→ January 20, 2019
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The Guilty.

The Danish film The Guilty earned one of the nine spots on the shortlist for this year’s Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film, with an English-language remake coming at some point with Jake Gyllenhaal in the lead role. That Oscar category is loaded enough this year that I’d be surprised if it landed one of the five nominations, but The Guilty is a tremendous thriller, one that grabs you by the throat early on and never lets go, while also providing an insightful character study into the only significant person to appear on screen. It’s available to rent right now on amazon or Vudu for $7.

Asger Holm is a police officer who’s been accused of an unspecified violation on the job, the details of which appear much later in the story, and demoted to desk duty where he takes 112 (the Danish equivalent of 911) calls and doesn’t seem to take the job very seriously. After a few relatively minor calls, including one from a man who was robbed by a sex worker and doesn’t want to admit that that’s what happened, Asger takes a call from a woman, Iben, who manages to communicate that she’s been kidnapped by someone she knows and is being taken somewhere outside of Copenhagen in a moving car. She pretends she’s talking to her daughter, Mathilde, who is now home alone with her baby brother Oliver, while Asger navigates a conversation to try to get details on where Iben is – and then later gets a call from Mathilde as well. The film never leaves the call center and Asger is in every shot, just moving between two rooms, as he tries to figure out who took Iben and where she’s going, raging against his powerlessness in the situation while eventually confronting his own misdeeds that put him on desk duty in the first place.

The Guilty clocks in at just 85 minutes, and there’s no fat on this story: there’s the main plotline around Iben’s kidnapping and the subplot around Asger’s demotion and a court hearing the following day that will determine his fate and that involves his partner Rashid. The Iben thread twists and turns multiple times, with the tension ratcheted up by dropped calls, her kidnapper asking to speak to her daughter, and eventually Asger getting the kidnapper on the phone. Asger’s own frustrations, both over this case and over his career and personal life as well, boil over into his calls, especially as he feels like the dispatchers he calls aren’t taking the incident seriously enough – and again, he finds himself powerless to do what he’d ordinarily do if he were out in the field, but has been emasculated by his suspension from that role and can only work through others. Eventually, he makes a mistake, as any human would, and has to face the consequences in real-time as the kidnapping is still in progress.

Asger’s character is the only one of any significance to the viewer – Iben is there, on the phone, but we only see of her what Asger hears, and while he learns more about her as the story progresses, it remains superficial throughout. He seems unsympathetic at the start, sneering through his headset at the people who call for help because they’re stupid or did something while drunk, but his interest in Iben, and willingness to break rules and potentially endanger his own career for her shows depth to his character and makes him more sympathetic … but there are still layers beneath that one that will add to our understanding. He’s the hero, but a flawed one, and is flawed in a realistic, human way that informs his words and actions to form a coherent, three-dimensional rendering. Without that depiction, and the strong, restrained performance by Jakob Cedergren, the film simply would not work.

The Guilty has been highly acclaimed in Europe, earning Bodil Prize (the Danish Oscars) nominations for best film, best director, and best actor for Cedergren. I’m guessing, having seen three of the other eight nominees and read reviews and background information on the others, that this film won’t make the final five; Roma and Burning feel like locks, Cold War and Shoplifters bring incredible reviews and accolades from elsewhere, Capernaum is highly topical, and Never Look Away comes from the director of the Oscar-winning The Lives of Others. Of the four shortlisted films I’ve seen, though, it’s the easiest to recommend by far, because it’s the most straightforward and the most purely entertaining: this is a smart, concise thriller that sets out one goal and puts everything in its script towards achieving it. Because it’s so lean, the narrative never flags, and director/co-writer Gustav Möller instead conveys Asger’s frustration by only letting us see Asger and through the use of long pauses in most of the phone conversations. The story here is solid, boosted by a couple of twists, but it’s the way Möller tells the story and Cedergren portrays it that makes The Guilty such a great watch, even if you can sort of figure out where this is headed. I wouldn’t put it above the three other foreign films I’ve seen from the shortlist, but it’s easily the most accessible of the four, and does so without sacrificing its integrity or insulting the viewer’s intelligence to do so.

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→ January 18, 2019
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An Unkindness of Ghosts.

Rivers Solomon’s debut novel An Unkindness of Ghosts bears a blatant stylistic similarity to the writing of N.K. Jemisin in her Broken Earth trilogy, from prose to characterization to both writers use of old-time religions in futuristic settings. And both writers put young women right at the heart of their respective stories, with Solomon giving us Aster, a young adult on a ‘generation ship’ that has, over centuries of drifting in space to an unknown and possibly nonexistent destination, devolved into a caste system by ship deck that incorporates skin color into its stratification, resulting in something that looks a good bit like American slavery.

Aster is a self-made scientist and doctor’s helper, often working with the Surgeon General, Theo, as well as tending plants in her botanarium, even though she’s a low-decker on the ship Matilda. That vessel has been in space at least 300 years, and thoughts of its Golden Land destination are more remote and have become tied up in a sort of doomsday religion that most of the ship practices – or, perhaps, that the upper-deck castes use to control those on the lower decks. Aster is neurodivergent, although Solomon never identifies her difference in any specific way, and for reasons that are only somewhat revealed by the end of the book, she’s marked for especially cruel treatment by the Lieutenant, a sadistic leader who is poised to take control if the Sovereign in charge dies. (You can guess whether that comes to pass.) Lune, Aster’s mother, took her own life the day Aster was born, but left behind cryptic clues in a series of notebooks that Aster and her bunk mate Giselle start to decipher when they realize its code may contain clues about the ship, as well as a potential way off of it.

