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If you have ever been curious about this case and OJ beyond just memes and media anecdotes, this series masquerading as a feature documentary, presumably for awards purposes, is definitive in terms of the volume of information. More importantly, if your primal desire is to find a clear answer to the question of whether he did or didn't do it, this is the wrong one to watch. I personally think that any attempt at musing and conjecturing about how it couldn't have been him turns out to be a ragebait 9 out of 10 times. With that one exception being a person whose confidence in OJ's innocence is the least concerning belief they possess.

Regardless, the narrative primarily focuses on how he was found not guilty. All the steps leading to that verdict are illuminated, and to achieve this, the documentary zooms out waaay back into the 1960s. It traces the path of a man who seemingly transcended race but immediately retreated back into the minority cloak the moment he came under scrutiny. Be prepared for the first few hours to focus not on O. J. or Nicole, but on the city of Los Angeles and its finest. The director's main goal was predominantly to evoke sympathy for the verdict or, rather, portraying it as some sort of inevitable bubble of dissatisfaction that burst loudly during the trial, with reverberations heard around the world. I don't understand what kind of empathy this obviously racially driven circus is meant to inspire when one of the jurors openly admits they acquitted him out of spite. Wow, I guess this absolutely gross example of the justice system caving in under the weight of outrage over inequity was really warranted. The biggest joke is on Marcia Clark, who not only tries her hardest to throw Darden under the bus for the screw-ups in their conduct but also voices one of the most naive and laughable beliefs I've ever heard. She genuinely thought that staffing the jury with Black women was going to be in her favor because she sincerely believed they would sympathize with a dead white model over a black man. Nothing but the most sheltered white liberal existence can bring forth such a glaring lapse in judgment.

I am a tad disappointed. Not because this is an abysmal adaptation of the book. Frankly, I don't think it's possible to adapt and preserve Gray's narrative design. Since the book is a rollercoaster of unreliable narrators recounting events after the fact. Nor do I believe Tony McNamara would have been the right person for the job anyway. He did the only thing that was necessary. The core idea from the novel is carried over with all its hyperbolic zest. So, who cares if the Scottish nationalist elements are diminished to the point where the movie begins in London now? Nobody present-day is going to read it for metaphors about Scotland's auxiliary status on the island. They are reading it for congenial feminist fantasy. And that fantasy is what disappoints me, or rather, how Yorgos Lanthimos chose to delineate it. I love his movies. The offbeat, dour, and pitiless. Presenting characters with an outlandish scenario. Poor Things felt like a halfhearted imitation of that approach in its story. Lanthimos, of course, has made films about societal expectations (The Lobster) and power and authority (Dogtooth), but he was never this dull about it.

It is this inane feminist fantasy that is so jarring. The erroneous reverie that if a woman that was born into society was never privy to the pestilent patriarchal principles and ubiquitous social norms, she would be the freest and most unyielding woman on the planet. She would be so beyond any man's control or manipulation. It would literally drive them into insane asylums. Take that, polite society. While all the sheep have to conform and make concessions, Bella Baxter is going to do furious jumping on every elongated shaft because she feels like it, and this is the real freedom, acting on the most basic desires described by Maslow. And you know what? Unlike many of the notions in the movie, this one actually has a good point. That is judging by the reactions to this movie and its numerous sex scenes. It is indeed proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that haphazard nudity and sex unsettled the "polite" society to such an extent that every third review has no takeaways except "This is pedophilia, and I'm literally shaking."

In reality, by senselessly swaying this interpretation of free will and freedom that should not be cohering with societal norms, the movie inadvertently makes a case for this freedom should extend to everything, not just women's aspirations for complete and indulgent power over their sexual proclivities. By extension, why would Bella be frowning upon Godwin reviving her and creating another spare in her absence? It is his free will. Who says it is inappropriate? The law? The law that exists and is upheld because it's acknowledged by society in the same way gender roles and societal norms are? You can't pick and choose what to ignore when they all stem from the same root of collective recognition. This is what Poor Things is: cursory empowerment and a fantasy of how grandiose it would be if we all simply disregarded polite society's hyperspecific conventions (that only concern Bella's journey and vision of the world). Of course, the title refers to all the characters who are supposedly trapped within conventions that attempt to impose control over women in a multitude of ways. However, I genuinely don't see a strong case to call any of the male characters in the movie fully developed people. They feel like mere echoes of their counterparts in the book. Some are compacted to such a degree that they become something else completely.

