Into the Woods I went, portraying Jack in the musical about the choices we make and why we make them. The music was complex and varied, the lyrics smart and playful, and the characters three-dimensional and fascinating. Everyone around me had that expectation and was familiar with the show; I didn’t know it at all, and I barely even remembered the writer’s name. I got to know it eventually through our music director, who would complain about irregular chords and simply mutter “ugh, Sondheim.”
So down the rabbit hole I went. The song that really hooked me was “Being Alive.” After the show closed, I was sick at home and I recalled a classmate talking about using it as an audition song, so I looked it up and found Raul Esparza’s performance of it. When I saw that video for the first time, without the context of the show or the characters or even what was entirely happening, I still managed to connect with it entirely, what the song said about commitment and how scary yet absolutely necessary it is (for many) to find fulfillment, said in such a specific way that it became universal. I finally got why the name Sondheim carried that weight, why many considered him the greatest to ever write for the musical theater. There’s so much about any song of his to analyze and appreciate – the way, for example, “Being Alive” has dissonant chords strike on phrases that reflect them (“someone to hurt you too deep”), the way the key changes as Robert’s attitude does the same. But what makes Sondheim truly great is that, despite the fact that I (and so many others) know every word he ever wrote by heart at this point, he never expected or wanted that. He wrote songs that were just as good the first time your ears ever crossed them, entirely complex but also deceptively simple. That’s what inspires me the most about him, that while he could certainly show off his vocabulary and prowess when he wanted, the most powerful moments of Sondheim shows are the simplest ones, the moments tied to the people he inhabited. Yes, Sondheim would write “while her withers wither with her” or “the hands on the clock turn but don’t sing a nocturne just yet.” He would also dispense rhymes entirely if a character required it, or end a song on the simplest, most beautiful line of the show. Those who aren’t fans find his shows too cerebral, focused on intellect rather than emotion. I couldn’t disagree more; the reason I love Sondheim is because what he cared about the most was the feeling behind the words, the human spirit he tapped into. Lyric writing was never about showing off to him, and many of the self-criticism leveled at his shows later were for lyrics that felt indulgent to him. He got subtler as he got older, with later shows that cared less and less about trick and quadruple rhymes; those later shows also contain some of the most profound lyrics he ever wrote. And while the lyrics are gorgeous, and the things easiest to share as we compare favorites or the inevitable relevance any one line will have at a moment in time, they are missing what made the emotions soar: his music, which was just as varied and distinct with every score he wrote. A show like A Little Night Music sounds entirely different from Merrily we Roll Along, as does Assassins compared to Pacific Overtures. His style is certainly distinct and identifiable no matter what mode he’s working in (dissonance abounds no matter where you look), but always for a purpose, and always with an approach entirely different from the last show he did. The music, too, was all about character – whether in establishing different themes for the people inhabiting each world or simply matching whatever feeling they had musically. It’s the most obvious in moments where he got to show off (the panic and fear reflected in the frantic pace of “Getting Married Today”), but it somehow feels like every chord reflects what’s happening, a feat that seems inhuman until you remember that Sondheim is the person penning the show. If there’s any good that’s come out of his passing, it’s been in feeling the impact he had. I’ve loved reading people’s stories, the inspiration or unity so many of us felt with his work. Teaching was a “sacred profession” to him, and so it became his second job, in masterclasses and must-have books on lyric writing, in how he would respond to anyone who wrote to him, in his generosity towards the new and the encouragement he gave to many up-and-coming artists. As a writer of non-musical theater, Sondheim still manages to be one of my main influences. The rules that he stuck by are easy to apply in any type of writing – “Content dictates form,” “God is in the details,” “Less is more” – but only as you start to write do you realize how difficult it is to abide by them. Somehow, he did. People talk of Sondheim as the reason why Rent and Hamilton exist the way they do (or most Broadway shows, for that matter) but writers from every facet of storytelling (novelists, playwrights, poets) mourn him and honor him because he influenced them too. It’s impossible not to be when someone is that thrillingly good at what they do, so endlessly inspiring by way of sheer talent on display. And yet someone who felt immortal is gone. Many of us never met him or knew him, yet he still changed our lives entirely. And so we feel a loss and a sadness where it feels like we shouldn’t - melancholy for a 91 year old stranger! Yet it still hurts that Sondheim won’t get to write anymore (for he was still working at it somehow), that whatever comes of his newest show will be somewhat incomplete. Luckily, he left a body of work many hope they can someday leave behind, shows that are funny and sad and terrifying and beautiful, and even more emotions you can expect or hope for when you see theater. New spins will be put on them, new twists to spice up the shows that feel familiar; yet even without them, will we ever tire of these shows? As I re-listen to everything this week, it all feels so timeless, and I truly hope it is. It’d be a sadder world if, 500 years from now, all of his music had vanished. So many people wouldn’t know what they’d missed, never having believed such joy could exist. It’s the music that has taught me, moved me, and continues to every time I revisit it. And it’s mine - ours - forever. If you're interested, here's a video of me singing one of my favorite Sondheim songs. May his memory be a blessing.
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Maybe it’s because we were stuck inside for most of the year, but I watched a lot of great films in 2020. More than any other year, we needed them in our lives, to break up the mundanity of repeating days, to take our minds off of every awful thing happening, to simply entertain ourselves for a bit. Yet I don’t envy anyone who released something this year, even if it could be argued that being stuck inside bolstered the popularity of some content. Part of the magic of the big screen is the attention it forces on you; you can’t pause it to go to the bathroom, you can’t (or shouldn’t) check your texts in the middle, all you can do is engage and hope you love what you see. Despite missing that, I still loved a lot of what I saw this year, and I wanted to share some of my favorites. Here’s 20 of my favorite films of 2020.
20: The candy-coated world of Promising Young Woman lets you know the heightened experience you’re in for, yet what sells the film is the main character’s humanity. Cassie’s girl-boss persona is a front for a grieving woman, filled with trauma and rightful anger. Even as she goes in directions we might consider too far, we always understand her intent. And while there is messiness that results from the ambition of this, I find the ambition and raw talent of Emerald Fennell more than worthy of the praise she is getting. Available to rent 19: Black Bear was written for Aubrey Plaza and utilizes her perfectly. The mysterious, sardonic persona she’s built is utilized, yet beneath that we also see a vulnerable, sad woman being manipulated unfairly. The isolated rural setting and ensemble of actors elevate the writing here, which occasionally leans a bit too much into unearned tension but is always interesting and filled with specificity for the characters. I continue to think about the more cryptic moments, while the cynical perspective it takes early on twists into earnestness in a beautiful, unexpected way. Available to rent 18: The setup of Scare Me – a power outage makes two vacationing writers tell each other scary stories – initially seems more suited for a play with its single location, but writer-director Josh Ruben uses his camera to his advantage, playing on horror camera tricks to make these stories feel gargantuan in scale despite the single house we’re in for the majority of the runtime. The two characters at the center of this are used as commentary for both fragile masculinity and ego, yet they are fully-realized people, irritating and likable in all the right ways. Its rough start and strange ending detracted a bit initially, but the scary stories at the center are phenomenal displays of comedic talent that made up for my complaints. You might not be scared, but you will smile. Streaming on Shuddr 17: I’m Your Woman has a great, simple premise: it’s a mob movie that takes the perspective of a housewife, Jean, left amidst the chaos of gang warfare her husband caused. She’s confused, angry, and unsure of whether her husband is alive, what the source of the conflict is, and what the future holds for her family - especially her newborn child. The tension comes from what filmmaker Julia Hart doesn’t do; the stillness we often find ourselves in feels unstable, like it could be ripped apart any second, and keeps us engaged in the moderate world which could otherwise feel lackluster. Rachel Brosnahan is great as the lead, perfectly distraught yet filled with agency and a growing confidence that is exciting to track, and the portrait of Jean painted leads to a satisfying ending, quiet and bittersweet. Streaming on Amazon Prime 16: Described as a film about losing everything, Nomadland is in fact the opposite. We start with Fern (the always great Frances McDormand) at her lowest, but the journey she takes becoming a nomad is one of growth, one that finds change a slow yet beautiful process. The film’s willingness to focus on the lives of other people Fern encounters - to simply listen as Fern connects with them and vice-versa - is its greatest strength. Everyone on this path is grieving in one way or another, and the community they find is moving and sincere. It takes time to get into Nomadland, as Fern is revealed to us passively; once you lock into the film, the power it holds is plentiful. Streaming on Hulu 15: It was a stacked year for Alison Brie, with four films capturing the many sides of her talents, but the film she co-wrote and starred in, Horse Girl, stuck with me the most. I’m not always drawn to these types of movies, surreal and focused on vague elements, but