There is, as we say on Twitter, a lot to unpack here, as Solomon has written a tight 350-page novel that incorporates race, religion, class, sex/gender, sexual harassment and assault, how people (mostly men) use and retain power, and a healthy dose of science fiction. There are women in the upper castes, but every authority figure we see is male. Women and girls on lower decks have darker skin, and are also used, to put it bluntly, for breeding, so the ship will have an ongoing supply of workers. Officials and guards have the tacit authority to rape or abuse women as they please, and it’s implied they do so with boys as well. One scene where Aster mouths off (with justification) to an upper-class twit woman lays bare the societal strictures that hold the barriers between upper and lower decks in place, backed by the force of the guard.

Unlike so many science fiction authors, good and bad, Solomon doesn’t spend a ton of time building the world in An Unkindness of Ghosts, giving the readers just what they need to understand what’s happening in the story, or where the characters might be in the architecture of the ship, but nothing extraneous. (Somehow there is meat on the ship, quite a bit of it, and I’m not sure how that one would work unless it’s supposed to be lab-grown.) The result is that the characters are extraordinarily well-developed for the genre – Aster, Theo, even Giselle and the caretaker known as Ainy or Melusine, whose importance grows as the book progresses. Solomon also defies many plot conventions by, again to be blunt, having smart characters still make stupid mistakes, especially Aster, who often acts without foresight because of her youth or how her brain works. She’s the hero, without question, but she’s flawed in a different way than your typical flawed hero. She’s flawed because she was born that way, and her successes come both in spite of that and often because of it, because she makes the best out of who she is, and can thus do things neurotypical people probably couldn’t. All of this, and other aspects of her character including some unspoken history of abuse and her unusual connection to Theo, make her one of the most interesting protagonists I’ve come across in a long time.

Solomon can get caught up in some clumsy prose, another similarity to Jemisin’s writing, such as when they start trying to describe the physics of space travel in their universe, especially the discovery Lune made that changes everything for Aster and her comrades, or in the description of Baby, the ship’s main power source. Yet they also display facility with creating language, giving each deck its own dialect, much the way slaves in different parts of the South would blend their native tongues with English and create new patois, such as the Gulla dialect still spoken today off the coast of South Carolina. The culture and economy of Matilda feel impossibly rich for a book this short; even when I wasn’t gripped by the plot, I was enveloped in Solomon’s world. The book starts slow, but stay with it; the last hundred pages are a barnburner and the ending is satisfying without becoming sentimental or obvious.

Next up: Still reading Camus’ The Plague.

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→ January 17, 2019
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Milkman.

Anna Burns became the first Northern Irish writer to win the Man Booker Prize when her third novel, Milkman, took the honor in 2018. It’s an experimental novel, atypical for Booker winners, that reads like a more accessible Faulkner, and combines a story of the Troubles with the staunchly feminist narrative of its 18-year-old narrator for a result that is unlike anything I’ve read before.

Characters in Milkman go without names, including the narrator, a young woman who walks around with her head in a book and is literally and figuratively oblivious to the internecine warfare occurring around her, as well as the titular milkman – well, both milkmen. The milkman of the title isn’t actually a milkman, but rides around in a white van as if he were one. He’s in his 40s, associated with a local paramilitary group, and stalks the narrator while ensuring that everyone in their tightknit, gossip-ridden community knows that she is his, to the point where others, including her own mother, assume that she’s indeed having an affair with this dangerous, older man. There’s also a real milkman, whose role becomes apparent as the novel progresses; ‘maybe boyfriend,’ whom the narrator has been seeing for a year, who’s obsessed with cars, and whose life may be endangered by not-really Milkman; Tablets girl, who runs around poisoning people, including her own sister and eventually the narrator, but everyone seems to just take it as part of life; the boy the narrator calls Somebody McSomebody, who also tries to threaten the narrator into becoming his girl, which ends rather poorly for him in one of the novel’s few scenes of actual violence; and far more.

Burns layers a story of personal terror inside a story of the societal terror that affected Northern Ireland for decades. The narrator’s life is turned upside down by this unwanted attention from a man she barely even knows, but whose reputation in the community is enough to scare her and to convince everyone else she’s submitted to him willingly (even though she never submits to him at all). When the Milkman stalks her, he also inducts her, against her will, into a theater of the absurd that mirrors reality from that time and place, where violence split Catholics and Protestants, where any official authority was seen as essentially Ours or Theirs, where an act that shouldn’t merit a second thought, like going to the hospital, would be fraught with political and social implications. She’s suddenly seen to have taken sides, and even finds herself the unwitting beneficiary of the fear others have of the paramilitaries, which further underlines for her how potent the impact of this one man’s attentions towards her are.

Burns also surrounds her narrator with families who’ve been hurt by the violence in the community, directly or indirectly, including the one mother who, by the end of the novel, seems to have lost her husband and every one of her children to direct violence, related accidents, or suicide. The narrator’s father is dead when the novel opens, while her mother is a tragicomic figure who is convinced her daughter is a sinner, who believes every rumor she hears about her daughter (some from ‘first brother-in-law,’ who is both a gossip-monger and a creep), and who goes into hysterics over every bit of innuendo, which the narrator never wants to even acknowledge because it merely prolongs the agony.

Milkman is still quite funny and even hopeful in parts among the litter of tragedies and the ever-present specter of the stalker, although we do learn at the start of the novel that he’ll die before it’s over. The narrator’s third brother-in-law, while a peculiar man himself, takes on a protector role over his young sister-in-law, as does Real Milkman, whose interest in her is a side effect of his romantic interest in her mother. There are also signs of intelligent life amidst the gossips and harridans, including the “issue women,” a group of seven residents who embrace feminism when one hears of it in town and starts up a local women’s group in the backyard shed of one of the members (because her husband wouldn’t allow it in the house).

