Reviews: 'Nightbitch,' 'Y2K' and 'Nosferatu' Highlight Common Challenges Faced In Our Current Cutthroat and Contradictory Theatrical Landscape

A fantastical hook undercuts a compelling maternal dramedy, a 90s apocalypse comedy dreams too big for its budget, and a remake of a rip-off can't escape the shadow of its bigger-scaled predecessors

I’m trying to get back into the habit of writing regular reviews, and I’m combining these three because A) I didn’t want to blast out three separate emails and B) the three films in question have a common thread.

The Amy Adams-led flick was a hoped-for Oscar contender that now is barely getting a theatrical release because “pretty good” is not good enough for this time of year when it’s not enough to just be a good movie. The Kyle Mooney-directed, nostalgia-skewing sci-fi horror comedy doesn’t have enough (money, setpieces, ideas, etc..) to fill up a feature film, existing as a banger sizzle reel that quickly peters out. Robert Eggers’ ambitious vampire melodrama is a skewed example of how film fans acclimated to less will settle for less than what used to be par for the course while pretending that they’ve never had it this good.

All three are examples of how modern cinema must deal with less money but far greater competition than in prior eras, which can result in self-defeating compromise, which in turn makes it harder to entice that theoretical moviegoer who now has 100 years of cinema available at the push of a button. And with that…

Nightbitch goes to the dogs (when it really didn’t need to)

The commercial tragedy of Night Bitch is two-fold. While initially buzzed about as a possible “Amy Adams finally wins an Oscar, dammit!” contender, the Searchlight release’s critical reception is muted enough, and its theatrical prospects are small enough to probably nullify those hopes. In a kind of “chicken or the egg” circumstance, the lack of high-end Oscar buzz is partially why – beyond just Disney monopolizing its real estate for Moana 2 – it’s only opening in just 82 theaters this weekend. This, in turn, will kneecap its commercial performance and undercut its Oscar buzz. The issue with the film, based on Rachel Yodel’s 2021 novel, is that it’s merely “pretty good” in a circumstance where theoretical greatness is required. In a less tentpole and franchise-focused time, and as always, I blame the audiences at least as much as the studios, Marielle Heller’s Nightbitch would be a solid, engaging and compelling studio programmer that didn’t live or die on its potential for Academy Awards glory.

While probably the “least,” by default, of Heller’s four theatrical directorial efforts thus far, Nightbitch still works on its own specific terms as a slice-of-life dramedy detailing the extent to which modern motherhood can and often does dehumanize its matriarchal participants. Its opening sequences, which detail the subtextual implications via overwhelming repetition and usually unrewarded minute-to-minute travails of raising young children, are almost too effective and impactful. The film hammers home its key points in the first five minutes. Moreover, in terms of Adams’ overworked and underappreciated stay-at-home mother literally going feral, the fantastical element is a kind of subtext-turned-text that’s frankly unnecessary considering the impact and potency of the real-world storytelling. And yet, that least successful element of the film, with Adams cosplaying as a dog to various degrees in ways that both distance her from her husband and her peers, is probably the very thing that got the notion of a page-to-screen adaptation greenlit in the first place.

Absent those elements, it works as a poignant and thoughtful look at how the pressures and expectations of motherhood and (to an often dueling if lesser degree) fatherhood take their toll on those tasked with raising children in a society lacking cultural and financial support. Scoot McNairy, again mediocre husband-and-father mode after Speak No Evil, is almost too broadly indifferent and oblivious. However, his third act arcs offer plausible grace notes that don’t invalidate his initial transgressions. After all, the hard work and cost/benefit analysis of being kind was part of what made A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood and Can You Ever Forgive Me? soar. The original novel was allegedly angrier, but the film strikes a tricky balance between righteous indignation and measured sympathy. At its best, Nightbitch is a transgressive fable about how working parents must essentially choose two out of three in terms of “career,” “parenting,” and “marriage” or risk doing all three insufficiently.