the reason it works is because of the horse girl in question. Sarah is shy, awkward, often looked down upon by others; yet our perspective is firmly rooted in staying by her, never judging her even as she verges on craziness. That last word feels wrong, even, since what others around her call insanity feels deathly real to us as we experience every strange moment with her. Brie gives one of the best performances of the year here, striking away all social skills and playing up sincerity even when Sarah is babbling out what seems like gibberish. And that’s the power of the film, why it has stuck with me; the utter nonsense and foolish things that Sarah spews out, by the end, start to feel like truth. Streaming on Netflix 14: It would be difficult to mess up a subject matter as extraordinary as the one found in Collective, a documentary that starts by exposing mistakes made by the Romanian healthcare system, then continues onto fraud, corruption, and even more errors that make you think “You couldn’t make this up if you tried.” Filmmaker Alexander Nanau’s restrained style serves to capture insanity with discipline and care, restraint instead of indulgence. Occasionally it leaves you wanting more - I could have used a better sense of the time period as it begins to jump ahead occasionally, and the ending didn’t land for me - but mostly it leaves you enthralled, leaning into the unravelling story. The way in which the free press is treated here, with deserving reverence, felt refreshing and never overstated. It’s a hard watch, but a necessary one. Streaming on Hulu 13: There’s probably no film this year more downright gorgeous than Wolfwalkers, an animated achievement from Cartoon Saloon and Melusine Productions. The hand-drawn animation is striking at every turn, going from one vivid color palette to another and filled with too many desktop screensaver shots to keep. The animation enhances the mystical story that ignites the inner child in all of us, delightful from start to finish, and with just enough twists and turns to never keep you predicting every beat. Every character is memorable, every moment fun and compelling, and I can’t wait to watch this gem with my family. Streaming on Apple TV+ 12: Documentary or drama? Real life or fiction? Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets never gives you an answer. Over the course of 24 hours, we experience the final day in the life of a bar, with newcomers and regulars alike coming in and out, shifts ending, friendships beginning. Certain activities invite you in – the whole bar playing along to Jeopardy, singing along to loud music - but mostly it’s conversation, ones that never betray the documentary format even as small choices alert you that not everything is natural. The only professional actor in the cast, Michael Martin, delivers a jaw-dropping performance as the bar’s foremost regular, always a little intoxicated and pitiful in nature yet never condescended to. The climax leans a bit too much into what would feel overdone in a drama and exploitative in a documentary, yet the mystery of what this film is has kept it in my mind. Streaming on Kanopy 11: Kelly Reichardt is one of the best directors working today, and First Cow is a testament to why. The projects she takes often makes protagonists of people who would be minor characters in most movies, gives empathy to those who don’t get it enough; in First Cow, we’re in the American frontier in the early 1800s, but the loud fur trappers we’ve seen before are second fiddle to a quiet chef nicknamed Cookie and a Chinese immigrant he befriends. Their bond is beautiful, and their struggles to simply not starve are riveting. The films quiet pace sucks you in, always engaging even when not much is happening, and the final shot has a sudden emotional beat that leaves you haunted, lingering on the brilliance of what you just saw. Streaming on Fubo & Showtime 10: From the opening of Minari I thought it was transcendent. As credits pop up, and the music builds an ethereal, hypnotic mood, the camera trains its gaze on the rural setting, portraying it as entirely mysterious and foreign to the characters. Somehow, the movie lives up to the promise of the intro, with lived-in, likable characters, a great sense of humor, and an incredible specificity that comes from both the memories of Lee Isaac Chung, telling a semi-autobiographical story, and the skills of a great writer-director in capturing evocative details. The climax feels too enormous for its own good, yet that doesn’t detract much from a story so precise that it ends up entirely universal. Available for premium rental 9: It takes a while to get into the rhythm of The Assistant, which is a day in the life of a junior assistant at a film production company. She gets to the office early, does chores, goes through an ordinary routine. This normality, simple and recognizable, sets the film up to comment on the normalized office behaviors that are anything but ordinary, terrible abuses of power that we’re only now attempting to deal with in any meaningful way. And that patience makes the slow realization of what is really going on heartbreaking, as claustrophobia sweeps in on protagonist Jane (Julia Garner, subdued and still) and everything that surrounds her, as her mostly male colleagues excuse the vile thing they’ve become complicit in. The quiet approach also lends itself to making a more dialogue-heavy scene between Jane and Matthew Macfadyen as Wilcock become riveting, as she attempts to articulate what she suspects yet struggles to speak as she slowly realizes Wilcock doesn’t care. The naturalistic pace is helped by a runtime less than an hour-and-a-half, which tightens the structure and makes for a relatively quick watch that nonetheless leaves you in deep thought, wanting what you witnessed to just be fantasy. Like Jane, you know better. Streaming on Hulu 8: Boys State is, more than anything else, horrifying. About a Texas summer program where a thousand teenage boys build a government together, this documentary captures the excitement many of these boys feel for politics while never understating the moral compromises they make. One subject’s impassioned anti-abortion speech, for example, is undercut by a talking head stating his pro-choice views; “I’m playing this like a game,” he says, conscious of the sea of conservative testosterone that surrounds him. The filmmakers focus on five, mostly left-leaning teens, not because of bias but to see how they blend in. Some act a part, some hold true to their ideals, yet no matter what choice they are given not judgement, but empathy from the filmmakers For at the end of the day, it’s just a summer camp, so these compromises don’t matter that much – yet the underlying horror connects to the long list of alumni that went through Boys State, modern day political figures who learned the basics of the political game as juniors in high school. It’s not all scares, though: it’s a fun and fast-paced doc that connects immediately, and allows glimmers of hope in figures like Stephen Garza and René Otero, young students motivated to succeed and bring forth change while attempting to stay grounded in their beliefs. The question is whether those beliefs and optimism will last. Streaming on Apple TV+ 7: The 2020 movie I’ve watched the most is easily Palm Springs. Its time-loop scenario, while relevant to everything we are still going through, is also notable for the way it expands upon the formula that has continued to be used in recent years: by placing two people in the loop together, it makes the idea of love being “for the rest of my days” become “for the rest of this day.” A scenario of being stuck in one place with someone forever becomes joyous when the person is someone you truly love, and the chemistry between Nyles (Andy Samberg, his goofball nature perfectly cast) and Sarah (Cristin Milioti, grounded with a raw and hilarious performance to make the high-concept feel genuine) is filled with delight at the simple luck of being trapped with someone you truly appreciate, expressed perfectly in recurring shots of them waking up from the same bed on the same day, yet with their respective smiles growing wider each time. The magic of the movie is that it makes you follow suit, making you grin bigger and laugh louder as the film continues. It’s a comfort movie, one that manages to touch on real conflicts while giving you a warm, cuddly feeling that keeps you coming back, excited to relive November 9th again and again. Streaming on Hulu 6: Sound of Metal is a masterclass in openings, working because of a focus on banality. We’re allowed to watch metal drummer Ruben start his day: work out a bit, make coffee and breakfast, polish his sound system. Every bit of this mundanity sets up what Ruben will long for after he begins to lose his hearing. The small sounds we hear in the beginning, eggs cracking, water running, become the miniscule things that Ruben desperately longs for. But the film’s strength is that despite this want, what Ruben gets is not terrible; he is sent to a shelter for deaf recovering addicts (Ruben a former user himself) where he meets other deaf people, learns sign language, and begins to find happiness again. The ending is perfect, done without words, without sound, trained on Riz Ahmed’s fantastic performance as he conveys all you need to know. Sound of Metal portrays deafness as not a disability but an adjustment, one rife with difficulty but when acclimated something beautiful in its own right. Streaming on Amazon Prime 5: Any comments section for a trailer, interview, or review for Never Rarely Sometimes Always will inevitably feature argumentative debates about the topic of abortion, with pro-life commenters recommending films that comply with their stance. Yet Eliza Hittman’s astonishing film gives you its position wordlessly, in the form of a question that will cross your mind. Autumn (played brilliantly by newcomer Sidney Flanagan) is pregnant, and there’s no reckoning with her need to get an abortion. But Autumn and her cousin, Skylar (Talia Ryder, also great), must travel to New York to get one without parental approval, on their own in an unfamiliar, scary place, forced to stay more nights than they planned. And this whole journey leads to the question: Why is this so difficult? For in a fair, equal world, this film would not exist, yet Hittman knows the truth and gives it to us. It’s occasionally hard to watch, sad throughout, and the scene from which the film gets its title is devastating. But Hittman doesn’t wallow in misery; her patient, cinema verite method leads to moments of hope, rewarding because of the slow yet determined pace, that are overwhelmingly emotional and always earned. Streaming on HBO Max 4: Another Round isn’t the simple message movie it appears to be. The outcome of four teachers testing a theory that everyone would be happier if they were a bit drunk every day is easy to predict: the glorious highs of drinking