Of course, this is all set against the ever-present backdrop of the Troubles and you don’t need to know much at all about that conflict to appreciate Burns’ depiction of the effects of the sectarian violence on this particular neighborhood. Burns draws and redraws the picture of this time and place with swirling, inventive prose, in paragraphs that go on for days, often putting unlikely vocabulary in the mouths of her characters – esoteric or archaic words, or even words she’s just made up – to provide further much to the narrative. It’s not as difficult as Faulkner or Proust, but shows the influence of those early 20th century writers at the same time, both in a technical aspect and in how Burns uses her experimental sentence structure and vocabulary to contribute the reader’s sense of unease.

I’ve only read a few of the contenders for this year’s Booker but can at least understand why this novel won. It also feels like the third straight year where the prize has gone to a novel that does something different, as opposed to the prize’s history of going to literary works that still adhere to the traditional form and intentions of the novel. I could imagine this novel seeming abstruse to readers outside of the UK, given its setting during the Troubles, but that’s merely the backdrop for a rich, textured story that is as relevant today (with its #MeToo similarities) as it would be to a reader of that time and place.

Next up: A little light reading, Albert Camus’ The Plague.

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→ January 11, 2019
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All the Birds in the Sky.

Charlie Jane Anders was a founding editor of io9, the Gawker subsite dedicated to science fiction and fantasy, so it’s no surprise that her debut novel All The Birds in the Sky combines those genres and works in many tropes common in those areas, especially coming-of-age novels from the fantasy realm. Despite a slow ramp-up that doesn’t hint at the novel’s greater ambitions, the story builds to a bold climax that recalls many pioneering novels in these fields without ever coming off as derivative or unoriginal.

Anders’ gambit in All the Birds in the Sky is to create two synchronous, intertwined stories, one of which draws from straight fantasy and one from realistic, hard science fiction, with one character at the head of each, and contrast the complicated personal relationship between the two of them with the growing and apparently inevitable conflict that will occur between their two forces. Set in the near future where climate change and runaway capitalism have led to catastrophic weather patterns and rapid societal breakdown, the novel keeps raising the stakes between its two protagonists and pushes them into difficult, sometimes dangerous choices that only might help save the world.

Patricia and Lawrence are those two central characters, both misfits in their junior high school, albeit for different reasons. Patricia lives with her overbearing, judgmental parents, and a too-perfect older sister whose bullying of Patricia borders on the sociopathic. Lawrence lives on the other side of town, with warmer parents who don’t quite understand him, both of whom gave up ambitions of bigger careers to settle into working-class malaise. Patricia discovers one day that she can talk to animals, if only briefly, and ends up following a chatty bird to a giant tree in the middle of their forest where the birds are holding their Parliament (which is not restricted to owls). Lawrence is a gifted hacker who scavenges parts and builds a supercomputer in his closet, giving it a machine-learning algorithm that allows it to grow by talking to real people online, one of whom is Patricia. Of course, both kids are badly bullied – to such a cruel extent that reading the first few chapters was painful – which pushes them together but later pulls them apart, something exacerbated by a guidance counselor who isn’t what he seems to be, and is acting on a vision of the future where the two lead opposite sides of a global conflict between science and magic that threatens to end the planet as we know it.

The prologue was tough sledding, but once Anders gets her characters out of school, thanks to a dramatic flourish where Patricia rescues Lawrence from misery and possible death at a military academy of dubious merit, the pace picks up and the nonrealistic elements, both magic and fictional science, contribute more to the development of both the story and the two characters. Both Patricia and Lawrence are flawed, due to immaturity and the challenges of each of their upbringings, and then are pushed into situations, Patricia by her classmates at magic school and Lawrence by colleagues at a Boring Company-like startup, for which they aren’t well-prepared. Anders’ greatest achievement in the novel is showing those characters’ growth even through failures, one of which would be particularly traumatic, so that they are better prepared when the climax of the story arrives and the decisions they must make have the largest consequences yet.

All the Birds in the Sky will remind you of many great novels in these genres without ever drawing too heavily on any one source. The entire tenor of the book brought the great Magicians trilogy to mind, including the emphasis on the flaws in the two characters and how events in our youth can have long-lasting effects on our personalities and life choices well into adulthood. The influence of the major YA fantasy series like Harry Potter or The Chronicles of Narnia is evident in the background, but never overt, and any similarities are muted by the presence of the parallel sci-fi strand around Lawrence. He’s something out of a Heinlein novel, but better, more well-rounded and a lot more aware of the existence of women as actual people than anything Heinlein ever dreamed up.

I expected the ultimate battle between science and magic in this novel to play out differently, perhaps as some sort of faith/reason allegory, but it doesn’t, and that’s just how Anders rolls – so much of this novel sets you up in a comfortable, familiar way, and then resolves matters in a way that defies expectations without cheap surprises. All the Birds in the Sky won the Nebula Award for Best Novel in 2017, beating The Obelisk Gate (a result that was flipped for the Hugo), and I certainly agree with that result. It’s a fun, smart, compelling read, appropriate for young and full-grown adults alike.

Next up: Rivers Solomon’s An Unkindness of Ghosts.

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→ January 2, 2019
→ By

Custody.

