→ March 4, 2022
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Escape from Mogadishu.

The South Korean film industry has produced some remarkable, world-class films in the last few years, highlighted by Parasite, of course, but with Burning, The Handmaiden, Train to Busan, and more all earning critical acclaim and often significant followings outside of the Korean-speaking audience. So even when South Korea’s submission to the Academy Awards doesn’t make the shortlist, I try to catch it if possible, as I did with this year’s Escape from Mogadishu, a very strong, exciting action film based on the true story of how diplomats from South and North Korea worked together to escape Somalia when the country collapsed in 1991. (You can rent it on Amazon, iTunes, and Google Play.)

The film opens with scenes of intrigue, as the South Korean delegation to Somalia tries to curry favor with the African country’s longtime dictator, Sian Barre, against a similar effort by the North Korean diplomats as both nations fought for UN recognition. This early bickering and gamesmanship quickly becomes trivial as Mogadishu, the capital of Somalia, falls to rebels, turning the city into a war zone as competing rebel factions fought each other and the remnants of the Somali national army, a civil war that engulfed the country and still has not entirely abated thirty years later. The two Korean missions were both stranded without transportation out of the country or ways to communicate with their parent countries, and the two groups decide to mount a daring escape together to get to the Italian embassy, as the Italians have promised them space on a cargo plane out to Kenya that will allow them to get home.  (You can read one of the diplomats’ recollections of the escape and his criticism of the movie in this English-language article.)

Escape from Mogadishu bounces around between genres in the first third or so of the movie, with some outright comedy, inept spycraft, and a general air of disdain for the scheming of the Cold War era, which makes it more incongruous when the movie follows actual events and becomes a straight-up action film – although this may be a deliberate choice to try to recreate the feeling of shock the diplomats, staffers, and family members must have had when the country fell apart around them. The last two-thirds of the movie are an intense, often relentless rush of movement and peril, punctuated by moments of humanity that arise between the two sides. There’s never the over-the-top recognition that you might expect in an American-made movie, where someone says ‘why can’t we all just get along’ or ‘we’re all the same’ or some other cliché, but the point here is quite clear, and only further underscores the human tragedy when the two groups can’t even acknowledge each other on the runway in Nairobi for fear of getting the North Koreans killed.

It’s an ensemble film and very much a group performance, but there are three more or less central characters, including the North Korean ambassador to Somalia (Heo Joon-ho), the South Korean ambassador (Kim Yoon-seok), and the South Korean intelligence officer (Jo In-sung), the last of whom is younger and far more dapper than the two ambassadors. Heo has earned wide praise for his performance as the strict North Korean leader, dressed in officer’s clothing with a taut military bearing, but who is also the leader of his group, and thus when he softens his attitude towards the South Koreans, his comrades are willing to do the same. Jo is the more memorable character, and gets some of the film’s funnier moments in the first third, but I can see the plaudits for Heo given the tighter reins around the character’s display of emotions. It all looks incredible – the re-creation of the city and the subsequent destruction of it as the civil war hits its streets is remarkable, and the filming of the final action sequence, with the two delegations packed into four cars trying to navigate the streets to get to the Italian consulate, is white-knuckles stuff all the way. I’m not shocked it didn’t make the shortlist for the Oscars, since it feels so much more like a big-budget, popular movie than the sort of film that usually makes the cut, but it’s a well-made film that executes its action scenes well, a sort of On Wings of Eagles or Argo for an even less well-known escape.

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→ March 3, 2022
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Red Rocket.

The idea of the con man as amiable rascal goes back decades, at least, but the archetype has been overtaken by current events, not least from our four years with a con man in the White House. In Sean Baker’s latest film, the hilarious dark comedy Red Rocket, Baker plays with the format by giving us a charming, fast-talking con man as the lead character, making it clear in stages that he’s a self-aggrandizing loser who does not care whose lives he destroys as long as none of them is his own. (You can rent it on Amazon, iTunes, or Google Play.)

Baker’s previous film, The Florida Project was my favorite film of 2017, anchored by an incredible performance by a 6-year-old actress, Brooklynn Prince, with no previous acting credits. Red Rocket is almost as good, and once again he’s cast two unconventional actors as leads: former MTV VJ and unserious actor Simon Rex, and an unknown actor named Suzanna Son, who had just one minor movie credit before this one.

Rex plays “Mikey Saber,” a former porn star who has returned to Texas City after his career ended for unknown reasons, and tries to move back in with his estranged wife, Lexi (Bree Elrod), who at least for a time was in adult films with him. After a few futile attempts to find regular work, stymied by the long gap on his resume, Mikey begins selling weed for Leondria, who distributes with the help of her kids, especially her stoic daughter June. When Mikey has enough money to finally pay Lexi and her mom Lil something for rent, he takes them to the local donut shop, where he meets 17-year-old Strawberry (Son), and immediately sets his sights on seducing her, with an eye towards taking her to LA and using her as his way back into the porn industry.