will be ruined by catastrophic lows. Yet even while highs and lows happen, they never quite happen in the way you expect. The drinking they do is not a solution to but a motivator in fixing problems plaguing each of the men’s lives, lives you grow to care about very quickly, and each fix never feels overbearing or unrealistic. In fact, sometimes their drinking is strictly a plus, not the easy solution many people would reach for in this type of film. Tension is exacerbated by one smart choice that leads to two unique conflicts: all of these men testing the experiment are teachers, meaning they are trying not to be discovered day-drinking and, for a plot thread that provokes even more interesting conversations, they are directly influencing kids and teens with their drinking attitudes, even if they don’t entirely realize it. Of course, the film reveals plenty of issues with overdrinking and reliance on alcohol, too, but never in a way that feels like overkill. This nuanced conversation about liquor culminates in one of the best endings of the year, one which revels in the lack of answers it gives you. The ambiguous nature of it is joyful, sad, funny, and terrifying all at once, and it makes the entire experience wash straight to your head – luckily, with no hangovers involved. Streaming on Hulu 3: Part of the reason Bad Education stuck with me was its release date. In April of 2020, I was sad and missing everything, like all of us were, and while the thing missed most were other people, I also missed the shared experience of going to movie theaters, of sitting in the dark with strangers and letting something take us all away. Bad Education was a reminder of why. Sitting in a theater watching this with people would have been a joy, not only for the surprising humor it brings to its true story but because of the way the film tricks us: it makes us like its main character, Frank Tassone. We see how much he cares and loves his job, how much extra effort he puts in to make people happy, and in that way Frank cons us as much as he cons the characters in the film. Hugh Jackman lends the charisma that we fall prey to, while conveying the sudden fear and agitation that come out in key moments. After his showy debut, Thoroughbreds, many have deemed Cory Finley’s direction here boringly efficient, yet I found it gripping. He conveys the euphoria school administrators feel at the beginning through long, sweeping tracking shots, while lending weight to the most basic scenes of dialogue with a few key close-ups. Each of these interactions are brilliantly written, revealing plot and character with a great pace and attention to detail that is helped by screenwriter Mike Mawosky’s upbringing during the time and place the film takes place. He manages to make such sad people genuine, touches on themes of the importance of journalism and the easiness of complacency, while always keeping us entertained and engaged. It is everything a good biopic should be, a fascinating story told with humor and empathy. Streaming on HBO Max 2: Martin Eden is an Italian film so languid and old-school, filled with actors who look like 1940s film stars, that it feels like we’re watching a reprint rather than a brand new feature. The love story at the center, between the working-class title character and a wealthy woman, is built methodically; the camera captures their instant attraction, their growing friendship, and their soon-unbearable longing for each other with grace and thought. Their class difference also informs the other aspect of the film, a query about the advantages of socialism vs. individualism. The seemingly differing topics transition into each other perfectly, and many of the best scenes manage to include romance and political thought in the same moment without ever feeling excessive or obvious. Adapted from an American novel of the same name, the Italian setting ends up adding to the material, as it romanticizes the beauty of Italy like a tourist while acknowledging a harsh, working-class life that might typically be ignored. As the film progresses, our good will for Martin is challenged as his pretentious, hot-headed nature bubbles to a head and makes him almost an anti-hero, but never in a way that rings false; this spectacular transformation is indicative of thoughtful and patient writing reflecting the past right back at us. Streaming on MUBI 1: Somehow, Time works. This is a documentary with a strange structure, a black-and-white presentation, a potential pretension that exudes right down to the short, ambitious title. Yet everything that would have potentially put me off sucked me in, right from the quiet, heartbreaking opening scene. It lets you know everything this movie will touch on: the passing of time, the criminal justice system, and most of all love: its power and beauty, horror and detriments, whether the love is for protagonist Fox Rich’s children or the incarcerated husband she is attempting to free. Rich is a wonderful subject who you get to know so intimately in the short running time, complicated and frustrated and always wonderful to watch. Her journey to get her husband out of jail is certainly relentless and sad, but never stops feeling vital and, most of all, challenging. For her husband’s sentence was not because of a simple crime, easy to dismiss; he did something bad behind good reasons, and his penalty isn’t an attempt to teach him, to make it not happen again; it is simply a punishment. Time makes you question the way the world thinks of criminal justice systems, while always staying focused on the personal story being told. Every single emotion here is accentuated by the beautiful music that plays throughout the film by Emahoy Tsegué-Maryam Guebrou, not written for the film but suited to it entirely in its overwhelming nature. All of it builds to a highly emotional climax, one which would feel like overkill in any other movie but is somehow earned by every majestic moment before it. More than any other single movie this year, I have continued to think about and adore this film as time goes by. Streaming on Amazon Prime 1… Part 2: Yes, I’m cheating, but for a good reason. Small Axe, a collection of five films about the West Indian community in London from the 60s to the 80s, is hard to categorize. It gets its title from a proverb used in a Bob Marley and the Wailers song: “If you are the big tree, we are the small axe.” That big tree is the system-at-large, the courtroom, educational policies, the police force: systemic racism that exists in every facet of society. Yet as much as these films focus on these huge problems in realistic and nuanced ways, many of the best moments come when the small axe, this community of Black Londoners living working-class lives, simply have fun with one another. The first film, Mangrove, has the patience to set up plenty of small details for a courtroom drama that will unfold in the second half while allowing for an extended dance sequence on the streets of London that revels in the joy of this community simply being together and celebrating, a reminder of their humanity before the film focuses on the fight to preserve it. The next film in the series, Lover’s Rock, expands on this joy, making a 70-minute long film where the only plot is a young woman going to a party, and allowing us to feel the heat of that tiny room, see the sweat dripping from countless foreheads as they dance to the titular reggae subgenre of lover’s rock, and be swept away by the beauty of simply seeing people belt their hearts out to music, without a care in the world for their voice cracking. This party is not without its tension – creepy guys, police sirens in the distance – but its willingness to not force too much drama into this setting and simply immerse us in this tiny, crowded space (especially when we lacked them this year) made it one of the most memorable and relevant things I watched all year. Red, White, and Blue was also immensely relevant, yet in an entirely different way: its focus on Leroy Logan (John Boyega in an incredible performance) attempting to reform racism and brutality in the police force rang even truer because of the heightened conversation about Black Lives Matter. For Logan cannot succeed as one man against the world, no matter how hard he tries, and the inevitability of that makes for some of the best scenes of the year; when his anger and frustration reach understandable boiling points, all McQueen has to do is hold on the smirks of his imperious colleagues to make the effort feel hollow, inconsequential even as Logan tries everything he can to get through. Yet the small amount of hope we’re left with feels genuine, a reminder that change has to come eventually, even if Logan never gets to reap the rewards of his efforts. Alex Wheatle is the weakest entry, suffering from structural issues and the least steady pace of all the films, one which didn’t keep me fully engaged like all the others. Moments still shine, however, as the title character’s journey towards ingratiating into his community provides interesting perspectives and a more breezy tone. The final film, Education, is occasionally a bit overbearing, but for a very understandable reason: the topic, drawn from McQueen’s personal experience, is about a child, Kingsley, abandoned by the education system, put into a boarding school that doesn’t further anything besides his mischievous nature. What’s amazing here is that you understand the good intentions of the system being criticized, even as its laziness ultimately makes efforts useless. Kingsley does need extra help; he is behind the other students in his class and has a tendency to fit into a class clown role. But instead of helping him and elevating him, the system gives up on him entirely, deeming to fit him into a useless class and throw every curiosity and benefit he has away. They tell Kingsley he is stupid and unworthy, and he actually begins to believe it. Yet the stilted family life that sucks you in during exposition also comes to be Kingsley’s savior, and the loving scenes that result are the highlight of the film and a fitting way to end the anthology. Small Axe has been considered a limited series by awards shows this season, and the thematic connection between each film makes them consumable in this way, yet the distinct worlds of each story stand on their own. This is such a vital work of 2020, always beautiful to look at and always worth continuing to think about. Streaming on Amazon Prime I hope you enjoy any of these if you end up watching them, and I hope life is somewhat ok during this awful time. Stay safe. Promising Young Woman was one of my most anticipated 2020 movies since its Sundance premiere a year ago; its cast was excellent, its premise interesting, and the buzz it generated exciting. I kept an eye on the release date, which went from April to unknown (COVID!) and, finally, to December. Sitting down to watch it felt like a prize, a reward for my (im)patient waiting.
