MEGALOPOLIS. For a person who (still) uses Apocalypse Now (1979) to self-soothe, a new Francis Ford Coppola movie is kind of a big deal, no argument. The excitement of that prospect was and is tempered by several factors, though. First, there is the notion that the filmmaker in question has been busier with his wine empire, these last couple of decades, than with accessible cinematic output. That shift in Coppola's sphere of interest has coincided with the messy, often unwelcome process of growing up, taking on adult responsibilities and, for a time, receding from the fevered fascination with movies that had defined my earlier days. 

And then there were the reports that Megalopolis, perhaps the definitive 21st century passion project, was a narrative and logistical morass in production, requiring Coppola to invest almost unthinkable amounts of his own money to get the thing over the finish line. That finish line being the festival circuit, of course, with no real promise of distribution or return on investment.

But that last complication, rooted as it is in the creator's seemingly unstoppable drive to complete the thing he has envisioned, has always been part of the appeal, hasn't it? Apocalypse Now was a Philippine disaster of inestimable scale until the (never really finished) movie finally screened. And as a corollary, Coppola has always had money in motion, taking director-for-hire jobs to shore up his passion projects, be they cinematic or oenological. He has always been a hustler with grand visions; who's to say he can't, at 85, still strike some sparks? The dismal box office for Megalopolis would seem to indicate the audience at large can and will pass that judgment, but I still showed up and, well, I'm still making up my mind. 

In 21st century New Rome, an empire nearing dissolution, an eccentric artist and scion of a banking fortune strives to engineer a kinder, gentler, more accessible and adaptable future for his city. He, Cesar Catilina (Adam Driver), is possessed of grand visions and, apparently, the supernatural ability to freeze time (this serves more as poetic device than narrative one). Set against hard-headed mayor Cicero (Giancarlo Esposito), a representative of conventional wisdom and the capitalist status quo, Catilina becomes a mysterious figurehead in the growing conflict between his ever-more obscenely wealthy family and the culture at large. 

Rooted as this all is in Roman mythology, German Expressionism, Shakespearean machination and florid language, it clearly isn't for everyone. And in its conception of a parallel empire nearing the precipice, it can feel excessive, stagey and spun from visions of a bygone era. 

But it is deeply fascinating, sometimes silly and so devoted to its own grand, bizarre vision that it lingers in the mind. As he nears his own century mark, Coppola's work may not be as focused or precise as Scorsese or Mann's, but I would argue it never was. The man's been making operatic movies since the 1960s. Simply because time has passed the method by, does the method become unsound? R. 138M. BROADWAY.

MY OLD ASS, written and directed by Megan Park (The Fallout, 2021), is, on its face, almost antithetical to Megalopolis. Almost. As Elliott (Maisy Stella) prepares to leave her family's idyllic Canadian cranberry farm for college in the big city, she seems to have things figured out. The girl she's got a crush on is on board for a summer fling, her friends are by her side, and she's got a little aluminum boat with an outboard she can call her own. But when she and besties Ruthie (Maddie Ziegler) and Ro (Kerrice Brooks) embark on a camping mushroom trip, things start to slip a little. 

In the depths of said trip, Elliott meets her future, 39-year-old self (Aubrey Plaza). While both Elliotts are surprised and excited by their psychedelic union, the older version is decidedly tight-lipped, as far as any advice for the future or insights into "should" or "could." On the plus side, she remains mostly reachable by call and text after the mushrooms have worn off. 

My Old Ass pulls a clever bait and switch, luring us in with a drug comedy premise that subsequently opens into an exploration of self and (dare I say it) a romantic comedy with a distinctly modern sensibility. R. 148M. BROADWAY.

WILL & HARPER. Were one feeling cynical, one might suggest that a road-trip documentary about a very famous person — one whose star is perhaps in decline — trying to understand a friend who, later in life, has transitioned into life as a woman, is an attempt to regain some shred of cultural relevancy. In this case, Will Ferrell is in the car with Harper Steele, a longtime collaborator from Saturday Night Live. 

I'm not sure that cynicism is entirely misguided but I also think, over the course of Ferrell and Steele's journey through the heartland, whatever avarice or ulterior motive may have shadowed the project are torn down, or at least greatly diminished, by the genuine love and affection shared by the leads. Ferrell makes a few not-unpredictable missteps, but his authentic remorse and growing empathy for his friend's struggle to find an identity that truly fits, underline the true thesis of the piece with surprising effectiveness. 

Moving past the knee-jerk, OK Boomer response some of us might experience, there is something of value (even if it mostly serves older generations) here about safety and self that we could all benefit from taking in. R. 114M. NETFLIX.

John J. Bennett (he/him) is a movie nerd who loves a good car chase.

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For showtimes call: Broadway Cinema (707) 443-3456; Mill Creek Cinema 839-3456; Minor Theatre (707) 822-3456.