As in The Florida Project, the majority of actors in Red Rocket are non-professionals; only Rex and Elrod had more than one acting credit before this film, with Elrod mostly working on the stage since she was in Shutter Island a decade ago. Baker’s skill for finding people who can fill these roles is remarkable, with Brittney Rodriguez (June) especially standing out once her character finally gets to talk, in the film’s funniest scene by far, a family squabble near the end of the movie that was, of course, provoked by Mikey.

But it’s Rex and especially Son who make this movie. Rex is perfectly annoying as the guy who never shuts up about himself, his plans, how greatness is just around the corner, how he would already have been rich and/or famous except that something happened. He has an external locus of control large enough to enclose his giant ego, and he never tires of telling everyone who’ll listen about it. Son is a revelation as Strawberry, a convincing teenager (she’s actually 26) who leans a little into the Lolita role Mikey sees for her, but who is also naïve enough not to realize how sinister Mikey’s motives are and to appear to fall for him and his schemes, even when some external factors should tip her off. She evinces the superficial worldliness of the teenager who thinks she’s an adult, especially since the world often treats her that way, but who’s also too trusting and sometimes misses obvious points about how the world works. She also gets to sing in one of the movie’s stranger moments – it comes after a sex scene, which is awkward like every single sex scene in the movie, almost always because of Mikey – and has a lovely voice that had me convinced I’d heard her before. (She sounds like one of the many indie singer/songwriters out there right now, although I haven’t been able to figure out which one yet.)

The film is dark, despite being incredibly funny, and never quite grapples with how awful Mikey is other than letting you see the person under the hood (quite literally, near the end of the film). He’s a 40-something creep who seduces a 17-year-old and sees absolutely nothing wrong with it, even when he tells her ex-boyfriend to leave her alone because she’s with Mikey now. He uses his closest friend, or the closest thing he has to a friend, for free transportation for weeks, only to land that friend in a world of trouble from which Mikey escapes. He weasels his way back into Lexi’s life, clearly giving her false hope that he’s sticking around and will allow her to put something back together – her mother is addicted to opioids, and Lexi might be as well – only to have him ditch her the moment he locks in on Strawberry as his mark. He’s irredeemable with no interest in redemption. I have known several people, all men, just like him, convinced that a huge success is just around the corner, that the world simultaneously owes them this success and is the only thing denying it to them. They’re insufferable even as friends or acquaintances, and that’s if you don’t get caught up in one of their schemes. It’s a testament to Baker’s script and Rex’s performance that Mikey is so familiar and recognizable, and that he can entertain us even as we want to throttle him.

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→ March 2, 2022
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C’mon C’mon.

C’mon C’mon was written and directed by Mike Mills (not the REM/Baseball Project bassist), and doesn’t include that song, just to answer the two most obvious questions up front. It is a beautiful, tiny, intimate film, sweeping you up into its leisurely rhythm, combining humor, grief, and a vision of parenthood from the outside into a near-perfect film. (You can rent it now on Amazon, Google Play, or iTunes.)

Joaquin Phoenix plays Johnny, a journalist working on a radio documentary where he and a small crew travel to large cities in the U.S. to interview kids about their views on the world today and what the future might be like. He calls his sister Viv (Gaby Hoffman), who asks him to come to Los Angeles to watch his nephew Jesse (Woody Norman) for a few days while she travels to Oakland to look after her estranged husband Paul, who is bipolar and not getting the proper help or taking care of himself. A few days turns into a few weeks, so Johnny takes Jesse on the road with him, and has to serve as a friend and a guardian and a temporary parent to a kid who misses both his mom and his dad.

It’s part buddy comedy, part road movie, but it’s always authentic – there is something very honest about every detail in this film, which gets a boost from the real interviews that Phoenix conducted during the filming. (One of the boys he interviews was shot and killed last summer on his stoop; the film is dedicated to his memory.) These vignettes, often Phoenix asking a question followed by several kids, who look like they’re maybe 8 to 16 years old, providing answers – thoughtful, funny, sad, honest answers that gives the outside look at childhood to contrast with the main narrative’s inside look.

Phoenix is perfectly understated as Johnny, but Norman steals the show here – he’s more than just the cute kid, and rises to the challenge of a script that asks him to show a wide range of emotions and behaviors. Jesse is a pretty typical 8-year-old kid, by turns sweet and rambunctious, not always aware of his surroundings but sometimes acutely aware that his person wasn’t nearby. He’s a social kid, and funny, but also has that habit of kids that age of assuming that whatever they find interesting will be just as interesting to everyone around them. He also loves conspiracy theories, with Johnny’s crewmates eating up his talk about them in one scene in a restaurant that helps establish how easily Jesse gets along with adults – something we learn from later scenes is an adaptive behavior.

