→ January 13, 2019
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Vice.

For pure entertainment value, Vice is one of the half-dozen best movies of 2018. It’s funny, fast-paced, and packed with good performances from great actors, some of whom are disguised sufficiently to make you spend a good chunk of the movie asking yourself, “where do I know them from?” It’s also a movie that I think has the potential to sway a lot of viewers who remain ambivalent about the legacy of the Bush/Cheney administration, or simply prefer not to think about it, since so much of what the movie shows did in fact happen, and the consequences of that administration’s policies have been disastrous in so many spheres of modern life around the world.

That doesn’t make it a good movie, however, and Vice is, in fact, not a good movie. Vice is a farce masquerading as a satire; it is a polemic masquerading as political commentary. It is as subtle as a sledgehammer to the forehead. Its quick pace may be a feature rather than a bug, but it makes the movie feel unfocused and superficial, aided in the former by writer-director Adam McKay’s decision to jump back and forth in time between scenes from 9/11 and Cheney’s early years in Wyoming. (There is one truly brilliant part of this, however, around the 43 minute mark, that I won’t spoil, but it is one of the funniest bits in the movie.) There is so much for the viewer to unpack in this movie, but McKay barely gives us time to open the boxes, let alone sort through their contents, and this becomes most problematic of all if you take a moment – probably after the film ends, because you barely have any time during the movie to think – to ponder Dick Cheney’s motivations for just about anything he did in life. Vice has no answers for us.

Cheney, for the handful of you who might not know much of his history, started his political career as an intern in Congress, hitched his wagon to Donald Rumsfeld’s, and moved into the executive branch, eventually becoming Chief of Staff under Gerald Ford at age 34. When Jimmy Carter defeated Ford in 1976, Cheney changed direction, running for Wyoming’s lone congressional seat and winning in 1978, holding the seat for a decade before becoming Secretary of Defense under President George H.W. Bush. After an interlude as CEO of Halliburton during the Clinton years, Cheney returned to public office as George W. Bush’s running mate, becoming Vice President for eight years, during which he pursued unprecedented power for the executive branch as a whole and himself in particular, power that led the United States into the fiasco that was the war in Iraq, warrant-less surveillance, widespread torture of so-called “enemy combatants,” and more.

Vice focuses on how Cheney got to that point in his career, and what he did with the power he obtained. Cheney, played by Welsh actor Christian Bale, is first seen as a drunken screw-up who is lifted out of his own mess by his wife Lynne (Amy Adams, doing Amy Adams things). Lynne is ambitious but held back by the misogynistic political culture of the 1960s, so she wants her husband to succeed and ascend as her proxy, and throughout the film she is by his side at nearly every moment, and when she’s not, she’s there in spirit pushing him on. Cheney’s ambition may be organic, but it seems more like his wife’s making in this retelling.

That leads, after a lot of prologue, to the pivotal scene shown in the trailer, where he negotiates with then-candidate George W. Bush (Sam Rockwell, doing a spot-on impersonation) to take on the VP role but to redefine it to gain control over a wide swath of the executive branch, including defense and energy. Bush accedes, and Cheney, aided by his attorney David Addington (Don McManus) and aide Scooter Libby (Justin Kirk), sets out to consolidate power under a philosophy called the Unitary Executive Theory that sounds a lot like the divine right of kings – if the President does it, it must be legal. (I can think of one President who would very much like this philosophy to be valid right now.) This leads to the war in Iraq, which this film presents as both a question of settling a score from Operation Desert Storm and a way to enrich Cheney as well as his friends at Halliburton and Big Oil, at a cost of maybe 750,000 lives.

McKay seems so excited to tell this story that he can barely get the words out of the characters’ mouths fast enough before each scene change, never letting the material breathe or, as a result, letting the audience consider what Cheney’s motives might be. Instead, the film dazzles us with quick cuts, loud bangs, and some incredible impersonations and likenesses. Steve Carell does some very fine work as Donald Rumsfeld, and Eddie Marsan (Mr. Norrell!) does that same as his deputy, Paul Wolfowitz. Lisa Gay Hamilton gets Condoleeza Rice just right.

The film is also stuffed with gimmicks, with the 43-minute one the funniest, but leans way too heavily on this kind of bombast to work as a coherent film. The Alfred Molina and Jesse Plemons gambits are both interesting on their own, but do not work in the context of the movie. In fact, the Molina scene might be the movie’s best sequence, but does not fit in the broader narrative; it feels more like a brilliant sketch from a comedy show that understands the power of brevity. The scene where Dick and Lynne Cheney begin speaking to each other in Shakespearean dialogue – I thought it might be from one of the two Richard tragedies, given Cheney’s name, but it’s not – doesn’t work in the least. McKay is trying to tell a story, but fantasy sequences in a movie that otherwise strives for realism, such as with costume and makeup, only work against the broader purpose.