Did it live up to my high expectations? Not entirely. But even as I followed the discourse around this so closely, listened to many reviews and interviews with critics and cast members, the film still managed to surprise me, both with allusions to one of my favorite films and with a twisty yet divisive plot. The Night of the Hunter, Charles Laughton’s 1955 masterpiece, is referenced twice in the film, once by showing the film on television and again by using audio from it during a key scene. Hunter is not the film many would jump to compare Promising Young Woman to, yet the similarities are intriguing and tell you a lot about Woman’s intentions. Both movies are about people who “hunt” the opposite sex: in Hunter, Harry Powell murders women he marries, takes their money, and falsely claims it is for God, while we see the motivation as misogyny. In a monologue, he says the lord hates “Perfume-smelling things, lacy things, things with curly hair,” all stereotypically feminine traits that he wishes to rid the world of (this is the clip playing on TV, by the way). In that way, Promising Young Woman plays on the film by reversing it; the film follows Cassie (Carey Mulligan), a med school dropout who hunts men, albeit in a different way. Instead of murdering them, she tricks them into thinking she’s vulnerable; she acts blackout drunk at bars and clubs, waiting for a guy claiming good intentions to “drive her home,” before her home turns into their home turns into a bed or couch as they disrobe her. Once this happens, she suddenly acts normal, freaking them out as she calls them on what they were doing and challenges the “nice guy” persona they use as an excuse. But her motivations, like Powell’s, are not what they appear to be; we initially think it’s about challenging these men’s morals, making them think about consent and power dynamics, making sure they never do anything remotely like this again. But as she begins to trick and hunt a whole other cast of characters, we realize it’s about revenge, not for anything that’s happened to her but for something that happened to her friend Nina, whose death Cassie can’t get over. Cassie is certainly more sympathetic than Powell, as her cause is something audience members can actually get behind, even if she goes further than most would be willing to do. But the way that both films tell their stories is also similar, not in tone or themes but the fantastical feel both films capture while still being grounded in reality. Night of the Hunter is filled with haunting, expressionistic images, too perfect to be realistic but beautiful nonetheless, that root you in a childlike perspective and make the story at the heart of Hunter feel immense and allegorical. Promising Young Woman’s more fantastical moments serve to remind you of a similar purpose, in a somewhat more obvious way; that while these characters are all real, they are also representations of different systemic structures which play out all the time in real life, indicative of a rape culture which makes it hard for victims of sexual assault to do anything but seek retribution elsewhere. Take Madison, a character played by Alison Brie. The central crime committed against Nina is one Madison doesn’t even think of as a crime, only as “drama” which she dismisses and doesn’t believe because her friends may have been involved. Madison says Nina slept around all the time and implies she may have deserved what she got, that she cried wolf one too many times. She’s a victim blamer, in other words, complicit in the system for reasons that feel genuine (it’s easier to think of your friends as innocent rather than heavily flawed). And while the character of Madison feels real, she’s also representative of the women who are complicit in the system at large. Every person that Cassie takes revenge on is a similar construction, a character to genuinely believe in who is indicative of a different archetype in larger rape culture: perpetrators, bystanders, enablers. These aren’t the most complex characters, but each one has dimension, meaning we still feel grounded in the story and care about Cassie while getting to understand the broader implications of what the story holds. What also grounds the movie is Carey Mulligan’s fantastic performance, which allows her to be sardonic and funny like she never has before while still allowing for dimension. The girl boss performance Cassie puts on when confronting various characters is an aspect of herself, but one that’s idealized and bursting with coolness; vulnerability is revealed to us as she interacts more with her love interest and friend, Ryan (Bo Burnham) and Gail (Laverne Cox) respectively, who bring out a softer side of her character that exists when her guard is down, when she isn’t thinking about Nina every moment. As the film goes on, you actually see her realizing how broken she is and how much she doesn’t realize it, how much she needed help but didn’t get it. You want her to get better, but her dispirited view of the world leaves Cassie doubting if she’ll ever heal. Her romantic interactions with Ryan feel complete, but unfortunately the character of Gail feels a little left behind. The movie wants their relationship to be a deeper friendship, but never goes past the feel of co-workers that enjoy each other’s company. Whenever the film requires a connection between them, it doesn’t quite hit home because of how thin Gail feels (although Laverne does what she can with the character). If writer-director Emerald Fennell (in her directorial debut) isn’t always concerned with building lots of three-dimensional characters, she is concerned with the tone and detail of the world. This comes through in the bright color palette, filled with vibrant pastels that are traditionally feminine but are treated with respect instead of ridicule. It’s also in the tinier things; the soundtrack features many female pop artists like Charli XCX and Britney Spears which add to the bright aesthetic, while stranger choices like Something Wonderful from The King and I manage to poke fun at the hurdles many go around to justify shitty men (“You’ll always go along / defend him when he’s wrong”). Her dialogue is strong most of the time, especially the way she inhabits Cassie, although its wittiness doesn’t always feel genuine or as clever as it intends to be. Fennell also channels a fast pace which makes the film roll by, earning key moments along the way and driving you towards an unusual and slightly controversial ending… I’ve read takes by those who hate this movie. Some think the movie hates men (a take I simply find lazy) while others find it, and especially its ending, contrived, uninteresting, borderline offensive (warning: the reviews I linked to have spoilers). It didn’t feel that way for me, and I think it’s because those who hated it found the ending as one looking for relief; I found it entirely bittersweet. For me, the film switched from allegorical to satirical in the last twenty minutes in a way I found surprising and challenging, and that has stayed in my mind. I didn’t find the ending as one reaching for a round of raucous applause, but as a mixed bag, with some joy and lots of darkness still present. That’s the way life tends to be, even if I don’t think Promising Young Woman is entirely emblematic of the real world. And as a result, I found it satisfying, even if I get why others don’t. I find it fantastic that those who’ve seen it are talking about it so much, that it is attacked and maligned simultaneously by smart people on both sides of the debate. Although I don’t think it manages to get across all the complexities it talks about, I don’t think any piece of art will ever be able to manage that. Woman is exciting, confident, and while maybe a bit obvious in the issues it talks about still entirely unexpected in other ways. Promising Young Woman raises interesting questions through an idiosyncratic, glittery lens, one which, hopefully, will inspire others to expand upon it in the future. *SPOILER ALERT*