The Viv material is the weakest part, not least because it’s not entirely clear why her presence is required in Oakland, especially once Paul gets into inpatient mental health treatment. The arc of Viv and Jesse’s relationship suffers a little from its scant screen time; we do see through flashbacks that it has had its vicissitudes, and learn from a poignant conversation between Jesse and Johnny that the latter may have had a role in his sister’s marriage breaking up. It’s not implausible, but it falls into the space in between useful background and underdeveloped subplot.

C’mon C’mon is entirely in black and white, which cuts two ways here; it’s always gimmicky when a modern film is shot that way, but it does add to the film’s sense of scale. Everything about this movie is so small, in the best possible sense. The black and white aspect only increases that intimacy, making the movie seem leaner and more spare, although I can also see an argument that it’s not necessary, and that doing so in 2021 is showy.

I admit to liking this movie more than my faux-critic side does – C’mon C’mon depicts a fundamental part of being human, and does so with compassion and humor. Many of my favorite movies do something like this, and the fact that this movie does so in such a simple, elegant way makes me love it even more. And I wish that Norman had gotten a Best Supporting Actor nod for his work, to go along with the BAFTA nomination he got in the same category. He’s just fantastic, and without him, the movie wouldn’t seem as real or pack the same punch.

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→ March 1, 2022
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The Eyes of Tammy Faye.

Jessica Chastain won the Screen Actors Guild Award for Best Actress in a Film this past weekend for her portrayal of the title character in The Eyes of Tammy Faye, yet another in the ongoing series of crappy biopics churned out by Hollywood as Oscar bait. It’s especially unfortunate here, as Tammy Faye Bakker was a far more interesting person than this movie even considers, and wastes a solid performance by Chastain that’s more than the garden-variety impersonations that usually win these categories. (It’s streaming free on HBO Max.)

If you know of Tammy Faye Bakker already, it’s because she was the wife of televangelist Jim Bakker for most of her life; they met in college and she appeared on air with him for over two decades, helping him build a following and then an entire network, while also becoming a bit of a punch line herself for her excessive makeup and the way it would run when she’d cry. Their empire imploded when two scandals hit – Jim had been siphoning off donors’ money, and some of it went to pay off an employee, Jessica Hahn, who accused Bakker of raping her. The Bakkers divorced while he was behind bars, and Tammy Faye later married a business associate of theirs who himself later went to prison for bankruptcy fraud – she could sure pick ’em! – and died in 2007 of colon cancer.

That’s her story, at least the most public part of it, and that’s the story that The Eyes of Tammy Faye tells, when it bothers to tell a story at all. (Don’t even get me started on how much is made up in this film – pun intended.) This is a biopic, but not a biography. It’s not interested in telling us about Tammy Faye Bakker, the person. It’s a recitation of things that happened to her. She had an unhappy childhood. She married young. She helped Jim Bakker build his business with her puppets and her high, sing-songy voice. Her marriage crumbled, then fell apart. We get a few glimpses of her character, such as the various times she refuses to be the subservient wife when Bakker’s colleagues Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell are around – Jerry Jr. isn’t depicted, as he was busy with the pool cleaner – but those are scant, because a script this perfunctory has to play the hits. (Vincent D’Onofrio is unrecognizable as Falwell, although you might pick up his voice behind the clipped speech.)

The script does show the most important anecdote from Tammy Faye’s public life, at least: her on-air, live interview with Steve Pieters, a gay pastor who was diagnosed with HIV in 1982. (He’s still alive and gave a wonderful interview with Religion & Politics about the experience and the new film.) It was a compassionate, non-judgmental conversation, one that was consistent with Tammy Faye’s view of Christianity, showing love and compassion for everyone without judgment, but not Falwell’s and Robertson’s. Even today, it’s hard to imagine an evangelical TV show airing such a segment. In 1985, though, it was revolutionary – and Tammy Faye remained a supporter of the LGBTQ+ community for the rest of her life, even serving as the grand marshal of a pride parade at one point. This illustrates a lot more about the person she was than a series of vignettes, like the nonsense one about how they first ended up on television after their car was stolen (never happened), shows us.

Instead, The Eyes of Tammy Faye paints by numbers – this happened, and this happened, and then this happened, and then she took a bunch of pills, and then it all fell apart. (As far as I can tell, she never appeared intoxicated or stoned on air, either.) It is a series of unfortunate events, with no attempts to connect any of them, or give the audience any understanding of the people behind them other than painting Jim in broad strokes – which may be all he deserves, as both a philanderer and a fraud – and Tammy in only slightly less broad ones.

