Children abide (or don’t) in this week’s new movie releases, including The Florida Project and Goodbye Christopher Robin
Matthew Lickona 3 p.m., Oct. 20
Not really an Andy Warhol nor even a Paul Morrissey movie, but rather a Jed Johnson. (Who is he, you wonder? He's a veteran of the sound department on the Warhol-Morrissey movies, promoted herewith to the director's chair.) The undiscriminating misanthropy, the grotesque comedy, and the boringly belligerent tastelessness owe a lot to John Waters, Curt McDowell, and above all, the bard of the Bronx, George Kuchar. The exaggerated dollhouse decor and petty bourgeois pathos have been cribbed, probably, from Rainer Werner Fassbinder. The acting, at least, is in the old Warhol idiom (nasal, phlegmatic, insincere), even if the cast is more in the mainstream (Perry King, Susan Tyrrell, Stefania Casini, Carroll Baker). As a penny-pinching Queens matron who runs an at-home electrolysis parlor and a dial-an-assassin operation on the side, Baker is appearing in her first American film in a decade, and she has perhaps her best-ever vehicle for her tense, harsh, overemphatic, bitchy voice: "Why do we have all these leaflets here? I told you to leave them in laundrymats, supermarkets, places women will see them. Why can't you use your own initiative?" 1977.