This is the movie that made me love movies. I saw it when I was 9 years old. Back then, I loved to look at Rotten Tomatoes ratings, and during its limited release it had a 100%. I’d never seen that number for a new movie; it was foreign to anything that wasn’t The Godfather, which I wasn’t allowed to see yet. The PG-13 made my dad reluctant, yet lenient enough to let me see it with him. I didn’t get it. It was too quick, the non-linear structure confusing, and aside from the performances there wasn’t much for me to grab on to. Yet I kept thinking about it; there was something about it I couldn’t explain. (And it made me really want to join Facebook). When I saw it a second time, on DVD, I remember pausing for dinner right at the scene when we’re introduced to Sean Parker, halfway through the film, and being amazed at everything I was seeing. It blew me away, and it continues to every time I rewatch it. Aaron Sorkin is undoubtedly a great writer, but only with the right characters. The people who speak his snappy, snarky words have to be smart, but they also have to be almost egomaniacal; in love with every syllable they utter, self-aware of their own genius like Sorkin seems to be. In other words, he’s good at writing assholes, which The Social Network is filled with; Mark Zuckerberg is awful, but he’s competing against his fellow horny nerds, a pair of entitled twins, and power-hungry ‘cool guys.’ Even Eduardo Saverin, who comes off sweet if a bit naïve on screen, in reality fled the U.S. in 2011 by claiming that he just really loved Singapore, with the country having the added benefit of not making him pay $700 million in taxes. These are greedy, selfish people at the heart of this film, and god, it’s fun to watch them compete. Each scene has an urgency to it, a drive that makes the film roll by and feel half its length. In other works Sorkin can get caught in his epic speeches, writing thin vessels to deliver his showy lines instead of the characters making words on a page become spontaneous thoughts; here, nothing feels extraneous or out of place, perfectly paced while retaining the one-liners and gasp-worthy moments that make Sorkin so memorable. Although the non-linear narrative confused me as a kid, now it lends a weight, expertly weaving different plot threads together and showing how far Zuckerberg has come in such a short time, from Gap hoodies to Patagonia fleeces – with loneliness as the cost. Jesse Eisenberg’s performance as Zuckerberg is specific down to the posture, breathing life into someone who could easily come off as a stone cold, robotic villain. The calculating presence is there, but little moments provide glimpses of vulnerability into a man who can’t deal with his emotion, who can fire off diatribes when confronted with something he doesn’t quite grasp; other people, mainly. Armie Hammer was so good he convinced me and many others that he really had a twin to play off of, and Justin Timberlake nails the vain, condescending nature of Sean Parker with every douchey smile. The standout, though, is Andrew Garfield as Eduardo Saverin. His quiet, engaging presence is wonderful, and it earns the film an emotional heft when he explodes at key moments, including the climactic 0.03% scene, which is delivered so well that every word, pause for breath, and inflection lives in my brain, as it does for many others. Of course, I don’t think these performances would have been as great without David Fincher and his perfectionist eye in the director’s chair, smooth pans and all. The opening scene, as Mark’s date with Erica goes awry, reportedly took 99 takes, but with that Fincher gives a simple scene of two people talking a cinematic feel. His close-ups, here and throughout the film, serve to emphasize the most crucial parts of the dialogue, the detail that adds food for thought. When Facemash spreads, for example, almost every student logging onto the site is framed behind glass, like they’re all lab rats for Mark to experiment on. Fincher isn’t the most subtle director around, but his style fits the film entirely, and is never showy for the sake of it; it’s all about telling us more about the story and the characters. Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross’ electronic score fits the electronic age Zuckerberg helped to usher in, and they manage to cover a lot of bases with the idiosyncratic sound. Montages are a common occurrence in the film, but the score helps add variety and flavor to each one: quiet moments of bliss, energetic nights out on the town, and even epic rowing duels with a remixed “In the Hall of the Mountain King.” Yet the music also manages to bring out emotion in great detail; “Hand Covers Bruise,” the song that plays over the title sequence as Mark runs back to his dorm, is mostly a lonely, isolated piano melody for a man of the same description, while strings and electronic bass notes linger underneath and bring out the darkness in Mark, the bubbling anger that will continuously destroy the people he holds close to him as the song comes back for reprises over the course of the film, more distant and lonely each time. For some, the line “you’re not an asshole, Mark; you’re just trying so hard to be” feels forced and untrue when addressed to such a despicable man, yet the character who delivers it, played by Rashida Jones, is given moments of levity with him where his sensitive angle comes through without his dry, sarcastic tone we see elsewhere. The ending is indicative of this contradiction; the final shot is a question, insisted upon as the camera pushes in on Mark constantly refreshing his friend request while who else but the Beatles ask in song: How does it feel to be One of the beautiful people How does it feel, Mark, to be as immature and alone as you were at the beginning, with only billions of dollars to comfort you? His friend request is almost an apology, a wish to make things better for at least one person he hurt. It’s a slightly optimistic note to end on, one that hopes for a better Mark Zuckerberg to emerge and reckon with his mistakes. Real life dispelled the hope. When the movie came out, Zuckerberg said he wished no one had made a movie about him while he was alive, but looking back this is a generous depiction of him if anything. Yet it’s not necessarily a flaw of the movie; it just means there’s more story to be told elsewhere (a sequel to this wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world). The film itself is as tight as ever, albeit with some areas that feel a little lacking in retrospect. Firstly, the casting of actor Max Minghella as Divya Narendra, a man of Indian descent portrayed by someone without that heritage, leaves a nasty taste in the mouth. Secondly, Eduardo’s girlfriend Christy comes off more like a caricature than a character, made crazy out of what feels like convenience to the plot, to make tension more palpable towards the end of the film. There’s a complaint of larger misogyny that some have which is understandable, but to me that is condemned at key moments, made clear that the asshole male protagonists have a lack of empathy towards women. Erica even gets a scene to rebuke Mark thoroughly for his Facemash exploits (her simple “have fun with your video game” zing is probably my favorite line in the entire movie). What will The Social Network look like in another 10, 50 years? If Facebook somehow becomes a relic of the past, if Zuckerberg has a change of heart or goes even further down his Disney villain rabbithole? It’s funny that there was some laughter directed towards this when it was initially coming out, that many chuckled at the thought of the “Facebook movie” on the horizon. If anything, the Facebook aspect is the least important part; it’s all about the people at the center of it, the selfishness that makes them tick, the riches that leave them lonely – and deservedly so. It’s a universal tale being told again, reminiscent of films like Citizen Kane; and exquisite filmmaking out of every department elevated it, making a glorious achievement which already feels like a modern classic. James Baldwin would never be labeled a film critic first; his achievements as a novelist, writer, and playwright are too gargantuan to even include this distinction most of the time. And yet Baldwin’s film criticism and analysis is more profound and intelligent than many who stick to only that title. His writings on film feature a little in Notes of a Native Son (1955) and most prominently in The Devil Finds Work ( 1976), and they focus primarily on the idea of the racial imaginary, defined as the way race is thought about and valued in social spaces. In film, the racial imaginary is defined by a myth, and James Baldwin has a unique way of critiquing it. Instead of critiquing the myths that define many American films, listing out their inconsistencies and flaws, Baldwin looks the other way, at the specific moments captured on screen that give us a glimpse of reality, often through an actor’s performance. Baldwin uses these moments to center his pioneering form of film criticism on race, giving examples of what film can do right and telling us so much about what film can do wrong. It is a method still extremely useful for dissecting contemporary films, such as Green Book.