Chastain and Andrew Garfield expend so much energy trying to sound like the Bakkers that their work feels more like mimicry than acting – which is probably unfair to them both, but more to Chastain, who also has a lot more to do than Garfield does. Garfield’s Bakker is wooden, ambitious, single-minded, and if his faith was real at some point, it loses out to his desire for money and power. That transition occurs off screen, although you could argue its impact on Tammy Faye deserved more explanation. Chastain’s performance is more central, given that she’s the protagonist of the film, yet her imitation of Tammy Faye’s voice and mannerisms, as well as hair and makeup that make it hard to recognize the actress beneath, is hard to separate from the performance. She’s probably better than Nicole Kidman’s in Being the Ricardos, but there is no way on earth I’d vote for her over Penelope Cruz in Parallel Mothers or Olivia Colman in The Lost Daughter, and I think Alana Haim was better in Licorice Pizza as well. The Eyes of Tammy Faye also got a nomination for Best Makeup and Hairstyling; I’ve only seen one other nominee, Dune, but I wouldn’t be surprised at all to see this one win. It’s just not a very good movie, despite, or perhaps because of, all the emphasis on making it look right.

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→ February 25, 2022
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Hive.

Hive became the first film in the history of the Sundance film festival to win all three of its main awards (Grand Jury, Directing, and Audience Prizes), and became Kosovo’s submission for this year’s Academy Award for Best International Film, making the shortlist of fifteen films but not the final five (in a very competitive year). The movie is a worthy successor to the 2021 nominee, Bosnia and Herzegovina’s Quo Vadis, Aida?, continuing the region’s Both movies revolve around stories of the Serbian-led genocides of the 1990s, but while the Bosnian film stays almost entirely within the events of the Srebrenica massacre, Hive deals with the aftermath of the genocide in Kosovo, following one woman whose husband disappeared during the killings in Krusha e Madhe, now called the “Village of War Widows,” and tries to find a way to support her family.

Based on the true story of Fahrije Hoti, Hive follows its main character as she has the idea to work with other (presumed) widows in their village to start a business selling ajvar, the local red pepper-based relish, similar to Bosnian pinjur (which, briefly, was available at Trader Joes!). As the film opens, Fahrije is seen working with a local charity that is offering to teach women to drive so that they can find work, although many of the women object to the fact that the teacher will be male. In a state that is 96% Muslim, being alone with a man in a car would be unacceptable, and these traditional gender restrictions are one of the film’s major themes, as the massacre of the town’s men means many of the women have no source of income.

Fahrije lives with her father-in-law, who uses a wheelchair and refuses to give up hope that his son is alive or to make allowances for the need for his daughter-in-law to earn a living; and her two children, one of whom is a teenager who is sensitive to the way the town perceives her mother. She keeps bees and tries to sell the honey in town, but it’s too meager an income to support their needs. When Fahrije tries to start the business, she finds a willing buyer at the local supermarket, who is willing to give them shelf space and supports their efforts – I kept waiting for the twist there, but there wasn’t one – yet faces needless opposition from the men in her town, from having her car window smashed to someone coming into their makeshift warehouse and destroying inventory. The man from whom she buys the main ingredient for the ajvar, red peppers, keeps pestering her to go out with him. And she’s trying to find out if her husband’s remains are among those found near the town’s river, an effort that requires DNA from her father-in-law but which he refuses to provide.

Hive offers a simple narrative, taking the viewer from that initial meeting with the women’s organization through the idea and to execution, without spending too much time on any one part of the story – especially not the conception of the ajvar cooperative, which could have been dreadful if they’d tried to extend the scene. One of the great strengths of the script is how much is left unsaid; the characters talk tersely, which keeps the story moving and also infuses it with a sense of rage and frustration simmering below the surface. Yllka Gashi plays Fahrije, and her taut, anguished performance is essential; even when her efforts succeed, there’s always a sense that it’s transient, or that no matter what happens, she’ll continue to be haunted by the uncertainty of her husband’s fate. (The movie’s ending is not entirely factual, at least on that last front.) Its strength lies in its simplicity, but at the same time, it also limits the film’s ceiling – as does the general adherence to a true story. It doesn’t have the serial gut punches of Quo Vadis, Aida?, instead telling a story about the survivors, one that juxtaposes the horrors of the Serbians’ atrocities in the former Yugoslavia with a single anecdote of hope. It has the feel of a good, low-budget indie movie – which is not to detract from first-time writer/director Blerta Basholli’s efforts here. If anything, I’d like to see what she can do next, perhaps with more resources, even to continue shining a light on what happened in her native Kosovo.

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→ February 23, 2022
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Nightmare Alley.

Nightmare Alley took home a Best Picture nomination despite tepid reviews for a movie that ended up in that echelon, with unfavorable comparisons to the 1947 black-and-white version that director Guillermo del Toro chose to update. For fans of noir cinema, however, this is a fantastic melding of that genre’s conventions with del Toro’s visual style and meticulous placement, one that I found incredibly entertaining up until the rather predictable, on-the-nose ending.

