Schmear Hunter's Brainwash [91]
Unpacking the Hype, Elevating the Unknown: 'Nobody 2,' 'Punch-Drunk Love'
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Hunters,
EXTREMELY exciting week on NO NOTES and on The SchmearCast, as Sena Adjei and I were joined by Weapons Director Zach Cregger for a lightning round of questions about his influences, on-set wisdom, Resident Evil, and much more.
We also spoke to Weapons Production Designer Tom Hammock about bringing the creepy banality of “Maybrook” to life and what horror movie has the best production design.
You can watch these conversations on NO NOTES or listen to them in full on The SchmearCast.
There, they are preceded by an in-depth review of the film, as I was joined by horror expert Rachel Lydia Barker (Girl on Film) to discuss Weapons’ performances, filmmaking, and meaning. No stone was left unturned.
Tomorrow, I’ll be back with thoughts on the first two episodes of Alien: Earth, so check that out if you haven’t yet.
ALSO
TIFF 50 is fast approaching. If you’ll be in Toronto for the festival, please let me know! I’ll be back representing all things Schmear as well as The Cinegogue, and I couldn’t be more excited.
With all that said, let’s get into today’s edition:
The Hype
NOBODY 2 (Theaters): this Bob Odenkirk action vehicle is nothing more (or less) than what it has to be
The Rewind
I confronted my feelings about PTA and Adam Sandler’s PUNCH-DRUNK LOVE…
NOBODY 2 (Theaters)
What is it: Suburban dad Hutch Mansell, a former lethal assassin, is pulled back into his violent past after thwarting a home invasion, setting off a chain of events that unravels secrets about his wife Becca's past and his own.
Watch if you like: Nobody, John Wick, Atomic Blonde, Crank, Banshee
News and Notes:
Released yesterday
Sequel to Nobody (2021)
Schmear’s Verdict: A brainless, Bob Odenkirk-led entertainment that delivers on its promises of ridiculous, nasty kills, scenery-chewing performances, and lower-case e entertainment
Nobody surprised many in 2021 for its competent thrills, but more than anything for its Bob Odenkirk-as-John-Wick turn. For Better Call Saul fans, this was a glorious surprise—seeing Slippin’ Jimmy go Dirty Harry—and though I haven’t thought about it a day since, I gladly dragged my ass to Nobody 2 to see Bob O throw fisticuffs again.
Out is Ilya Naishuller; in is Indonesian director Timo Tjahjanto, who relishes gnarly kills, booby-trapped action, and, most importantly, letting Odenkirk shine. This movie is in on the joke, and all the better for it—a true brainless entertainment, uninterested in any deeper messages or meaning beyond a swift kick in the ass.
Hutch Mansell takes his family to a shabby Wisconsin waterpark, desperately in need of a break from being an assassin, only to uncover a Sharon Stone-led crime syndicate and a crooked cop played by a shit-eating Colin Hanks. It’s as preposterous as it sounds but entirely serviceable, especially as it builds to a Rube Goldberg carnival siege that hits the requisite pleasure centers.
No pathos, no purpose, just smooth-brained action carried out by likable performers. For as pointless as the movie was textually, my theater seemed to love it, with everyone leaving after 90 minutes grinning, myself included.
If Bob wants to keep making these, I’ll keep watching them.
Punch-Drunk Love (2002)
Punch-Drunk Love was always the thorn in my side when it came to my favorite director’s output. With One Battle After Another approaching and my PTA rewatch in full swing, I knew I’d need to face my Barry Egan–shaped demon.
I blame a lack of maturity and an underdeveloped empathy for my earlier failure to connect with Adam Sandler’s tetchy, possibly-on-the-spectrum, anguished lover-boy. He drifts through this discordant, dreamy film, making illogical, almost alien decisions—worlds away from the grand, history-shaping movements of Daniel Plainview or Lancaster Dodd.
From that harmonium drop-off to Robert Elswit’s euphoric lens flares to the cortisol-soothing gradients of visual artist Jeremy Blake, everything that once eluded me suddenly clicked.
Perhaps nothing was more special to behold than Sandler himself. Even watching Happy Gilmore 2—universally panned, hailed as the “death of cinema”—I couldn’t help sensing a patina of soulfulness and truth in the Sandman: a never-grow-up immaturity now peppered with a gray weariness. In Punch-Drunk Love, he perfects this duality—one moment the embodiment of childlike innocence, the next bearing the weight of the cosmos.
Visually, it’s funny to revisit the film and imagine just how much Sandler’s BFF Ben Stiller cribbed from it for Severance—the stark whites, the hallway runs, the blue suit, and the discordance. For such a distinctively original-looking film, it’s surprising how rarely it’s visually cited.
The jazzy, fidgety claustrophobia of its first half eventually opens up to a Hawaiian section that’s warmer and more expansive, as Barry lets love in and his consciousness widens.
For Paul Thomas Anderson, it’s now clear Punch-Drunk Love was a cleansing tonic—a break from the (masterfully) prefab, referential ’70s obsessions of Hard Eight, Boogie Nights, and Magnolia. It marked the start of a stranger, more idiosyncratic path.
While Punch-Drunk Love still isn’t my favorite of his films, it clears the deck for the ones that are—a brisk, clarifying 90-minute purification that shouldn’t be overlooked or downgraded. If anything, it might be the skeleton key to unlocking the auteur’s next evolution.
Thanks for reading!