Smile starts with a creepy premise, and for the first half or so of its eventually interminable nearly two-hour run time, it keeps matters reasonably creepy.  But what director/screenwriter Parker Finn ultimately delivers is a bloated, cliché-riddled retread of tired horror tropes and a monster visually defined by the ultimate horror: a failure to smize.

It begins with promise; at the beginning, Smile seems like it’s going to use the genre to explore generational trauma and the terrifying way that something completely out of your control—your genetics—can define your life in a way that can seem almost fated.

Our hero is Rose Cotter (Sosie Bacon), a therapist who learned firsthand as a child the lethal toll mental illness—in this case depression and addiction—can take on a person’s life.

But after broaching these ideas, Smile takes them nowhere but exploitation land. The repetitive images of Rose’s graphic family trauma writ large on the screen start to feel manipulative, particularly with a third-act plot “twist” that sets the narrative spiraling into ever crueler and nonsensical plot machinations. There’s eventually a Big Monster Reveal scene when we see the actual malevolent force behind the rictus-grins that have been tormenting Rose. It is at once a manifestation of Freud’s worst misogynistic nightmare and deeply underwhelming.

We meet Rose as she sees her in-hospital patients, working in a meticulous Olaplex bun with people in various stages of dysfunction. Smile begins its descent after a patient dies by suicide during a session with Rose. Glaring reality check aside (This is a locked facility. Nobody thought to check this suicidal patient’s pockets for a sharps before they left her alone in a room with a doctor who hadn’t seen her before?), the incident deeply unsettles Rose, not the least because the patient was grinning while she opened up her aorta.

The incident is the latest in a string of similarly lurid deaths, and Rose’s challenge is to avoid being the next. Alas, Smile starts to feel as if it were written by an inept committee. Any thoughtful or true exploration of mental illness and how it manifests is cast aside in favor of the increasingly gory encounters that torment Rose. In the end, it’s a lot of trauma and not much point. R, 115 min.

Wide release in theaters

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Todd Field first introduces us to Lydia Tár (Cate Blanchett) as she prepares for an interview with the New Yorker’s Adam Gopnik, played by himself, who precedes her monologue with a never-ending flush of accolades that includes an Oscar, an Emmy, a Grammy, and a Tony. There is no denying that Lydia Tár is an irresistible force, naturally weaved into the world of contemporary classical music. The prestigious conductor studied under Leonard Bernstein, heads the Berlin Philharmonic, and aspires to record Gustav Mahler’s fifth symphony. She lives comfortably in a stunning apartment with her partner and her first violinist, played by Nina Hoss. However, Tár is deeply paranoid, struck by an unnerving sensation that her legacy is in jeopardy. In short, it is.

Motivated by her lust and obsessions, Tár’s legacy is vulnerable. Despite her austere and controlled demeanor, Tár is threatened by her impulses. She faces simmering rumors concerning inappropriate relationships with young women under her mentorship. She consistently neglects her assistant and aspiring conductor Francesca, played by Noémie Merlant, who slowly becomes disillusioned by Tár’s dismissals and arrogance. And her intoxicating affinity for a young Russian cellist complicates her artistic and home lives simultaneously. Suddenly, Tár’s legacy is melting into obscurity, leading to an explosive unraveling of contradictions, paranoia, and legacy itself. 

Tár is mesmerizing. Cate Blanchett’s masterful performance captivates the screen for nearly three hours as the principal character precipitously heads toward her downfall or strings together her magnum opus. Blanchett is truly convincing, making the audience believe that Lydia Tár is alive. With his third film (the first in 16 years), Field’s achievement is Tár’s immense scope. This precise, cutting story of a single conductor translates to a massive, impressively cogent commentary on power and its temptations. Tár is momentous, despite its unfulfilled plot points, but by the end, these abandoned feints add to Tár’s fleeting legacy. 158 min.

In select theaters; wide release October 28

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In this adaptation of a popular 1965 children’s book, Javier Bardem, who is one of cinema’s greatest living performers, receives licks from a 2,000-pound CGI reptile that sings. Bardem makes you believe it’s really happening, too, because that’s the kind of acting muscle that he brings to the table, in even the most canned of productions. Every minute of the overlong Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile that does not feature him is worse off for it, and seeing that he’s only in roughly a third of them, it’s a bit of a struggle on the whole.

It’s how the big green beast croons its melodies that best distills the movie’s various disappointments—all failing Bardem’s admirable, nourishing commitment to transformative cartoon joy. Lyle, voiced by Canadian pop star Shawn Mendes, sounds auto-tuned and generic and is animated with a similar lack of imagination. Rather than embrace the unique possibilities that come with depicting a biped croc perambulating through a human metropolis, the production opted for bland photorealism. The look is not just uninspired, but also nudges the whole affair onto the wrong side of the dividing line between the endearing and the uncanny. The songs, seemingly written for unaired practice rounds of American Idol, don’t help any.

Had the movie embraced its creepier glimmers, Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile may have been an appropriately horrific October release. Instead, it bears only the suggestion of such a thing and never finds distinction. None of this may matter to you if you’re merely looking for something to get your kids out of the house. In which case, you can stay awake for Bardem’s mirthful embodiment of a greasy vagrant showman grifter who lives in melodic defiance of his debtors and haters, and take a nap through the rest. PG, 106 min.