Like McCandless, whom I was initially so flabbergasted by until I found that the intent of him being a spineless schmuck with no sense of self-worth was deliberately done to establish an unreliable narrator. In the movie, this is played straight. He is the only "good man" because he is meek and has no ambitions beyond being with Bella, regardless of whether she even loves him. Why is he okay with this when he clearly wasn't prior to her departure? I don't know. But he is not alone in these arbitrary switches of desires towards her, dictated by nothing but the above-mentioned fantasy. The same goes for Duncan Wedderburn, delightfully played by Mark Ruffalo. Nothing in the story even denotes that he sees his relationship with Bella as anything more than a fling. He basically just whisks away someone's toy. It's that petty and secondary for him. So his sudden heel turn, begging her to return and then going insane, is so fatuously written in service of making Bella's growth appear more imposing that it makes me sneer. All of this indulgence could have been remedied if Lanthimos had actually augmented the narrative with his greatest strength. The sullen, ambiguous, and borderline depressing ending that truly makes you reflect on the oppressive societal confines it satirizes. Not here, cheery and gratified. Society is subverted and bested. Even her French prostitute is here, all smiles. Vacuous wish-fulfillment tripe.

At this point in this review, it would be quite exasperating that the score clearly does not match what I think of the movie. But the theme is not the whole movie. It never is. Thankfully. Because if nothing else, Poor Things is genuinely entertaining and beautiful. Forget the ingenious and whimsical production design and costumes. The color palette itself quite literally reflects the maturing of Bella's brain. First devoid of color as a baby, then transitioning to too much color as a teen, ending with the standard palette of an adult woman. The framing and extensive camera movements are always amazing in Lanthimos movies. Not an exception here. Maybe the severe overuse of fisheye and bokeh will bother some but not me. The only thing I felt dubious about was the peephole shots. The score was great. It's an unnerving noise, as if it were the lament of a broken doll with a very distinct ambiance. It's unorthodox, but that's the point.

And as I said before, the acting is terrific. With a few surprises I didn't know about. It is always delightful when Kathryn Hunter appears. Bless her. However, I don't share the overwhelming praise for Emma Stone's performance. It is good, but the raving sentiment that she somehow perfectly shows the transitions of her age through the acting is something I wholly disagree about. It's the costumes and makeup that convince you of her maturity. Not her. Aside from her baby phase of awkward movements, there is no real distinction between the teenage sex-obsessed self and the matured one in the third act. Yes, she is less stupid, but that's the writing, not the acting. She still delivers everything with that deadpan, matter-of-fact, wide-eyed emphasis. But that can be chalked up to just general pacing too.

Following the same structure as his previous work, John Waters invites viewers to another Divine freak-off. The path of self-immolation for the sake of clout begins fairly grounded, at least as much as this characterization can be applied to Waters' films. However, this path quickly devolves into an outright absurd chase after the corruption masked by the satirical emancipation of a woman from her tyrannical, cha-cha-less household. Dawn Davenport will not endure the indignity of a disappointing Christmas present. She will, however, gladly inject eyeliner into her veins if it means gaining more limelight. The obvious jabs at the media circle that surrounds outright murderers, perpetuating their infamy, are evident even in the credits, which include a shoutout to one of the Manson family members. This theme is fairly ahead of its time, even though it is not entirely new to Waters films.

Aside from the exaggerated acting of Divine and the rest of the cast, the brightest spot of the movie is Edith Massey. She brings a marvelous amount of ham to the story. So is the completely believable daughter of Davenport, played by Mink Stole. Oh, and the title theme. A real wormy one. Lived for quite some time in my head.

By and large, Female Trouble settles on a far less offensive and revolting approach. So, if that's what you value in Waters's schlock (and I'm calling it that affectionately), you might find it somewhat disappointing. However, its clear narrative cohesion and concrete ending that doesn't require anyone having to eat dog excrement make it a much more self-reliant comedy.