Custody (Jusqu’à la garde, on amazon and iTunes) is a full-length sequel to the Oscar-nominated short film Just Before Losing Everything, both written and directed by Xavier Legrand and starring the same actors in three of the four main roles. This film, which won the Silver Lion at the Venice International Film Festival in 2017 and the Louis Delluc Prize last year, follows the same family from the custody hearing that opens the film through the father’s attempts to control his estranged wife through their twelve-year-old son, building in intensity through its refusal to acquiesce to the commercial impulse toward big, dramatic moments.

The opening scene has Miriam (Léa Drucker) and Antoine (Denis Ménochet), with their lawyers, in a session where each side argues for their desired custody arrangements, which form the only real disagreement between them. Miriam accuses Antoine of abusing her, and has repeatedly changed phone numbers and often hidden her location to protect herself from him. Their daughter, Josephine (Mathilde Auneveux), is about to turn 18, and wants nothing to do with her father. Julien (Thomas Gioria), their son, also wants no contact with his father, but the judge who hears their arguments grants Antoine the visitation rights he wants – apparently dismissing Miriam’s claims of abuse for lack of ‘proof’ – which gives the father the wedge he needs to insinuate himself into Miriam’s life.

The film is spare, just 93 minutes, and even at that length there is little action and a very simple plot, reminiscent in several ways of 2017’s Loveless. Antoine is manipulative and controlling, and his interest in Julien seems limited to using the boy as a way to maintain contact with Miriam and to remain aware of her whereabouts and actions. Gioria is especially strong as a twelve-year-old boy who doesn’t want contact with his father, but also fears him and has the innate respect children have for authority figures, even when (or perhaps especially when) they’re also the victims of those same adults. Some of Custody‘s strongest scenes involve Julien and Antoine doing very little, often barely speaking to each other, or Antoine demanding something only to have Julien try his hardest to avoid answering, and they’re excruciating because Legrand lets these interactions play out in something very close to real time. When Antoine demands that Julien show him their new apartment, Legrand puts us in the car the whole time as Julien tries to direct his father, left, right, straight ahead, for twice as long as you’d expect, giving more time for the anticipation of an eventual explosion to build up.

You don’t need to see the prior film to follow Custody, although it will color your view of the characters in the first few scenes; without that prologue, you can more easily see the judge’s point of view that she must figure out “which of (the parents) is the bigger liar.” It doesn’t take much time to see Antoine’s character come through – first the need to control his wife and children, then his temper and his manipulative nature, and eventually the violence – and at that point anyone watching will realize how badly the judge screwed up, and, in what I assume is Legrand’s point, how poorly the French custody process serves abuse victims if there isn’t an actual crime on record already.

Ménochet also delivers a tremendous performance here even before Antoine’s violent side starts to surface – I’d argue that the performance is better until then, because once it becomes physical, there’s less for the actor to do with the role. Legrand didn’t write this character as a sympathetic one, but also avoided completely dehumanizing the man, so that the scenes with Antoine and Julien can still work as drama – you can understand the son still seeing this man as his father, someone who says he loves him, and an authority figure, rather than just a monster. An adult would see through Antoine, but his own child will always have that inner conflict, and giving the father enough depth gives the audience Julien’s lenses to see him.

Custody has one of the best conclusions of any film I’ve seen from 2018, although it could trigger anyone sensitive to scenes of domestic violence. Given what has come before, it might be the only authentic climax to the story, and then Legrand had his choice of resolutions from that inflection point. By choosing to tell this story slowly, showing detail where most films would speed up to the next moment of action, Legrand has made a film that feels distinctly non-commercial, but that also should evoke more genuine emotions in the audience until that final scene – and by that point, the direction and the acting have earned a big payoff. It’s one of the best films of the year, probably borderline top ten for me right now, and deserves a wider audience here than it’s gotten.

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→ January 1, 2019
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If Beale Street Could Talk.

If Beale Street Could Talk feels like a film that is very of the moment, for its theme and its source material. James Baldwin is himself having a renaissance after the acclaimed documentary I Am Not Your Negro appeared in 2016 and contemporary writers like Ta-Nehisi Coates have explicitly alluded to Baldwin’s works, such as Fire. Even though the novel on which Barry Jenkins, director of the Oscar-winning Moonlight, was written over 40 years ago, it revolves around a very current theme of racial injustice and police misconduct towards African-American men. It succeeds without sermonizing by wrapping those huge themes in a very sweet, straightforward love story between two young black people played by rising stars.

Alonzo “Fonny” Hunt (Stephan James of Homecoming) and Tish Rivers (KiKi Layne, making her film debut) are childhood friends who’ve fallen in love in 1970s New York City, but whose relationship faces many obstacles, including the most obvious one – a society that views them as second-class citizens because they’re black. As the film opens, we learn that Tish, just 19, is pregnant, and that Fonny is behind bars, accused of a rape that he didn’t commit, put there by a vengeful white cop. Jenkins alternates scenes of the present day, where Tish and her family work to try to clear Fonny’s name, with long, languid scenes of their nascent romance, mostly from Tish’s point of view as she also learns more about who Fonny has become as an adult and the challenges a young black man faces, even in a multicultural place like New York.

The story hits a wall when Tish’s mom, played by Regina King, travels to Puerto Rico to try to convince the victim to revoke her identification of Fonnie as the rapist. The scenes that follow are important to the plot, but the lyrical mood Jenkins has set hits an abrupt stop the moment she steps on the island, and it takes the rest of the movie, until the concluding scene, to get that atmosphere back. There’s also an utterly corny scene where Dave Franco, dressed as an observant Jew named Levy, delivers a monologue to Fonnie and Tish to explain why he might be the one landlord in the whole city willing to rent an apartment to a young black couple. The soliloquy is hackneyed, right down to the whole “I don’t care what color you are, black, white, purple” line that could be borrowed from any of a thousand films where a white character tries to explain how he doesn’t see color.