The films that Baldwin discusses in his essays are not his favorites nor his least -- they are the films that could have done so much better, specifically with the way black people are represented by the production team. The African-American cast is often the strength of these films to Baldwin, such as in this passage: “The most exasperating aspect of Lady Sings the Blues, for me, is that the three principals -- Miss Ross, Billy Dee Williams, and Richard Pryor -- are, clearly, ready, willing, and able to stretch out and go a distance not permitted by the film. And, even within this straitjacket, they manage marvelous moments, and a truth which is not in the script is sometimes glimpsed through them.”1 (Baldwin, James, Collected Essays, New York: Literary Classics of the United States, 556) Black actors working through the confines of the white filmmakers are the saviors in Baldwin’s eye. They aren’t always given a chance to shine, yet they always bring “indelible moments, created, miraculously, beyond the confines of the script: hints of reality, smuggled like contraband into a maudlin tale, and with enough force, if unleashed, to shatter the tale to fragments.” (Baldwin, Essays, 554) Ryan Jay Friedman’s essay “Ethics and textual analysis in James Baldwin’s film theory” gives countless examples of the performances Baldwin highlights throughout his film writings and contextualizes what made Baldwin’s writing stand out so much: Baldwin looked at the context of the entire film for its portrayal of black people, as opposed to the ‘images approach’ popular at the time. This method put black characters on screen up against each other and categorized them as atypical (good) or stereotypical (bad). In some ways this is similar in approach to the Bechdel Test, a popular feminist criticism that asks if a film has three criteria: two named women, who talk to each other for at least one scene, about something other than a man. It’s a starting point for discussion, and reveals certain things about films and culture, yet is only that: the start of a conversation, not the whole thing. And this is what makes Baldwin’s film criticisms so revolutionary: he dissected films through a racial lens more than anyone else at the time, specifically by highlighting the singular moments that managed to get it right in films that spent most of their runtime getting it wrong. This method is still one that can be used for plenty of films that attempt to depict black people, including ones as recent as last year. Peter Farrelly’s Green Book was a film instantly submerged in criticism. Its accuracy, message, and intent were questioned by dozens of critics, and its Best Picture win at the Oscars was immediately compared to another heavily chastised Best Picture winner said to mishandle race, Crash. Y et one thing was almost universally praised: Mahershala Ali’s performance as Don Shirley. It was the only consistent praise the movie got, in fact, and even led to a Best Supporting Actor win for Ali. His performance is largely a reserved one, yet in a climactic scene for his character (and one which many could call his “Oscar scene”) he lets loose and talks about his feelings, explaining his isolation among black people because of his wealth and his isolation among the rich white people whom he plays for, because at the end of the day once he stops playing he is “just another n***er to them.” This moment may have some falsehood in it -- Don Shirley’s isolation among black people has been debunked to be an exaggeration, particularly in K. Austin Collin’s “The Truth About Green Book” -- but Shirley’s feeling of being almost a prop to white people is one that Ali completely sells. His body and voice shake, he rambles in an outburst of feeling, and his eyes are completely open, windows to his soul as his truth is revealed. What Baldwin writes in The Devil Finds Work can apply here completely: “Black spectators supply the sub-text -- the unspoken -- out of their own lives.” (Baldwin, Essays, 555) It’s a great moment in a film lacking them -- a brief interlude of reality before the racial myth runs back into the picture. And it’s brought about by the performance of the black actor, forced to try his best in a film that doesn’t deserve him. At my screening of Green Book, when the film ended, there was immediate applause from my crowd; a crowd of mostly old white people. This is remarkably similar to Baldwin’s experiences with the film The Defiant Ones, i n which Sidney Poitier and Tony Curtis play escaped convicts who are chained together. In summation, they become friends despite racial boundaries, and at the end of the film Poitier’s character could go on without Curtis, as he’s on a train to freedom while being chased by authorities. Yet Curtis is right behind him. “Liberal white audiences applauded when Sidney, at the end of the film, jumped off the train in order not to abandon his white buddy. The Harlem audience was outraged, and yelled, Get back on the train, you fool!” (Baldwin, Essays, 5 25) One could only imagine what a Harlem crowd would do with the ending of Green Book. Baldwin’s read of the ending of The Defiant Ones is one that completely applies to Green Book as well. “[The ending is used] in order to reassure white people, to make them know that they are not hated; that, though they have made human errors, they have done nothing for which to be hated.” (Baldwin, Essays, 528) This reassurance is an oversimplification, one that uses the camera as “the language of our dreams,” (Baldwin, Essays, 504) and one that entirely erases the systemic nature of racism that entirely exists to this day; for it’s a whole lot easier to live in a world where racism is just committed by some bad apples, and is not an effect of the system that all white people benefit from. It’s a shame that James Baldwin isn’t alive today. Everyone would benefit so much from hearing his thoughts about America, politics, racism, and in this case film. Movies have come at least some way; more voices get to tell more stories, and as a result of this a film like Moonlight, which has not moments but vast expanses of reality, won Best Picture in 2016. Of course, only two years later in 2018 Green Book did. Yet 2018 was not only the year of Green Book. It was the year of Sorry to Bother You, Blindspotting, B lacKkKlansman, The Hate U Give, Monsters and Men, Did You Wonder Who Fired the Gun?, and most relevant here, an adaptation of Baldwin’s novel If Beale Street Could Talk. Moments of reality have started to become films brimming with reality, ones which may still have problems yet diverge from the mythic racial imaginary and find a base in truth. This is partially a result of diversity being more welcome behind the screen, as black filmmakers and screenwriters are given the opportunity to capture the perspective they know, rather than have a white person imitate it. And this is partially a result of critics like Baldwin: who discuss issues found in cinema and manage to articulate them so people can think and maybe learn. A Baldwinian lens of criticism will continue to be useful in the future, and if critics continue to write like Baldwin did, film will continue to evolve and grow as a result, getting farther away from the ‘language of dreams’ and more towards flesh and blood projected onscreen. Six months late? Yes. But you know what freshman year of college is like. I wish I was writing more and watching more, but it’s hard to keep up. This was mostly written as a distraction from the weird, depressing times we’re living in. I’ve never said it here before, but no time like the present: black lives matter, the police need to be replaced with a better system, and BLACK LIVES MATTER.
Now, on a (mostly) unrelated note, here’s my favorite films of 2019. #15: Waves is certainly flawed; it’s very on-the-nose, and not always in ways that feel suitable to the story being told. Each of the two stories it tells begin spectacularly and lose a bit of steam by the end. Yet there’s such beauty in here for fleeting moments, mostly accentuated by brilliant performances from two fantastic young actors, Taylor Russell and Kelvin Harrison Jr. (more on him later). Trey Edward Shults has made a series of striking films in the beginning of his career. No masterpieces yet – but I’m not too worried. #14: Uncut Gems evokes everything it intends to extremely well: laughter (humorous and nervous), shudders, and jaws dropping to the floor. It keeps you on the edge of your seat, your mouth agape in fascination and disgust, with the camera as a bystander in the continuously stupid decisions of gambling addict Howard Ratner (Adam Sandler, brilliant). It’s a rollercoaster ride, engaging and surprising every step of the way. Do I want to see it again? I’m not sure. Will I remember it vividly? Absolutely. #13: (SPOILERS) The length of The Irishman is both its flaw and its greatest strength. Three-and-a-half-hours is a hard sell for a watch, and the beginning especially has a hard time in distinguishing itself. Yet it is essential in what ends up making this film stand out from Scorsese’s other mob films: the slow and methodical ending. This is a film most concerned with aging, and the film’s length makes us completely empathize with the titular Irishman. Frank Sheeran continues to live and live even as family members abandon him and friends and enemies die. As you think “God, when is this going to end?” you come to the realization that Sheeran is having the exact same thought. It’s a powerful and ultimately devastating ending, one completely free of glorification that will rank as one of Scorsese’s greatest accomplishments in an already mythic career. #12: I wish I’d had the privilege to see Portrait of a Lady on Fire in theaters. The phrase “every frame a painting” has rarely held such weight. Yet the subtle, gorgeous writing is what keeps you engaged as you experience a slow, methodical love story. It’s ending didn’t quite work for me as it did for everyone else, yet images and scenes from this film linger and make me want to watch it again as soon as possible. I would only be so lucky. #11: Long Shot brought me hope in dark times. Its effect wore off quickly, but I rode its high as long as I could. It has some brilliant humor and is capped off by a genuinely sweet and real love story, between Seth Rogen and Charlize Theron, that you simply have to root for. Nothing this year put a smile on my face like this film; one can only hope the prophecy it promises eventually comes true. #10: I graduated high school in 2019, and everyone else who did must know that our year is extremely special. After all, we graduated the same year that the characters of Booksmart did. Every single member of this beautiful ensemble cast brings so much to roles that could easily have had one dimension, breathing life into each and every person. Each time I laughed – and it was a whole lot – a big part of it was that I believed in all of these people, even as situations got more and more ridiculous. So many scenes here are embedded in my mind and can make me chuckle by just thinking about them. This is a film that will continue to be watched, continue to mean a lot to a ton of people. It’s our generation’s Dazed and Confused. #9: Bias is something we all have, and I can’t have a much more biased movie than Toy Story 4. I grew up watching the first two over and over again, and the third installment was the first film I ever reviewed. This was an event for my family and I, with big buckets of popcorn in hand and singing of Randy Newman in the car. And none of us were disappointed, especially me; it expands upon a conclusion I thought I was happy with and brings me another one that somehow makes more sense. The Pixar magic is all over this movie, in simply the best way possible. #8: If a movie is three good scenes and no bad ones, as Howard Hawks says, then The Last Black Man in San Francisco is a movie with a capital M. There are so many scenes here that I continue to think about, that are surprising enough to catch you off guard and inevitable enough to make perfect sense. And somehow, it’s a debut feature for writer-director Joe Talbot and writer-actor Jimmie Fails, who brings such depth to his lead performance. This is a great film