Adapted from a 1946 novel of the same name, Nightmare Alley follows the path of a con man named Stanton Carlisle (Bradley Cooper), who we see burning down a house with a body in it, without any explanation given, and then who walks off a bus and into a carnival, where he ends up with a job. On his first night there, he sees the carnival geek, whose role is to bite the heads off live chickens and drink their blood as entertainment for the carnival’s patrons. Stanton learns the art of cold-reading from other carnival workers, and falls for one of the other carnies, Molly (Rooney Mara). The two take off together and form a mentalist act for a dinner theatre show in Buffalo, where they encounter Dr. Lilith Ritter (Cate Blanchett) and her wealthy client, the latter of whom believes Stanton can communicate with his dead son. Stanton hatches a plan to con that client and other wealthy men in the city by using information from Dr. Ritter, offering to split the money with her, but it goes awry when another client, Ezra Grindle (Richard Jenkins), wants more than Stanton can provide.

The film looks incredible, as you’d expect from del Toro, although this time around he has no supernatural elements to work with – the monsters are inside the characters themselves, so to speak. The city of Buffalo has never looked so vibrant and glamorous, and even the carnival has a grim beauty under the lights, when the show is on. The film is set in 1939, with a depression on and war beckoning, but you’d never know it except when the characters mention the war in passing, with opulence everywhere once we get to the big city – especially Dr. Ritter’s office, with walls that appear gold-plated and a recording apparatus that looks like it came from the science fiction stories of that era.

Del Toro also coaxes some great performances from a loaded cast, not least of which are those of Cooper and Blanchett. Cooper earned more Oscar buzz for the two minutes he’s on screen in Licorice Pizza, but there’s far more to this character and Cooper plays it so effortlessly that perhaps we’re starting to take him for granted. Blanchett is marvelously inscrutable as the good doctor, with unclear motives and fungible ethics; her actual interest in Stanton is obscured until their final scene together. David Strathairn and Toni Collette do their usual, understated thing as the pair who pretend to be psychics at the carnival, while Willem Dafoe leans into his creepier side as the carnival’s operator, although he unnerves less through malice than through his lack of empathy for anyone else. There’s a great cameo from Mary Steenburgen in a one-note role as well. Mara, unfortunately, is as flat and toneless as ever, making it hard to see what Carlisle sees in her, and almost as hard to sympathize with her when he leaves her in the lurch.

This film looked like it was going to end in one of two ways, and del Toro chose the one that’s telegraphed early on in the film, which is true to the novel’s ending but feels so overdone – foreshadowing is great, but the amount of time this script spends telling you where it’s going to end up gives the ending the aftertaste of an artificial sweetener. It contrasts with the film’s refusal to be explicit with background details, including Carlisle’s and Ritter’s pasts, and what drives each of them to do what they do. There’s a recurring symbol of the corpse of a baby that Dafoe’s character keeps in his trailer, but it’s never fleshed out in any way, with a lot of speculation (this one is pretty good, with a small spoiler involved) but nothing concrete, and it felt more like del Toro being del Toro, rather than something that added to the finished product.

I enjoyed Nightmare Alley for its noir vibe and some of the very strong performances, but I can’t believe this is one of the top ten movies of the year – it’s more style than substance and it failed to stick the landing. It’s not as good as Parallel Mothers or The Lost Daughter, neither of which took a Best Picture nomination, just to pick two that I’ve already seen. It took a Best Cinematography nomination as well, but of the four nominees I’ve seen, I’d rank it fourth for that category. It’s also nominated for Best Costume Design and Best Production Design, however, and seems worthy of both honors.

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→ February 22, 2022
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Parallel Mothers.

Pedro Almodóvar earned his first Oscar nomination in 1988, as Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown made the final five for that year’s Academy Award for Best Foreign-Language Film (now Best International Film). He won the same award eleven years later, for Todo Sobre Mi Madre, my introduction to his work, and was most recently nominated for the strong, introspective Pain and Glory, which earned a Best Actor nomination for Antonio Banderas two years ago.

Almodóvar’s most recent work, the outstanding Parallel Mothers, finds the director similarly pensive, but this time he’s looking outward, with a two-layered story about truth and reconciliation in Almodóvar’s native Spain, a country that is still grappling with the legacy of a dictatorship that ended nearly a half-century ago. Parallel Mothers starts with a story about a mass grave from the Spanish Civil War, then pivots abruptly into the two mothers of the title, both of whom give birth in the same hospital but find themselves intertwined by the events that come afterwards, before we return to the story of the grave in a sweeping conclusion. The middle story itself packs an emotional wallop, but it is also a grand metaphor for the challenges Spain – or really any country – faces in confronting the truth of its past.

Penelope Cruz, who got the film’s one Academy Award nomination this year (for Best Actress), plays the photographer Janis Martinez, who happens to be taking pictures of a forensic anthropologist named Arturo. The fascists killed her great-grandfather in the 1930s, forcing him first to dig the mass grave in which he’d be buried, and then tore him from his family a night later. Janis asks Arturo if he could help exhume and identify the bodies, with help from the government’s truth commission. They also sleep together, from which Janis gets pregnant, a development she welcomes, as she’s 40 and has always wanted children. She shares a room at the hospital with the teenaged Ana, who is unhappy at her condition, and they become friends for the moment, although they lose touch once they resume their lives outside the hospital. When they reconnect, Janis learns that Ana’s baby died of SIDS, and she asks Ana to move in and be her au pair, but she has an ulterior motive as well.

