassie’s life is surrounded by dazzling, vivid colors. Some of the people surrounding her are genuinely nice, yet are complacent, shoving past traumas under the proverbial carpets of life. Perhaps, they have somehow found the resolve to move on, perhaps fighting the good fight in their own unprovocative, conventional ways. Cassie cannot bring herself to make sense of this. Incidentally, she meets a former classmate and ends up dating him. His relationship with Cassie opens the doors for possible and ultimate retribution for her. The movie even swindles us into its mellow rhythms with an affable soundtrack, that includes the likes of Paris Hilton’s “Stars are Blind”. But a stark and shocking hit of reality is always around the corner.
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Carey Mulligan is stellar in the movie, effortlessly switching between the bright hues and the dark ones. Cassie is no hardened vigilante - there is love, strained resolve, and vulnerability under her skin and Mulligan channels this sharply, to the point of smartly employing the subtle tenor in her voice. Benjamin Kracun’s visuals carry the aforementioned dual tone of the movie well, the frames popping vividly on the surface but the movements defining its wryness.