Apartment 7A (dir. Natalie Erika James)
There’s a huge problem inherent to Apartment 7A, the 56-year dormant prequel to the absolute masterpiece that is Rosemary’s Baby. Namely, what’s the point of its existence?
I say this not in the typical way we film nerds tend to scoff at sequels, remakes, and reboots, but rather in reference to a functional, narratively unsustainable issue that turns this misguided experiment into a sort of Schrödinger’s prequel. What it comes down to is this: Apartment 7A only works if you haven’t seen Rosemary’s Baby. Why? Because it is centered around the exact same mystery of the original film: Just what really is going on with the nice older couple who wishes to assist our down-on-her-luck protagonist? If you’ve seen Rosemary’s Baby you already know.
But let’s say you haven’t seen it. Well guess what, you’ve just ruined one of the all-time great films for yourself by watching Apartment 7A first. Quite the conundrum.
Now to be fair, anyone with a functioning set of eyes and even a modicum of pop-culture knowledge already knows the main hook of Polanski’s film, and the pleasure comes from less from surprise and more seeing how the story is dispensed, and furthermore, how the steady drip of dread affects the titular character. When the breadth of Rosemary’s situation finally hits, it hits hard (again, if you haven’t seen the prequel). Unfortunately the dread isn’t nearly as masterfully concocted in 7A, so it ultimately just feels like a watered down version of the same story.
If you can get past the film’s unavoidable narrative self-destruction, Apartment 7A proves to be a handsome and well-made film. Garner gives a ferocious performance as the doomed Terry Gionoffrio, culminating in a chilling finale that has the young actress digging much deeper than the material warrants. This is unsurprising given director/co-writer Natalie Erika James’ previous work. Relic is an equally stunning visual treat that houses exceptional acting craft. James knows what she’s doing, and her tremendous skills as a filmmaker suggests that Apartment 7A is the best possible version of a project that fundamentally doesn’t work.
Big credit to the casting department for finding suitable replacements for the crossover characters (the back half of this movie takes place adjacent to Rosemary’s Baby — you’ll remember Terry appears in the first reel of Polanski’s film). Many familiar faces are played by new actors, and all of them fit astonishingly well. Most notably are the new versions of Roman and Minnie Castavet, the latter of which landed Ruth Gordon an Oscar. Here they are played by Kevin McNally and the great Dianne Wiest, respectively. Wiest is a real hoot. She seems to be having a blast with this thankless role, and her fun translates to our fun.
AJ Goes to the Dog Park (dir. Toby Jones)
AJ (AJ Thompson) is content with his life. His day consists of working at a low-stress job, taking his dogs to the dog park, and then falling asleep on the couch while watching YouTube videos. He doesn’t want any promotions at work, nor is he interested in taking on any responsibilities that may elevate his heart rate. He’s a happy, schlubby guy whose needs are met. Nothing more, nothing less. Honestly, it’s aspirational as hell.
The house of cards upon which his peaceful, unremarkable life rests comes crumbling down one day when the power hungry mayor (Crystal Cossette Knight) shuts down the local dog park and replaces it with a blog park, where bloggers can blog to their hearts content, despite the fact that we’re a few years out from the heyday of blogging culture. AJ’s life spirals out of control as a result, and he soon decides that the only way to get back to his happily meager existence is to become mayor and reopen the dog park himself.
You’d be incorrect to assume that this playful film follows the political career of the titular AJ, because you’re probably assuming that it takes place in a normal world. It does not. AJ Goes to the Dog Park is set in an absurdist cartoon world that is reminiscent of Looney Tunes, Airplane!, and the deranged universe in which most of Weird Al’s music videos are set. In a year where Hundreds of Beavers brought innovative slapstick back to the big screen, AJ is bringing back the dry, goofy humor of a ZAZ comedy, but with the sprightly playfulness of our post-Arrested Development world. Wordplay, rhyming, and non-stop puns fuel the dialogue while the images put forth are subtly calamitous. Literally every line is a joke and literally every frame features some sort of comedic beat. As is standard with such expressly goofy material, not every joke lands, but it’s such a non-stop barrage of silliness that even the lamest jokes are well in the rear view before they register as duds. The gag-to-laugh ratio is high, and for every bombastic bit of comedy there are two equally hilarious gags that don’t announce themselves as aggressively.
Since it takes place in a clown world and remains a low-stakes affair, the film starts to run out of juice toward the end of its short runtime (it’s also just plain exhausting to laugh so consistently for so long), but the performers keep it alive and lively long enough to get across the finish line before it fully wears out its welcome. Everyone commits to the bit and nobody winks at the camera — an essential omission when you’re dealing in dry comedy.