The Janis/Ana story itself contains multitudes; both characters are complex, with detailed backstories, reasons why they are who they are, yet no connection to each other beyond the coincidence of their simultaneous arrivals at the hospital. Janis knows a truth that she can’t bear to share with anyone, including Ana and Arturo, but without the truth – and even a chance for reconciliation – nobody can move forward with their lives. When that truth comes out, it sets off a bomb in their lives, threatening everything Janis has wanted, but that’s followed by a period of forgiveness and understanding that wouldn’t be possible without the truth, no matter how brutal. Only after that can we return to the story of the mass grave, as Arturo takes a team to the village where Janis’ great-grandfather died, and where her family still lives, and begins the process of searching for and disinterring the remains.

There’s enough metaphor and symbolism here to fill someone’s senior thesis. The parallels between the Janis/Ana story and Spain’s own uncomfortable grappling with the impacts of the Civil War and the fascist Franco’s tyrannical, forty-year reign give Parallel Mothers its narrative framework, but Almódovar has populated the film with smaller details that give depth to the story of the two women while also sharpening the connection between the nested stories. As for symbolism, there’s food everywhere here, such as when Janis teaches Ana to make a tortilla Española, a classic Spanish dish of thinly sliced potatoes poached in olive oil and finished with eggs to bind it. It’s a national dish (a big deal in a country with divers regional cuisines), and its history goes back at least 200 years; passing this knowledge from one generation to the next, as Janis does to Ana, may stand in for the idea of passing along all knowledge, presaging a later scene where the two argue in Janis’s kitchen, and the older women lectures Ana over her ignorance of her country’s history. (I don’t know if there’s any symbolism to this part, but I certainly noticed the gigantic wheel of Manchego sitting on Janis’s counter, under class, and you are fooling yourself if you think I’m not trying to figure out how to get my wife to sign off on that in our house.) The color red appears everywhere in the film, from Janis’s handbag to her phone case to various decorative objects in her home, which is an Almodóvar trademark; here it could stand in for the blood spilled in Spain’s 20th century, unmentioned and yet pervasive even if no one wishes to discuss it. There are substantial hairstyle changes, little language quirks, so many choices in the script that seem deliberate given what Almodóvar was trying to do with the concentric narratives.

This is one of my favorite films of 2021, although I wouldn’t put it at the very top. The film’s finale is moving, although it comes upon the viewer rather quickly; the script probably could have gone longer, both to resolve the Janis/Ana storyline and provide more time in the rural village where the exhumation takes place. There’s also a smaller twist in the relationship between the two women that seemed to come from nowhere, almost as a convenience, and it doesn’t contribute meaningfully enough to the plot for me to buy into it. Cruz is so good in this, with Milena Smit also superb as Ana, that combined with the literary, layered script, I still found myself lost in its depths long after I left the theater.

I’m not sure why Spain selected The Good Boss, which stars Javier Bardem (Cruz’s husband), over this as its submission to the Academy Awards this year, although the one-film-per-country thing has already outlived any usefulness it may have had, but the one nomination it got, for Cruz, is well deserved – she’s certainly better than Nicole Kidman, who may win. (Cruz also became just the fifth woman nominated twice for Best Actress for films in languages other than English, and the first to do so for two Spanish-language roles.) I have read, but have no way to verify, that the Spanish film group that chooses its submissions dislikes Almodóvar, having passed over his Volver and Bad Education, but the joke is on them, as The Good Boss made the shortlist but not the final five nominees for Best International Film.

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→ February 17, 2022
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Dune.

Dune could have gone wrong so many ways, but the biggest risk in converting Frank Herbert’s sci-fi classic to the big screen was always the plot. The novel’s setting is iconic, from the desert planet to the sandworms, yet the complexity of the story around the Christ-like Paul Atreides stood out as the greater challenge, the one aspect of the book that couldn’t be addressed with CG. Denis Villeneuve’s Dune does a remarkable job of distilling the first half of the book into a single, accessible story that simplifies the plot without overdoing it, while also providing the look and feel that have helped make the novel an enduring classic of its genre.

(Disclaimers: I love the original Dune novel, so much that I read all five of Herbert’s increasingly terrible sequels, but have still never seen the David Lynch film adaptation from 1984.)