for this moment, and I can’t wait to see what Talbot and Fails do next. #7: Kelvin Harrison Jr. is a star on the rise, as shown by both Waves and his subtle, deep portrayal of the title character in Luce. Luce is a mysterious person, one you never figure out but who remains intriguing the entire time. The film itself is the rare exception to play adaptations which manage to gain something from their transition to the silver screen, as Julius Onah makes it feel entirely cinematic and new. This was underseen in theaters and I hope it gets the attention it deserves eventually. #6: Todd Haynes can do no wrong for me, as evidenced by Dark Waters. This is a scary, timely film, showing corruption and greed at the highest level and with such empathy for those at the bottom. It's the rare case where a biopic feels like a necessity - made even more so by its ending, which reaches a conclusion and then continues simply because the fight the film touches on isn't over yet. You'll leave this movie in a rage, but it encourages you to use that rage to get change accomplished - what could be more prescient? #5: I’ve missed murder mysteries, and Rian Johnson made quite the stab (hehe) at one with Knives Out. This was an event in theaters, its sharp writing made for such fun, and the powerful ensemble cast left my dad whispering to me “That’s ____!” at almost every entrance. Yet its relevance is also a key part of what makes it feel so fresh; Johnson champions kindness from those who get it the least these days. Its ending is brilliant, and in a similar way to Long Shot is hopefully prophetic rather than just wishful thinking. #4: Pedro Almodovar blows me away every time, and Pain and Glory was certainly not an exception. Antonio Banderas is wonderful here as an aging filmmaker looking for inspiration and something to live for as his body becomes harder to use and life feels more incomplete. Almodovar’s poetic writing is an eternal ode to something every human will go through. And the ending is brilliant, filling my theater with delighted gasps and a few tears. This is a film that is, most of all, painfully and gloriously human. #3: Little Women is what adaptations should be. Greta Gerwig knows she can’t replicate the book, so she expands upon it, finding moments entirely of her own by playing with the chronology and injecting her overlapping, rhythmic dialogue to capture the banter of the March sisters and make the world more lifelike. The story’s new ending is quiet, hopeful, and absolutely breathtaking. Gerwig takes an old book, with countless adaptations already made, and makes that story fresh and alive. #2: You don’t need anyone else to tell you that Parasite is fantastic, but I’ll add to the chorus. I think the reason it has done so well is that it is entirely blunt in a lot of ways, with an allegory about class that is efficient and true, yet has so many more layers when you continue to think about it, things that become more apparent on repeat viewings. It’s balanced enough to allow for each of its characters to be shitty people at one moment and completely sympathetic in the next. And the heightened nature – one that Bong Joon-Ho is so good at capturing in each of his works – is removed just enough that the broader implications of the story become clear, while allowing a satirical side that you can interpret in different ways. Although Bong’s sympathies probably lie with the Kim clan, it is easy to interpret this story as one with more good will towards the rich Parks. All in all, this is a fantastic, urgent film that absolutely deserved to win Best Picture. It’s the movie of the year. But not quite my movie of the year.. #1: For me, there is no movie this year that captures being alive better than Marriage Story. As writer-director Noah Baumbach says, this is a love story at its heart; not about romantic love but about respect and appreciation, about moving on and staying friendly even as it seems impossible. You don’t have to have been through a divorce to relate to this story, to find the beauty in its flawed characters. There are laughs, tears, and every other emotion in store as you watch Baumbach’s film – and it’s an experience I will never forget. I hope you’re doing well during quarantine. Thanks for indulging something I wrote far too late; maybe stream a few if you missed them. Stay safe! Noah Baumbach’s Marriage Story opens with declarations of love in the form of montages in which each half of a couple, Charlie (Adam Driver) and Nicole (Scarlett Johansson), talk about the other. Each is a list of small details, quirks that define that person in the subtlest of ways. These details are simultaneously endearing, hilarious, and telling. In the first five minutes, we learn so much about these two people and the beautiful life they live together.
Lived together. Charlie and Nicole are in mediation to get a divorce, and these two montages, visualized from letters they had written as part of an exercise, are not to be read to each other. The love they had is not expressed out loud; it is a secret they are almost required to keep, in fear of the vulnerability they once displayed to one another. What makes Marriage Story a fantastic film is that despite being about the death of a marriage, its ultimate message is that the feelings they had are still there by the ending, just in a completely different way. Love prevails, even as love changes. Marriage Story could easily have been called Marriage Stories: not because there are many separate tales being told, but because the marriage in question is told through so many different perspectives, each one a little bit true and a little bit performed. One of the key motifs of the film is performance, touched on right in the first shot as Nicole walks into stage light while Charlie directs. Their marriage is partly a performance, as they project a more idealized image of themselves to please one another. It’s also why Nicole drifts from the theater: she is tired of the performance, even as she moves on to another version of it in film acting. Of course, as becomes clear later in the film, Nicole and Charlie’s interpretations of their marriage are completely different, at least under a court of law. Little interactions early on become weapons for two divorce lawyers, the charismatic and seductive people who act as the true villains of the film. Renderings of their marriage, made in order to bring out a superior side, portray them both as awful, absent parents. Luckily, Baumbach directs with empathy even in the most disheartening and shameful scenes, as we see the toll that the divorce takes and the dispirited attitude this eventually brings. His style is not flashy at all, but incredibly smart nonetheless; for such a dialogue-heavy film, it is entirely cinematic. He visualizes the conflict with his camera and finds ways to bring the dialogue to life in his blocking and in small visual cues that tell us so much with so little, like a juicebox representing their kid even when he’s not there. It is an incredibly detailed approach, as is the writing, which feels so real by being specific yet always intentional. If it feels like a play, it’s due to the rhythm of the words, which provide a perfect pace to each scene. The humor is entirely necessary and always lands, providing laugh-out-loud moments in unexpected places, like a scene where Charlie is served or when he gets a visit from a social worker. And all of the big moments – especially the ever-so-talked about ‘argument scene,’ which circulated on Twitter and got blasted by many – are absolutely earned in the build-up, which provides their flustered dialogue with a resonance as they argue with an explosive, uncontrollable energy that we have seen festering for an hour-and-a-half. The writing is undoubtedly personal, as Baumbach draws from two divorces: his parent’s, and his own with Jennifer Jason Leigh (most hilariously by Nicole having starred in a college rom-com a la Leigh’s breakout Fast Times at Ridgemont High), yet the take of those who consider this a self-aggrandizing work is one I entirely disagree with. The character of Charlie is a Noah Baumbach stand-in, and a character who is shown to be incredibly selfish and naïve at many points in the film while still being incredibly sharp, funny, and kind. Nicole gets much empathy from a writer who could have portrayed her as a villain, as we see the toll Charlie’s flaws took on her and how it causes her to lash out. It is an even-handed and fair portrayal as evidenced by the fact that some left the theater hating Charlie and some left hating Nicole, but a lot more left firmly in the middle, completely empathizing with two flawed, three-dimensional human beings. Randy Newman’s score for the film was one I wasn’t sure about on my first watch; it felt too similar to his Toy Story scores and I wasn’t sure if it added to the film. Yet as I watched the film again, and listened to the score once or twice, it left me spellbound. Like the film, the score is neither happy nor sad; it lands firmly in the bittersweet. It brings out the key moments of the film – the opening montages that I’ve already mentioned – and what has become my favorite scene of the year and the one I keep coming back to, which involves Charlie reading something towards the end. This beautiful scene is colored by melancholy and optimism at once, and the music coalesces these two feelings into something that must be listened to. As Sondheim says, content dictates form. And speaking of Sondheim.. I know Sondheim’s “Being Alive” almost too well. Every single word is etched into my brain from countless listens, from singing it in the shower and around the house (my brother can sing the song from memory now, after listening to me and my voice cracks countless times). I know it so well that when I heard it in Marriage Story, Noah Baumbach’s love story through the lens of a divorce, I could tell what key it was in by the opening vamp (C Major and then D flat). But more than knowing the song, I wanted it to add something unique to the story, and it undoubtedly succeeded. What could have felt like Baumbach forcing in a Sondheim song for thematic resonance is instead a completely realistic, emotional scene that adds even more detail to our characters. Charlie, hears the vamp to the song start and, like most theater kids would, he gets up and starts singing it for fun. It’s a song and show he’s completely familiar with – he even speaks the dialogue that characters in Company say to the person singing the song, Robert, in between his verses. Only after the song changes keys and changes its repeated word from “someone” to “somebody” does Charlie really begin to think about what he’s singing, what the song is saying. (The fact that this is articulated so effortlessly is a testament to Adam Driver, who has never been better and gives one of the best performances of the year). And the scene is paralleled by Nicole singing another song from Company in the previous scene, “You Could Drive a Person Crazy.” It’s a show they may have shared together, one they bonded over. He sings of longing for the imperfection of marriage, knowing it will cause strife but knowing that alone is alone, and not alive; how does that feel for someone who just left a marriage, who may long for more? The song is given an entirely new meaning by the context of this story, in a scene that adds depth to the story and the characters. I don’t believe there’s an unmemorable scene in Marriage Story. Every single moment is exquisite, with enough detail to leave you satisfied and yet wanting to explore it more. I find myself wanting to re-watch a certain scene and then wind up watching 10 more. In spite of the sadness that a divorce or break-up often entails, Baumbach made an optimistic film, one that holds on to the intense emotions of love and reshapes them into something entirely new, but just as vital. You can feel writer-director Greta Gerwig’s passion for the story in every frame of Little Women, her adaptation of Louisa May Alcott’s classic 1869 novel. Each scene is filled with such warmth for these characters, and love for the strong, sweet bonds between them. Book adaptations can easily feel dull, but this is the opposite; the film simply feels alive.