King has been listed as a shoo-in for a nomination for Best Supporting Actress for her role in Beale Street, but I don’t think she’s in this film enough to have that sort of impact. She’d slip in under the Judi Dench Exemption, I suppose, but King isn’t the Queen, and her character is actually not that well-developed. There’s nothing missing from King’s performance, but the script just doesn’t demand enough of her. James and Layne are both outstanding, and Bryan Tyree Henry, who is having a year himself, is strong again, this time as a friend of Fonny’s who was just paroled after serving two years for a crime he didn’t commit, but to which he pled guilty rather than face a more serious charge for marijuana possession. (This remains a major reason African-American men are incarcerated today, but first appeared as a weapon of the state, often with the support of leaders of black communities, in the 1960s and 1970s. Locking Up Our Own, which won this year’s Pulitzer Prize for Non-fiction, documents this trend and its effects on the African-American population.)

Jenkins made several smart decisions that power Beale Street past its flaws and made it one of my top ten movies of 2018, including the choice to retain some of Baldwin’s original prose, often having Tish use it as narration; and the way he maintains much of that glowing atmosphere even into some of the scenes around Fonny’s incarceration and the efforts to clear him. Keeping that mood into early conversations that Tish and Fonny have through glass while he’s in prison makes the scene where he loses control of himself more visceral, and the early scene that you’ve likely seen in the trailer, where the two families come into conflict because Fonny’s mother blames Tish for leading her son into sin, starts out with the same atmosphere only to dissolve as the rancor in the room overtakes it. Between this and Moonlight, Jenkins has made his style very clear – he’s in no rush, often letting scenes breathe longer than any other contemporary director I can name, and when he does take the wheel, such as for close-up shots of specific characters’ faces, you’ll be aware of the transition.

If Beale Street Could Talk seems destined to earn a slew of nominations at this year’s Academy Awards ceremony and lose just about all of them; its best chance, aside from King as Best Supporting Actress, might be in Best Adapted Screenplay, where it will be up against A Star is Born and BlacKkKlansman, although I’d vote for this over both of those. If any film has a chance to upset A Star is Born for the Golden Globe Award for Best Motion Picture – Drama, this would be it. It is a wonderful film, so kind to its two main characters but with a story that will make you seethe by its end, worth seeking out if Annapurna gives it a wider release beyond just the 65 screens it was on this past weekend.

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→ December 31, 2018
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Top ten movies of 2018.

I’ve seen everything I think would likely make this top ten list other than several foreign titles, including Cold War and Capernaum, although I’ll still continue watching 2018 releases for a few more months as they hit theaters or streaming. I’ve seen 40 movies that count as 2018 theatrical releases, not counting the HBO movie The Tale, which would have made my top ten but isn’t eligible for awards because it went straight to television after the network purchased it at Sundance.

With those caveats in place, here’s my top ten as of this morning, and it still could change as I continue to see more 2018 films this winter. Links on the films’ titles go to my reviews.

10. The Endless. A thriller, or perhaps a psychological horror movie, that garnered positive reviews with a modest release, The Endless follows two brothers who, having escaped a cult where they grew up, revisit the compound to try to find some closure, only to discover that a mysterious presence has kept their old cultmates from aging and seems to prevent anyone from leaving.

9. First Man. Considered something of a box-office flop, Damien Chazelle’s follow-up to La La Land goes in a completely different direction, telling the quiet, almost painfully restrained story of Neil Armstrong, from the death of his young daughter to cancer to his landing on the moon. Ryan Gosling and Clare Foy are excellent as the two leads, although the emphasis on accuracy in depicting space flight made some scenes very hard for me to watch.

8. Isle of Dogs. This should win the Best Animated Feature Oscar, although I fear the silly Spiderman: Into the Spider-Verse will win (I admit Spider-ham is pretty funny, though) instead. Wes Anderson’s second animated film, his first from an original story, is brilliant, emotional in the right ways, often funny, and extremely well-voiced by a cast of Wes usuals along with the welcome addition of Bryan Cranston.

7. The Favourite. Yorgis Lanthimos’ follow-up to the The Lobster is a bawdy, lowbrow comedy in nice clothes, and it’s hilarious, thanks to the combined efforts of Olivia Colman, Emma Stone, and Rachel Weisz, all three of whom deserve awards consideration. The story itself isn’t new – it’s a power struggle combined with a bizarre love triangle – but the dialogue sparkles and the three stars, aided by a strong supporting turn from Nicholas Hoult, all slay in their respective roles.

6. If Beale Street Could Talk. A lovely, languid adaptation of James Baldwin’s 1974 novel by Moonlight director Barry Jenkins, Beale Street stars Stephan James (of Homecoming) and Kiki Layne as young lovers who find they’re expecting just as he’s headed to jail for a crime he didn’t commit.

5. You Were Never Really Here. A taut modern noir thriller, starring Joaquin Phoenix as a damaged private eye who rescues kidnapped girls and ends up caught in a case that threatens his safety and his sanity. Lynne Ramsay’s latest film, her first feature since 2011’s We Need to Talk About Kevin, clocks in at a spare 90 minutes, leaving no slack in the tension.

4. Beast. Driven by a star turn by relative newcomer Jessie Buckley, Beast follows a young woman in her late 20s who falls for the local outcast, who is himself a potential suspect in the murders of three other teenaged girls in their small town. The contrast between the idyllic setting and the darkness throughout the plot further drives the viewer’s sense of unease at every turn.