However, Adams didn’t need to turn into a dog for that. Even noting the source material, I’m reminded, paraphrasing from memory, of how Ben Affleck discussed how if he included at least some gunfire and car chases, he could offer the character relationships and less flamboyant storytelling that drew him to adapt Chuck Hogan's 2004 novel Prince of Thieves into The Town. While not as extreme a circumstance, Nightbitch is not unlike the rebooted Star Trek films (which spent tentpole money on tentpole-sized spectacle that the franchise didn’t need) and After Earth (which gussied up a perfectly engrossing riff on “His Father’s Son” with $130 million worth of sci-fi tropes and world-building distractions). Absent the “stay-at-home mother becomes a dog” hook, Nightbitch probably doesn’t get made. However, the commercial necessity is its artistic weak point. However, even amid Oscar season, good is not the enemy of perfect. Yes, Tully is better, but Nightbitch is still pretty good.

Y2K can’t afford to deliver on its promises.

Speaking of Amy Adams, I talk a lot about Arrival (for which, if you take its storytelling at face value, Adams could still win the Best Actress Oscar at any moment) in terms of how theatrical films over the last decade have looked, felt and often played smaller in scope and scale than what we perhaps took for granted in prior decades. While Robert Zemeckis’ Contact was a globe-spanning, cast-of-hundreds, no-expense-spared epic that positioned itself as the biggest Earthbound sci-fi drama in Hollywood history (slight exaggeration), Denis Villeneuve’s Arrival mainly was focused on a few humans in a barren warehouse attempting to communicate with a single stationary extra-terrestrial. So it’s a little ironic that Kyle Mooney’s Y2k puts so much stock in its late-1990s period piece aesthetics since its chief issue is that the 1990s version of this film, at least presuming a mainstream theatrical release, would have had the money to deliver on its large-scale premise.

The hook is simple, namely that “y2k” – the feared computer calamity that would essentially render all electronics asunder after the clocks and calendars switched from 1999 not to 2000 but 1900 – actually takes place. So, after an introductory reel featuring our underdog heroes (Jaeden Martell and Julian Dennison) and the unattainable dream girl (Rachel Zegler, in what’s arguably her first “just a normal person in a normal movie” theatrical role), the clock hits 12:01 on January 1, 2000. Right on cue, computers, automobiles and household gadgets go on a murder spree. Sure, why not? For the first half-hour, Y2K offers an authentic enough offering of small-torn suburbia in… well, not “pre-online” times, but that in-between moment where social media was confined to AOL Instant Messenger and post-Cold War and pre-9/11 world seemed on a permanent ascent. I'm not the first person to make this joke, but maybe The Matrix was right about 1999 representing the pinnacle of civilization.

The initial madcap chaos offers over-the-top machine-augmented murders, comedically ridiculous gore and at least one or two shocking deaths. But after that initial rampage, Y2K runs out of gas or, if I’m being generous, runs out of money. The final hour of the 90-minute, A24-distributed feature can’t sustain its premise because it doesn’t offer the production value, novelty or specificity to maintain our interest. And while I applaud the premature removal of certain seemingly significant characters, the core batch of survivors is comparatively run-of-the-mill. Zegler does what she can with what little she gets, while Mason Gooding is put to good if periodic use. Martell has been engaging in other pictures, including (the underrated) The Book of Henry and (the underseen) Midnight Special, but Mooney and Evan Winter’s screenplay positions him as such an audience surrogate/blank slate 90s teen rom-com lead that he’s a blank slate onscreen. It’s telling that a celebrity cameo becomes the third act’s center of attention.

Again, this is technically a disaster movie comedy about the end of the world. The quality of the human protagonists would be less of an issue if it were either funnier or more spectacular. But it’s not exceptionally amusing or insightful, and it certainly doesn’t live up to its Can’t Hardly Wait meets Westworld gimmick. It comes off as an even smaller version of Anna and the Apocalypse sans that film’s lively human characters, catchy original songs and unexpectedly poignant thematic pessimism. The result, especially after the first 30 minutes, leaves us nostalgic for a time when even a total mediocrity like 1999’s Idle Hands would have a certain level of spit-n-polish and “what you came for” premise-specific spectacle. To be fair, audiences stopped showing up for original or new-to-you genre flicks, and Idle Hands wasn’t even a hit 25 years ago. The 2024 version of Y2K only has enough premise-specific setpieces to cut a promising trailer.