Dune follows the familiar template of the ‘chosen one,’ a story arc that stretches back to the Bible and continues now in YA fiction, most notably the Harry Potter series. The messiah here is Paul Atreides, the teenaged son of the Duke Leto Atreides, who rules the planet Caladan, and his concubine Lady Jessica, a member of the cultish spiritual order the Bene Gesserit. Paul exhibits unusual mental abilities from an early age that indicate that he may be the savior foretold by the Bene Gesserit’s prophecy. The story opens when the Emperor orders the Duke to take stewardship of the desert planet Arrakis, the only source of the drug known as spice or mélange, which also happens to be an essential element in interstellar travel. The present rules of Arrakis, House Harkonnen, are not especially keen to lose their powers, leading to armed conflict that puts Paul on the run and in charge of his own destiny.

Villeneuve’s decision with his co-screenwriters to split the book into two films, hoping the first would fare well enough that the studio would greenlight the second, paid off twice – it did do well enough that we will get a sequel, and I would argue that it only did that well because it didn’t try to cram a densely plotted 500-page novel into a 150 minute movie. There’s so much room to breathe here that Timothée Chalamet gets far more screen time to give a little depth to Paul’s character, while Rebecca Ferguson, as Lady Jessica, may be an even bigger beneficiary, as some of that character’s most important scenes would almost certainly have been cut in a single-film adaptation. Paul’s character comes alive more in the second half of the book, once he’s on the run with the Fremen people, which leaves a modest void in a first-half movie for another central character to fill, and Ferguson does so with the film’s best performance.

The cast of Dune is incredible on paper, although the result is more “I can’t believe they got Charlotte Rampling!” than “I can’t believe how great Charlotte Rampling is!” Oscar Isaac is here. So is Javier Bardem. Stephen McKinley Henderson, who you know by sight even if you don’t know him by name. And there is some value in having these very famous people, any of whom can command a scene by themselves, in smaller roles. They don’t get quite enough to do – not even as much as Jason Momoa does in a memorable turn as Duncan Idaho.

The film does look amazing, though. Villeneuve is no amateur at worldbuilding on the screen, and this is the Arrakis of the page, whether in wide shots or close-ups, feeling vast and foreboding and terrifyingly dry. You’ll find yourself craving water watching this film. Many of the special effects are impressive, especially those showing the various flying vehicles on the surface of the planet, but there’s just as much wonder in the sword fights or the scenes showing troops massed in formation when the Atreides arrive on Arrakis to take control.

Dune ended up with ten Oscar nominations this year, including Best Picture, Best Cinematography, and Best Adapted Screenplay, but not Best Director, which surprised me given how much Villeneuve had to put together here even taking the script (which he co-wrote) as a given. I’m not surprised at the lack of acting nominations, given how many people and named characters in the film, and how little depth most of them get even in a film that’s a solid two and a half hours. Ferguson might have had an argument for a supporting nod, but that’s probably it. My guess is Dune wins a bunch of technical awards – ones it may very well deserve – without taking Best Picture or Adapted Screenplay. Of the four BP nominees I’ve seen so far, though, I think it’s my favorite.

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→ January 25, 2022
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Spencer.

Director Pablo Larraín has a specific vision when it comes to biographical films: He takes a very small, pivotal period in his subject’s life and shows it in minute detail, sometimes moving events from outside the window into it for dramatic purposes. He did this to good effect in Jackie, fueled by an outstanding performance from Natalie Portman; and to mixed effect in Neruda, which lacked focus and glossed over some of Pablo Neruda’s significant character flaws. Larraín’s vision frames Spencer, his portrait of Princess of Wales Diana Spencer, but even Kristen Stewart’s award-worthy performance as the title character can’t salvage this overblown mess of a film. (It’s available to rent on Amazon and Google Play.)

The time window in Spencer is three days around Christmas in 1991, when the Royal Family made its annual pilgrimage to Sandrington, near where Diana grew up. At this point, her marriage to Prince Charles was already in shambles, fully aware he was having an affair with Camilla Parker-Bowles, and she felt (with reason) attacked and scorned by multiple other members of the royal family. She had bulimia at this time, and is shown frequently running to the bathroom after and even during meals, and appears more comfortable speaking with the staff than with those of her social class. By all accounts, she dreaded these family sojourns, but was powerless to object to them.

Spencer also dealt with bulimia for about a decade, which included the time period of this film, and food is both a substantial theme and major framing device. This could have been a major point in a different script, but here, it’s lazy, and because the script has Diana behaving erratically – undressing with the curtains open, wandering the fields at night, talking to birds/ghosts/inanimate objects, breaking into her abandoned childhood home (which was not, in fact, abandoned at the time) – it comes across as just more evidence that Diana was crazy, rather than suffering from mental illness. Diana says in the film that she feels like she’s in a “cage,” with very little control over just about any aspect of her life, and the script seems to equate her eating disorder, which can be about exerting control over something, with her demand that she be allowed to select her own dresses. It comes across as unserious, accentuated by claustrophobic camera work that has Stewart crashing down hallways, drunk on despair.