Wide release in theaters

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While 1993’s Hocus Pocus was neither a critical nor financial smash hit upon its release, every subsequent Halloween has enhanced its reputation, so much so that clamors for a sequel have grown and grown. Twenty-nine years after the original, audiences have finally got their wish with Hocus Pocus 2, which sees Bette Midler, Sarah Jessica Parker, and Kathy Najimy reunite as the Sanderson sisters once again. This time around, the three witches are accidentally resurrected by high school students Becca (Whitney Peak) and Izzy (Belissa Escobedo). They then have to stop the trio from killing Mayor Traske (Tony Hale), the father of their estranged best friend Cassie (Lilia Buckingham), the direct descendant of the reverend who banished the Sandersons from Salem back in 1653. 

The opening 30 minutes of Hocus Pocus 2 are a slog to get through. Despite the presence of Hale (Arrested Development), Sam Richardson (Veep), and Hannah Waddingham (Ted Lasso), the comedy is trite, the teenage actors are dull, and the attempted plot is needlessly convoluted. Worst of all, though, Midler, Parker, and Najimy are completely absent. However, as soon as the trio turn up, Hocus Pocus 2 immediately becomes compelling and enjoyable. Midler in particular is utterly magnetic, but all three bounce off each other with such glee, and inject so much fun and nostalgia into the proceedings, that all of the film’s obvious flaws immediately feel trivial. PG, 103 min.

Disney+

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Reader senior writer Ben Joravsky riffs on the day’s stories with his celebrated humor, insight, and honesty, and interviews politicians, activists, journalists and other political know-it-alls. Presented by the Chicago Reader, the show is available by 4 p.m. Tuesdays through Fridays at chicagoreader.com/joravsky—or wherever you get your podcasts. Don’t miss Oh, What a Week!–the Friday feature in which Ben & producer Dennis (aka, Dr. D.) review the week’s top stories. Also, bonus interviews drop on Saturdays, Sundays and Mondays. 

Chicago Reader podcasts are recorded on Shure microphones. Learn more at Shure.com.

Chicago Reader senior writer Ben Joravsky discusses the day’s stories with his celebrated humor, insight, and honesty on The Ben Joravsky Show.

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Dr. Barbra Joan Frankenstreisand (Tyler Anthony Smith)—that ultimate hyphenate: superstar-mad scientist—has commandeered the stage at the Raven Room at Redline VR bar for what she calls a “clone-cert” to duplicate her beloved and very dead pooch. 

Few theater companies understand characters toeing the line between stardom and monstrousness like Hell in a Handbag Productions. Frankenstreisand, just in time for the Halloween season, crosses that line brilliantly into horror parody in its hilarious depiction of Dr. Frankenstreisand’s inept attempts at cloning and/or necromancy (the main characters initially are unsure whether they are duplicating the dog or bringing her back to life). 

Frankenstreisand Through 10/31: Thu 7:30 PM, Fri-Sat 9:15 PM; also Mon 10/31 7:30 PM; no performance Sat 10/8, Redline VR, 4702 N. Ravenswood, handbagproductions.org, $40 VIP, $30 at the door, $25 advance

The good doctor is accompanied onstage by her lab assistant, the Hunchback (Dakota Hughes, also the musical director), whose eagerness to please their mistress is matched only by their ineptness, thanks to a limited attention span and stumps for hands. Housekeeper Frau Fräulein (Brian Shaw), the very embodiment of weltschmerz, offers dry commentary and loads CDs as the cast cycles through highlights from the Streisand songbook.

Making occasional appearances are also Judy Garland (Elizabeth Lesinski), Oprah (Robert Williams), and Barry Gibb (Nicky Mendelsohn)—who ends the show looking as battered as Frankenstreisand’s dog—among others. 

The real Streisand’s reported ego and perfectionism are no secret to her public, so the intersection of her persona with your average mad scientist’s inherent hubris and existential terror is a natural fit for Hell in a Handbag. The company’s shows frequently deconstruct the personas of iconic stars by playing to the audience’s knowledge of their ghoulish behavior behind closed doors. At the same time, Handbag shows speculate on the anxiety, neuroses, and survival mechanisms that brought the star to those behaviors in the first place (cofounder David Cerda’s recurring depiction of Joan Crawford comes to mind). 

Smith offers a terrific depiction of Frankenstreisand and really looks and sounds the part—with one exception where he lip-synchs, it’s him singing those Barbra songs. Smith’s generosity as both a writer and performer—ironic as he’s riffing on a person noted for being a control freak—is evident from all the moments the Hunchback just beams in Frankenstreisand.

Hughes, a fabulous singer, is a standout. The show is the Hunchback’s journey even more than it is Barbra’s. The Hunchback opens Frankenstreisand by elegantly entering in a fur coat as the Funny Girl overture plays (I was reminded of the opening to Cher in the 70s, wherein Cher would toss off an expensive mink when her opening number hit a key change). It’s the Hunchback who also leads the grand finale, not Barbra. 

Smith’s script and Stephanie Shaw’s direction keep the show moving along at a brisk clip, though they probably could have done with a few less “who’s on first”-type exchanges that bring everything to a halt without advancing any story or characters.  

Kudos should go to costume designer Beth Laske-Miller, especially for her exquisite re-creation of Barbra’s sheer jumpsuit from the 1968 Oscars. Special mention also should be made of the wigs by designer Keith Ryan—Dr. Frankenstreisand’s 70s perm evoking the disco/Jon Peters era and a later nod to the Bride of Frankenstein are terrific.

I have never noticed anyone’s fingernails, save for Wolverine’s and Freddy Krueger’s, in a play or movie, but makeup designer Sydney Genco needs to do Barbra Streisand’s nails in real life. Finally, Lolly Extract and Jabberwocky Marionettes’ interpretation of Frankenstreisand’s dog will likely guest star in a few of your nightmares.

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