3. Shoplifters. My top three films are all foreign films, which is purely coincidental, and all made the Academy Award’s shortlist for Best Foreign Language Film at the 2019 Oscars. Japan’s entry is a simple, intimate portrait of a makeshift family of grifters who take in a neglected four-year-old girl they find playing outside in the cold in their tenement. Director/writer Hirokazu Kore-eda took hold the Palme d’Or at Cannes for this film, which has a huge heart and explores the essentially human need for the connections and security of family through a group of well-rounded characters.

2. Roma. Alfonso Cuarón’s passion project for Netflix lived up to the lofty expectations set for it. Based on his own childhood in Mexico City, including the life of his nanny/housekeeper Cleo, Roma is told from her perspective, as she gets pregnant by a man who abandons her and sees the marriage of her employers crumble, all amidst the tumult of protest-torn Mexico in the early 1970s. The story can be a shade slow, and Cleo is the only real character of depth, but the cinematography is the best of the year – maybe in several years – and the film seems set to win awards for its sound as well.

1. Burning. Adapted from a scant Haruki Murakami story called “Barn Burning,” this Korean-language film creates an air of uncertainty from the start, and its three main characters remain unknowable to the dramatic conclusion. Lee Jong-su meets a girl, Shin Hae-mi, who says she knew him in grade school, and after a few days he’s clearly in love with her, only to have her go to Africa on a trip and ask him to watch her cat for her. When she comes back, she’s with a suave, wealthy guy, Ben, who might be her new boyfriend, and Jong-su can’t figure out what to do – or what exactly Ben does for his strange hobby. It’s a hypnotic slow burner anchored by one of the year’s best performances from Steven Yeun as Ben.

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→ December 18, 2018
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Shoplifters.

Shoplifters, Japan’s submission for this year’s Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film and a nominee for the same award at the Golden Globes, is a little film with an enormous heart that spends almost all of its two hours on the verge of shattering, asking huge questions about the meaning of family without providing any easy answers. It won the top prize at Cannes, the Palme d’Or, this past May, and is out in U.S. art theaters now.

The family at the heart of the film includes Osamu Shibata and young Shota Shibata, who work as a team of shoplifters to cope with their poverty, as Osamu says that items in a store belong to nobody until someone purchases them. Coming home from one such escapade, they spot a very young girl, four or five, named Yuri, playing outside in the cold, alone, with scars on her arms that point to child abuse. They take her in, and her arrival in the household – which includes Osamu’s wife, Nobuyo; her young sister, Aki; and Hatsue*, whom they all call “Grandma” – changes the dynamic within their tiny apartment, at first causing strife (such as Shota’s jealousy) but eventually bringing some of them closer to each other and causing them to act much more like a family, culminating in a big day out to the beach for Yuri’s first time seeing the ocean. Over the course of the film, director/writer Kore-eda Hirokazu gradually reveals the actual relationships among these different characters, who form a family by choice rather than by blood, opening up questions of what it means to be a family and how much we need those relationships to thrive. Of course, this situation can’t last, and when a shoplifting trip goes off the rails, the family is caught, and no one escapes unscathed from the aftermath.

* The actress who played Grandma, Kiki Kirin, passed away in September at the age of 75, after the film’s release in Japan.

Although Shoplifters never stops moving – there’s barely any silence in the film, as the characters are always talking, even if it’s about the most mundane matters – almost everything that happens in the script is there to highlight some facet of the family’s dynamic, and how these people, all misfits of some sort, have come together to fill in the voids in their lives left by the absence of a proper family. Nobuyo and Hatsue have a running conversation throughout the film about whether family is better when you choose it, rather than when it’s chosen for you; Nobuyo thinks the bond is stronger when it’s one you chose. Even though Shota, who, as you might have guessed, isn’t actually Osamu and Nobuyo’s son, and Yuri were kidnapped, they were also both taken from situations where their families neglected or abused them, and taken into a household where they were provided with love and affection – which doesn’t excuse the kidnapping, certainly not in the eyes of the authorities, but again raises the question of what happens to us when our biological families don’t give us what we need.

None of the adult characters has clean hands in this story, and Kore-eda takes pains to avoid lionizing them for their poverty or absolving them of their sins for their kindness towards Shota and Yuri. Aki’s parents think she’s studying abroad (maybe), but she’s actually working in a peep show parlor, where she may be falling in love with a customer. Grandma milks her late husband’s family for regular gifts, but complains about their parsimony. Nobuyo and Osamu have a bigger secret that isn’t revealed till the tail end of the film, as well as the true story of how and where they found Shota. Kore-eda has given his characters good intentions, but each shows an entirely human failure of execution, while the various authorities, from a shady landlord to the investigators who eventually find the family, all seem able to execute while suffering from an absence of heart.

You’ll want a happy ending for these characters by the end of Shoplifters, especially for the two kids, but it just wouldn’t be realistic, and doing so would undermine the points Kore-eda is trying to make with his melancholy story. Characters who don’t fit in anywhere, who live on the margins of society and take the family they can build because the world hasn’t given them another one, aren’t going to get that kind of resolution.

Sakura Ando is especially affecting as Nobuyo, whose history we see in glimpses that hint at past tragedies, and who ultimately sacrifices more than anyone else to try to make things right for Shota. Both kids are played by first-time actors – Kairi J? (Jo), who plays Shota, looks like he’s going to lead a J-pop boy band at some point, while tiny Miyu Sasaki, playing Yuri, has a knack for heart-melting facial expressions, especially amazing for someone who was just five or six when this was filmed.