The story of sisters Jo (Saoirse Ronan), Amy (Florence Pugh), Meg (Emma Watson), and Beth (Eliza Scanlen) growing up together and eventually growing apart, typically told chronologically, has become non-linear in Gerwig’s script, the story fragmented. Under a more amateur filmmaker, this ambition could have caused the film to become difficult to follow, especially for those like me who have never read the novel. Thankfully, Gerwig is an extremely gifted storyteller, one who connects the past and the present through specific, similar moments and ideas occurring in each timeline, allowing the audience to figure out when there’s a time switch without holding their hand (only once are we given a superimposed “X years earlier” text). This way of telling the story brings parallels between each time period, giving the story more depth, and bringing new emotional resonance to moments that may have been lost in the countless retellings of this story. Under Gerwig’s eye, this reenactment becomes more challenging – and all the better for it. While not a modernization, the adaptation feels contemporary in many ways even aside from the broken chronology. The more modern screenwriting trope of having people speak over each other, interrupt one another, and speak realistically in general is used to great effect here, capturing those who have the loudest voices in the room and most importantly capturing the sisters in a completely believable light. Sibling love is so profound here, as is sibling hatred, the consequence of having another human in such close proximity all the time. The little squabbles and huge conflicts are felt because of this modern sensibility which manages to make empathy for these people easy. To many fans of the book, apparently, the weakest character, or at least the character you love to hate, is Amy March. With only the film under my belt it is an opinion I could never grasp. As brought to life by Florence Pugh in the best performance of the film (no simple task competing against the other sisters, Laura Dern, Timothee Chalamet, Chris Cooper, Tracy Letts, Bob Odenkirk and even Meryl freaking Streep), Pugh is magnetic in every scene. Her choices are small and detailed, hilarious and heartbreaking in equal measure, and for a character who goes through such a big change you entirely understand why the change occurs when other characters may stay the same. But it’s not just Pugh; everyone given a big dramatic moment nails it. Even more impressive is the comedy here. Fantastic dramatic actors have brought out such sharp comedic timing, bringing one-liners and little physical touches that made me laugh out loud consistently. Even when many period pieces tend to focus on the drama, Gerwig brings out the humor of life, and the movie is all the better for it. Even with so much time devoted to both Jo and Amy, Meg and Beth are given complexity and depth in shorter, subtler ways. Meg’s path is the most traditional of the four, and yet it is justified completely by the script, making an arc that could feel lazy completely understandable and new. Beth’s reticence compared to her mostly outgoing sisters makes her brief moments of interaction shine all the more, and her love for music brings about two of the best scenes in the film which bring emotional heft without dialogue. And the non-diegetic music, in the form of Alexandre Desplat’s score, captures the film by being exactly what the film is: warm, loving, exciting, and despite feeling a little familiar, entirely fresh. Walking out of Little Women, I felt more of an urge to write a review than I have in years. I needed to talk about the movie, jot my thoughts down, because more than any other movie this year I left the theater happy, and I can’t wait to see it again. It feels like home. Modern-day indie movies tend to have a formula, one of a 20-something “mid-life” crisis told through a quirky gimmick that evolves into a profound yet blatant resolution. The formula is imperfect, which leaves most of these films feeling incomplete and tired. And yet, every once in awhile one will come along and touch you in an unexpected way, leaving you surprisingly moved and motivated. Band-Aid did that for me, and I must thank it.
The premise doesn’t seem like something that would move me so unexpectedly: a young married couple suffering from constant tension and anger deciding to vent their frustrations out by writing songs, with the topics varying from doing the dishes to not wanting to have sex all the time, even though they still love each other. Yet while the film is about trying to regain the thrill of first love, something unfamiliar to my 15-year old self, another one of its themes took me for a whirl: using art as a solution to a repetitive cycle you’ve fallen into. My cycle is certainly different from theirs, mine being having nothing to do and unmotivated to find something, but it still hit. Of course, it helps that this couple is portrayed incredibly well. Actors Zoe-Lister Jones (also the writer and director, in her feature debut) and Adam Pally have chemistry that feels raw and realistic all of the time, even when their given dialogue can force jokes a little too often. The songs that the couple write here match their realism, simple tunes with the occasionally complex lyric that serve as both great punchlines and story progression. And while Fred Armisen’s strange, awkward neighbor character is maybe not the most realistic part of the film, he manages to make it work with his lovely and unexpected charisma, stealing a lot of the scenes he is in. When the movie takes its turn into serious and moving territory, it flows naturally and doesn’t feel forced, keeping the raw energy that the movie prides itself on. And while the ending is preachy, the film manages to earn it with the charm it imparts on you throughout. Yes, Band-Aid is not perfect; it’s a feature debut that suffers from the problems of someone figuring out what they’re doing. But it’s certainly a strong one, and it pulled me in in unexpected ways. Its treatment of art as therapy is something I needed to hear at the time. So here I am, finishing another session. Edgar Wright, the director of Baby Driver, is someone dear to my heart. Hot Fuzz blew my mind when I first saw it, with jokes so subtle and fun so obvious that I had to show it to anyone who would listen to me. The same goes for all his other efforts: Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, The World’s End, and Shaun of the Dead are all along the same lines and yet entirely different than the others. Wright hasn’t made a bad movie, and he continues that streak with Baby Driver, a kinetic ride that contains both the fun of Wright’s previous efforts and a newfound intensity that keeps you on the edge of your seat the entire time.
Baby Driver follows a young man known as Baby (Ansel Elgort) who works as a getaway driver for various heists in Atlanta, blaring loud music of any sort while driving away in order to drown out the ringing from his tinnitus. Baby struggles to find enjoyment in the business and once he meets a girl, Debra (Lily James), he struggles to get out of his illegal activities. Tinnitus isn’t the only thing that Baby is drowning out when he listens to the wonderful soundtrack that plays throughout the film. The musical choices bring a lot of the fun to the world of the film, but they also block out the reality of the dirty crime that Baby is carrying out. It’s a coping mechanism of sorts, a distraction that Wright cleverly acknowledges while still giving us the fun we expect from a film packed with car chases and action set pieces. Despite previously working in a world of comedy, Wright brings the gravity of the situation into the picture quickly, acknowledging the complete drama of the situation and bringing the intensity into the film full force. He also manages to bring in a quick form of visual storytelling, that can sum up a situation or character succinctly and without consuming more of the film’s running time. Yet sometimes it may be a little too succinct character-wise. The majority of the characters in this movie are one-dimensional archetypes which are forgettable in the end, particularly the two females, the already-mentioned Debra and Eiza González as Darling. They are not given much to do and are not as interesting as any of their male counterparts, although there’s not much of a comparison because the dudes aren’t very interesting either. Most can be surmised in a couple words, and none are really worth talking about. Yet the rest of the film is such a ride that it’s easy to forget, and Baby is just likable enough to care about. You’ve seen Baby Driver, and yet you probably haven’t seen it this good. Although the characters leave something to be desired, the rest of the film feels so alive that it’s easy to get lost in the world anyway. And the ending, which I will not spoil, is something slightly different yet every bit as fitting for the type of story it’s trying to tell. One of the better examples of a summer blockbuster in recent years. |