Stewart is doing a fair impersonation of Diana, particularly in facial expressions (sometimes too much so), but by the time the story gets to Sandringham and she has to interact with other characters, she’s far more effective, and in many cases seems like she’s the only thing reining in this Woman on the Verge script. If she weren’t credible, and actually a bit restrained, the movie would have gone completely off the rails within a half an hour, because nobody else in the movie gets more than a smattering of lines or screen time. Sally Hawkins plays a fictional character, Maggie, the royal dresser to Diana, wearing a bad wig, with the movie’s dumbest twist, a complete waste of a very talented actor. I would guess the second-most lines belongs to Sean Harris as Royal Chef Darren McGrady, who would later become Diana’s personal chef, although the film also makes their relationship improbably casual. (The real-life Chef Darren weighed in on his Youtube channel on what’s real in Spencer and what’s not.)

The hair and makeup on Stewart are remarkable, helping make the transformation more credible – it’s easier to forget the actor behind the role here than in, say, King Richard. Jonny Greenwood’s score is way over the top, however – there’s too much of it, and it’s too loud, as if this is supposed to be a psychological horror movie rather than a biopic. It’s at its worst in the first half hour of the movie and then tapers off to sort of a dull roar, a rare miss for the Radiohead guitarist.

As if Spencer isn’t enough of a tortured watch with its melodramatic fabrications, the entire concluding sequence is such obvious arrant nonsense that it takes you right out of any suspension of disbelief you might have had going. None of this happened, because none of it could have happened. It’s all bollocks. I would be happy to see Stewart get a Best Actress nomination for this, but I couldn’t recommend this movie for any other reason.

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→ January 20, 2022
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Quo Vadis, Aida?

Quo Vadis, Aida? falls into the weird in-between category created by AMPAS’s alteration to the rules for Oscar eligibility last year: It wasn’t officially released in the United States until 2021, but was nominated for the Best International Film in the 2020 cycle because it was released before the end of February (and was submitted by Bosnia and Herzegovina). Available to stream on Hulu, with perhaps the most incongruous commercial breaks in film history, the film is an unstinting look at the genocide of Bosnian Muslims, mostly men, during the Srebrenica massacre of 1995.

Aida is a translator for the UN’s peacekeeping force at the UNPROFOR base in Srebrenica, as well as a schoolteacher and mother of two teenaged boys. The film all takes place over a matter of hours as Serbian forces take over the town and residents flee, with several thousand entering the base but thousands more gathering outside to try to gain entry. Serbian Gen. Ratko Mladic, now a convicted war criminal known as the “Butcher of Bosnia,” offers safe passage out of Srebrenica to any Bosnian Muslims who wish it, but Aida is one of the few who suspects that the offer of safety is fake. She pleads with the Dutch peacekeepers to keep her family safe on the base, even as those same forces find themselves impotent in the face of Serbian arms, with the promised air support from NATO never materializing.

If you’re familiar with the Srebrenica massacre, you may have some idea how this is all going to turn out. Serb forces slaughtered more than 8000 Bosnian Muslim men and boys, raped thousands of women and girls, and tortured more civilians. They threw the victims’ corpses in mass graves. Much of the massacre took place just outside of the base – the buses that were supposed to take the men to safety simply drove beyond the ‘safe’ area and emptied their passengers so Serb soldiers could murder them. Many of these war crimes were caught on film; some perpetrators were later charged by the Hague, including Mladic, although saying they were brought to justice implies justice is even possible in a case like this. The current mayor of Srebrenica and current Prime Minister of the Republika Srpska, one of the two divisions of the current government of Bosnia and Herzegovina, both deny that the massacre and genocide even occurred.

Aida, played by Aida Selmanagi? – her husband plays Mladi? – is perfect as a woman who sees disaster impending and feels powerless to stop it, but will try anything to save her family. The tension on her face provides the film with all of the intensity of a thriller, even though there is no actual violence until near the very end of the story. Her desperation increases by degrees, as with the frog in the pot of slowly boiling water, so that she may not fully realize how hopeless her situation is until well past the point that hope was gone. Aida survives, but there is no redemption in the ending here; if anything, the script underlines to the endless horror of those who do survive a genocide, and then are faced with daily reminders of what they’ve lost, of those who lost less (or even gained), and of those who did nothing while these crimes took place.

I don’t watch horror movies that rely on violence to create fear in the viewer, because I simply can’t adjust my mind to a worldview that finds entertainment in human suffering. Quo Vadis, Aida? is a horror movie of a different sort. You know this has to end badly for Aida and her family, somehow, because you know the world sat on its hands and watched as the Serbs murdered 8000-plus men simply because they were Muslims, as over 60,000 Bosniaks were killed in the war. You feel horror for Aida, and shame at the impotence of the peacekeepers and at the willful blindness of the west, rather than cheap fear from body horror or, worse, the lurid entertainment that some people feel from rooting for a killer. Quo Vadis, Aida? is a great film, shouting an important piece of history from the hilltops, but it’s anti-entertainment by design. You want to avert your eyes, but if you do, you’re complicit in the crime.

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