Embed from Getty Images

J?, Sasaki, and Mayu Matsuoka (Aki)

Shoplifters even beat out Burning at the Asia Pacific Screen Awards for best film, and both should be nominated for Oscars in the Best Foreign Language Film category, although that one seems like it’s Roma‘s to lose. It’s such a lovely, heartbreaking film, with such universal themes, that it’s worth seeking out near you while it’s still playing in independent theaters.

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→ December 17, 2018
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Roma.

Alfonso Cuarón’s passion project Roma, his first film as director in five years and just his eighth feature film since his debut in 1991, has already become the most-lauded movie of 2018, and it’s easily one of the best I’ve seen this year. It looks different from anything else I’ve watched, it sounds incredible, and the script finds a seemingly impossible equilibrium between the tension of its story and the lyrical quality of both the setting and the way Cuarón layers the scenes with moving cameras.

Based on Cuarón’s childhood, growing up in the Colonia Roma neighborhood in Mexico City, Roma shows us this story through the eyes of the family’s maid, Cleo, played by first-time actress and preschool teacher Yalitza Aparicio. Cleo, a woman of Mixteco ancestry who speaks that language to other servants but Spanish to the family, and another servant Adela seem to handle everything for the family, as the father is emotionally absent when there and then physically leaves the film not that long after it begins, while the mother seems incapable of handling even basic domestic chores – or just unwilling to do so. Cleo cooks, cleans, puts the kids to bed, wakes them up, dresses them for school, takes them there, picks them up, and more, while the mother, Sofia, watches and occasionally criticizes, when she’s not dealing with an obviously breaking marriage to Antonio.

Cleo’s story eventually takes center stage when she becomes pregnant by Fermin, a young, feckless man, obsessed with martial arts, who naturally leaves her the moment he finds out she’s expecting. Along the way, we see the resolution of the issue with Sofia and Antonio’s marriage, the 1971 Corpus Christi massacre of antigovernment protesters by a PRI-backed paramilitary group, the tensions between landowners and tenants outside of Mexico City, and the divides of race and class that separate Cleo and Adela from the children they care for every day. Almost everything that happens in the movie is serious, even heavy, from a marriage imploding to an unplanned pregnancy to political unrest to, eventually, a threat to some of the main characters, yet the film is often silly or sweetly funny, especially when it comes to Sofia’s attempts to drive the family’s oversized car or Fermin’s naked display of toxic masculinity.

If Roma had been a major American studio release with a big budget and dialogue in English, the posters could easily have used the tagline “Cancel All Men.” Every male character in this film is some sort of terrible, with Antonio and Fermin competing for the title of worst. Cleo is the heart of the movie and the only character to get full development; the kids are more like props, and Sofia is often shown in shadow because we see her through Cleo’s eyes. The necessity for Sofia, Cleo, and Sofia’s mother to carry on in Antonio’s absence in a culture that clearly doesn’t respect women the way it respects men is never made explicit but is a clear undercurrent throughout the story. Cuarón populates the film with lesser male characters as well – the chauvinist doctor who doesn’t think Sofia’s (female) obstetrician is up to the task, the random creep who decides Sofia needs ‘cheering up,’ even the comic Professor Zovek (played by the Mexican wrestler known as Latin Lover), whose outfit should have left more to the imagination.

As compelling as the plot can be at times – the protests, the delivery, the beach scene near the conclusion – Roma is an even better technical achievement. Shot in black and white, filmed by Cuarón himself after his regular cinematographer couldn’t commit to the full three and a half months for the project, Roma plays out like a fugue for the eyes, with cameras often moving laterally at a different pace from the characters they’re following, with characters in the backdrop moving at yet another pace. (If I see this again, I’d like to just try to watch what’s happening in the background, as there was never enough time to focus on that and the main characters, but I always knew there was more to see if I shifted my gaze.) The quality and pervasive sense given by the sound is just as remarkable; even watching at home, without any high-end equipment, I felt immersed by the sound of the waves in that beach scene, so much so that I was mildly relieved I hadn’t seen it in the theater because it might have been overwhelming. Cuarón seems to have made this film to put viewers into a specific atmosphere of time and place, using these visual and auditory techniques to do so, and it works, well enough to make up for the lack of strong characters beyond Cleo or the non-traditional nature of the plot, which has several smaller, interlocking arcs rather than a single narrative that takes us from start to finish.

Roma has already won top honors from film critics’ groups in Chicago, Los Angeles, New York (three different such bodies), San Francisco, Toronto, and Washington, although it was ineligible for the Golden Globe category for Best Motion Picture – Drama. (The Golden Globes can be a fun telecast, but their movie awards and nominees the last two years have been awful.) It seems like Roma is a dead lock in two categories at the Oscars, for Best Foreign Language Film and Best Cinematography, and should earn nominations in Best Picture, Best Director, Best Original Screenplay, and Best Sound Editing at the very least. I’d love to see Aparicio get a Best Actress nomination, but that seems like an unrealistic hope given her much more famous competition; I’d certainly give her the nod over Glenn Close (The Wife) or Melissa McCarthy (Can You Ever Forgive Me?), both of whom are currently in the top five on GoldDerby.com’s Oscar odds. I still have a few contenders left to see, but this and Burning are the two best films I’ve seen so far in 2018.

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→ December 10, 2018
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The Favourite.