No-sferatu - Dead But Not Loving It

Nosferatu is a third example of modern commercial concessions and compromises with the existing theatrical ecosystem. Robert Eggers’ visually scrumptious retelling of Bram Stoker’s Drac… I mean, F.W. Murnau's Nosferatu (whew, almost got sued) still must contend with the limitations of making a big-screen spectacular on far less money (especially when adjusted for inflation) than he might have received decades ago. This isn’t a mega-budget horror epic from one of the most prestigious directors of his era, filled with A-list movie stars and a towering sense of scope and scale with colors so vivid that it could break your VCR. I could be a jerk and call it Wish.com’s Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and it wouldn't be entirely off base. Nonetheless, it’s entertaining and often bemusing, especially if you can tune out what we used to have compared to what we’ve got now. That, and that the titular role looks like Jim Carrey’s Dr. Robotnik in Sonic the Hedgehog.

Focus Features has mostly kept Bill Skarsgård’s incarnation of the Sesame Street Slasher out of its pre-release marketing campaigns. While he is among the rare onscreen Dracs to, true to the original novel, sport a mustache, he also looks like the bad guy in Paramount’s Sonic movies. That’s not a dealbreaker. First, The Relic is still great even when you get a look at the monster and realize it looks like Snuffaluffagus. Second, Count Dracula Count Orlok is still an exceptionally unpleasant dude. Yes, he’s imposing and homicidal, but he’s frankly at his scariest when he’s just a rude, visually disgusting and all-around revolting dinner table host while poor Jonathan Harker Thomas Hutter (Nicolas Hoult) is forced just to take it. It’s a not-so-subtle commentary on how those of privilege and upper-class standing can ignore social conventions or mere pleasantries, knowing those below them will hold their breath to achieve career advancement or avoid punitive consequences.

Beyond the comparatively unique incarnation of an oft-played boogieman, Nosferatu is a conventional take on the Dracula narrative, with its few deviations coming from the 1922 silent flick on which it is officially based. The similarities are such that it’s a jolt when the Harkers are instead referred to as the Mina Harker is referred to as Elle Hutter and Willem Dafoe’s gleefully scenery-chewing vampire expert (as much as one could be back in the day) is referred to as Prof. Albin Eberhart Von Franz. Dafoe shows up around halfway through the 132-minute saga, giving the otherwise very proper and Shakespearean presentation a shot of campy energy. Considering the professor’s impishness and vocal similarities to Mel Brooks, I wouldn’t be shocked to discover that Eggers or Dafoe liked Dracula: Dead and Loving It more than I did. To be fair, Brooks’ final conventional screen comedy would mostly work save for Leslie Nielsen’s (presumably commercially motivated) miscasting, but I digress.

To say that Nosferatu is a triumph of style over substance is not necessarily a criticism. That’s especially true amid a time when theatrical feature filmmaking continues to be challenged by declining resources, a consolidated consumer base and a generation raised on a comparative literal-mindedness to cinema and storytelling. While Skarsgård intrigues and Dafoe amuses, the rest of the cast struggles to make much of an impression. Lily-Rose Depp excels in a mostly internal performance that plays her vampire-related trauma as a metaphor for casually diagnosed “hysteria.” Not to critique the critics, but the discourse arguing that placing her front-and-center is a bucking of convention smells like a kind of “Batman has never done detective work before!” or “This Halloween sequel is about generational trauma!” promotional narrative that exploits pop culture amnesia to pitch something old as something new. There’s a reason Winona Ryder got second billing in Francis Ford Coppola’s gore-drenched, passionate and unapologetically erotic bodice-ripper.

In a vacuum, Nosferatu mostly entertains. The addition, via the 1922 flick, of a city-wide plague adds to its claustrophobic, suffocating atmosphere while justifying comparatively smaller-scale opera. Hoult is – appropriately – a wet sock, while Aaron Taylor-Johnson overacts like he’s jealous of Dafoe. It’s still a remake of an unauthorized rip-off of a novel that has been adapted countless times, taking obvious inspiration from a mega-budget tentpole-sized adaptation that cannot help but render this new incarnation less spectacular and less opulent by default. Eggers fans and vampire completists will get their money’s worth, and Film Twitter (or Film BlueSky?) will convince themselves that it’s the horniest and/or most feminist vampire flick ever made. But otherwise, Nosferatu risks existing when it opens on Christmas Day as another version of asking folks to show up to the theater for an inferior version of what they can watch “for free” on VOD or DVD. After all, we have Bram Stoker’s Dracula at home.