TRIO #28
Friday May 15 2026
I love going to the movies. I love saying “large popcorn with layered butter,” I love talking through the trailers, I love the anticipation of the dimming lights. I’ve even started to take comfort in those sinister ads from the provincial government that Cineplex now plays before each screening. I’ve been to the movies a lot lately. Here’s a recap of what I’ve seen.
Rumour has it there’s a script that’s been floating around Hollywood for years, a heavily fictionalized account of Michael Jackson as seen through the eyes of Bubbles the Chimp, who watches from the sidelines as his owner becomes ever more deranged. Michael has no such originality, ambiguity, or tension, but instead presents a rosier fantasy in which a lovably eccentric pop star solves all of his problems with a catchy tune and a team of benevolent suits. Produced by the surviving Jackson clan (minus Paris and Janet, whose existence the movie completely erases), Michael is a clumsy attempt at hagiography, but Jaafar Jackson does a decent job impersonating his uncle, an (alleged) pedophile around whom an entire industry of impersonation has been built.
The Devil Wears Prada 2 spins millennial nostalgia-bait into a mediation on cultural legacy, the death of print media lending the whole thing some gravitas. The strongest part of the movie, held over from its predecessor, is the chemistry between Anne Hathaway, Meryl Streep, Emily Blunt, and Stanley Tucci, who play off each other like a seasoned troupe. Hathaway’s salt-of-the-earth love interest and army of Gen Z assistants are underwritten and under-utilized (why wasn’t Caleb Hearon given any jokes?), but I was charmed by Justin Theroux, who offers an fresh take on tech-nerd-turned-oligarch. I had fun in the theatre but left feeling bitter, the central conflict boiling down to a bidding war between billionaires. If the first movie celebrates integrity over ambition, its sequel abandons integrity to keep the lights on. The movie’s theatrical release was timed to coincide with the Bezos-backed Met Gala, a depressing example of art imitating life.
I saw Blue Heron on Mother’s Day, the first one since my mother passed. The debut feature of Canadian director Sophy Romvari, the movie follows a Hungarian family newly arrived in Vancouver Island whose eldest son, a despondent teen with slouched shoulders, exhibits increasingly anti-social behaviour. Observed through the eyes of his younger sister, at first as a child and then as an adult, Blue Heron is a domestic drama that unfurls into a surreal exploration of grief, memory, family history, social work, “official” documentation, “unofficial” documentation, language, trees, ocean, and wind. I left the theatre in tears. It’s exactly what I needed.
Til next time,
Cason
PS. I’m leading the next session of THE READING TYPE at Type Books Junction. For this edition we’re reading Brittany Newell’s Soft Core, my favourite book from last year, a psychological thriller set in a San Francisco strip joint. Join us for what I hope will be a lively discussion on Thursday June 11th at 7pm. That gives you four weeks to read it! We have plenty of copies available in-store; if you want to drop by and pick one up, I’ll be working this Sunday.