I can’t think of another 2018 film I’ve been looking forward to more than The Favourite , which pairs three actors I really like – Olivia Colman (whom I loved in Broadchurch), Rachel Weisz (very good in this year’s Disobedience), and Emma Stone (I mean … duh) – with Yorgos Lanthimos, the director of 2016’s The Lobster, a film that included Weisz and Colman as well. It’s a dark comedy, that sends up stolid films about the political backstabbing at the English court, and shifts much of the power to the women, with nearly all of the men playing secondary roles in every bit of the story. It’s brutally funny, often surprisingly crude, and yet somehow just a beat or two off the mark even with the three women all at the tops of their games.

Colman plays Queen Anne, a slightly dimwitted monarch who eats too much and suffers from gout, and who is friends with/controlled by Lady Marlborough (Weisz), the wife of the head of the British Army (Mark Gatiss), who rules the court with an iron fist, often by running roughshod over the Queen. Enter Abigail (Stone), a cousin of Lady Marlborough’s who has lost her title thanks to a profligate father and begs for a job in the castle, landing as a scullery maid before she manages to attract the Queen’s attention by concocting an herbal remedy for the Queen’s gout. This elevates Abigail into a higher orbit, and sets off a rivalry between her and her cousin for position and status – Abigail trying to secure some, Lady Marlborough trying not to lose what she has. The Queen, meanwhile, isn’t quite as oblivious to their machinations as she seems, and rather enjoys the competition for her affections as well as the novelty of having another person around to fawn over her.

The studio has positioned Colman as the lead actress for award season – she won Best Actress from the LA Film Critics’ Association on Sunday, and earned a Golden Globe nomination for the same in the comedy/musical category – but I side with the Gotham Independent Film Awards’ approach, where they gave a Special Jury Prize to all three women as an ensemble. Nobody is the lead here, and all three deliver Hall of Fame-caliber performances. Colman had the hardest job of the three, playing a woman whose body is gradually betraying her (she’s helping, of course, with her libertine eating habits) and who is prone to emotional outbursts and outright juvenile behavior to get what she wants. Weisz, who’s always good but can often translate on screen as inadvertently cold, has found the perfect role for her mien, as Lady Marlborough is some kind of wicked, possibly a sociopath, definitely lacking empathy, and permanently looking out for herself. Her severity in appearance and speech, the former amplified by how she’s costumed and made up, makes Lady Marlborough an easy antagonist for viewers to loathe while the plucky young Abigail makes her first moves – even though, of course, Abigail is far from the ingenue she pretends to be.

Stone already had the Oscar win for La La Land, but this is her first leading role in this sort of film, and she’s more than up to the task, including affecting a convincing upper-class English accent – which should have marked her from the start to others in the castle that she might be of the manor born despite her circumstances. Abigail will smile and flatter as she’s sharpening the knife to slit someone’s throat (metaphorically … there is blood, but not that sort), and plays the victim beautifully to her advantage, with Stone running through a panoply of faces to Abigail’s world, scheming behind closed doors and displaying a quiet cunning that the film reveals as her standing and confidence grow. I did not expect less from Stone than from the others, but I also walked away more impressed with what she delivered given that she hasn’t made films of this caliber before. Abigail is a Moll Flanders for our time and Stone has outdone even the work that won her an Academy Award.

The script as a whole is a lowbrow black comedy in the most highbrow of settings. Aside from a few servants who get a line in here or there, the film takes place entirely Upstairs, and almost no dialogue comes from anyone but the Queen, her retinue, and the MPs leading each party. That makes the crass humor and heavy use of gutter language – the c-word flies through this movie like a hornet harassing its victim – amusing at first, simply for the contrast, although the script leans too much on that; by the time there’s a joke about semen on someone’s hand near the end of the film, the novelty of this bathroom humor in fancy dress has long worn off. The humor works far better in the extremely witty repartée between characters, especially when Lady Marlborough and Abigail go at each other directly or through a third party, and with some outrageous visual humor, notably the dance scene with Weisz that gets a glimpse in the trailer but builds its humor perfectly with each escalation until its abrupt end. There’s still humor to come later in the film, but that is the movie’s zenith.

The Lobster, written by Lanthimos, ended on a question – whether a character would do something dramatic for the woman he might love. The Favourite ends in ambiguous fashion, as it’s unclear whether the ‘victor’ in the competition between the two women has won a Pyrrhic victory, but the story loses steam as it approaches the finish line. One problem is that there’s a moment with Abigail that shows her capable of far greater cruelty than the story gave us reason to believe; her venality to that point came entirely in pursuit of gains for herself. Another, greater problem is that as the film approached its resolution, it became less clear what the story is really trying to tell us: Is there a point to this beyond the sheer entertainment of two women trying to one-up each other, or of three great actresses putting on the performances of their lives for two hours? That’s probably enough, but I left the theater thinking that I wasn’t sure what the capital-p Point was, and even 24 hours later I still don’t know.

That said, I’m calling at least five major Oscar nominations for The Favourite: Picture, Actress, Supporting Actress (two), and Screenplay. Director seems a bit less likely than those; the Golden Globes didn’t nominate Lanthimos, but did nominate Peter Farrelly for his hamhanded, sentimental direction of Green Book. I’d also expect nods for Costume and Set Design; although we always tend to notice the women’s dresses in costume dramas, the men’s here are actually far more interesting to look at because so many of them are utterly ridiculous. (There’s a sort of running gag about wigs that I rather enjoyed.) I’d be very curious to hear what experts think of the cinematography, as Lanthimos employs some very strange shots, including fish-eye looks at rooms and off-balance pan shots, which I found offputting but could easily be effective to more experienced eyes. That’s probably seven to ten nominations in the end, and that kind of bulk probably puts it up near A Star Is Born for the top prize.

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