There’s also material in here that is pretty questionable. The script very strongly implies that Lynne Cheney’s father murdered her mother, which doesn’t seem to be confirmed or even seriously suspected. The first Iraq War is barely mentioned at all, even though explaining the second one almost certainly requires it – especially the neoconservative faction who supported the second invasion without Cheney’s financial ties to companies that would benefit. The script frequently implies that losing a Cabinet-level position is a massive career setback, even though such people could waltz into six-figure speaking fees or lucrative jobs on television or as lobbyists or at think tanks. But no inaccuracy is as glaring as the film’s stark implication that the Bush Administration invaded Iraq in 2003 because the American public wanted them to do so. Yes, tensions were still high after 9/11, and people did indeed want someone to bomb – which we did, with results that are complicated, in Afghanistan. The idea that Cheney and his focus groups (including the feckless Frank Luntz, who gets lampooned appropriately as a soulless pollster) helped market the war to maximize support, which then justified the war itself, is not just inaccurate, but distasteful. The on-screen text at the end of the movie says that over 600,000 Iraqis died as a result of our invasion. Don’t put that on the American people, even if they did want the invasion. That’s on Cheney, Bush, Rumsfeld, and even Colin Powell – who weirdly gets a pass here – and everyone other cheerleader in Washington who signed off on the effort.

Bale won the Golden Globe for Best Actor in a Musical or Comedy for his portrayal of Cheney, a hard to believe transformation if you saw his appearance and heard his voice at the awards, and he’s worthy of at least a nomination for the Oscar for the same. Adams should get a nod for Best Supporting Actress, and I could see Rockwell or Carell getting a node for Best Supporting Actor, although I could probably rattle off five more deserving names (Ali, Driver, Chalamet, Grant, Elliott, Kaluuya, Jordan … that’s seven). I thought Allison Pill was excellent in a smaller role as Mary Cheney, Dick and Lynne’s daughter who comes out as a teenager and serves as a plot point throughout the movie. And Vice seems at least even money to get a Best Picture nod, even though it’s not in my top ten or, in my opinion, worthy of the nomination.

That’s not to say you shouldn’t see it; Vice is a complicated movie to discuss, as the length of this review probably shows. There’s a lot to recommend about it, from the many jokes and gags that do land, to the serious and important point it makes about the dangers of concentrating power in too few hands. The script mentions climate change in passing maybe twice, in part to say that Cheney backburnered any talk of doing something about it at the federal level, and then shows a scene of people golfing in front of a massive forest fire at the end. That’s a big deal, and worthy of exploration, but that barely gets two minutes out of the film. You’ll leave angry, but if you leave understanding anything more about the man at the heart of the story, you’ve gotten more out of Vice than I did.

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→ January 4, 2019
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Sweet Country.

The Australian film Sweet Country, now free on amazon prime, swept the AACTA Awards, that country’s equivalent to our Oscars, last month, taking home Best Film, Best Direction, Best Original Screenplay, Best Cinematography, Best Editing, and a Best Lead Actor prize for first-time actor Hamilton Morris, capping off a sixteen-month run that saw it win major awards in Toronto and Venice as well as Best Feature Film at the Asia-Pacific Screen Awards. It’s a beautiful film to watch with expansive scenes of the northwestern Australian landscape, with a simple, timeless story of racial injustice that could have just as easily been set in the United States.

The details set the plot apart a bit, but the framework is familiar: A black man kills a white man in self-defense, flees, and is then tried for murder, with the gallows already built for him before the trial begins. Sam, played by Morris, is the black (aboriginal) man here, a hired hand for the Christian farmer Fred Smith (Sam Neill), who lends Sam and his wife Lizzie (Natassia Gorey-Furber, nominated for an AACTA for Best Supporting Actress) to their new neighbor, a disturbed, volatile war veteran named Harry March. While there for the day, Sam follows Harry’s directions to go do something away from the house, a pretext for Harry to rape Lizzie. On a later day, Harry borrows another hired hand and an aboriginal youth named Philomac, only to chain the kid up on suspicion of theft. When Philomac flees, a drunk Harry goes to Fred’s house looking for him, shooting down the door, after which Sam shoots him dead in self-defense and then takes flight across the outback.

Most of the action in Sweet Country takes place in that first act, which is followed by the extended search for Sam and Lizzie in act two, showing both pursuers and fugitives as they move across territory that is hostile in more ways than one; and then the trial in act three, where a young, progressive judge gives Sam a fair trial despite unfriendly locals and the racist sergeant who led the chase to capture him. Part of director Warwick Thornton’s achievement is weaving them seamlessly into one film despite massive, abrupt shifts in both tone and tempo. The first third is full of (Hannah Gadsby voice) tension, the second contrasts this gorgeous scenery with the injustice of the hunt for Sam and the knowledge that the desert could kill any of these men, and the third becomes an ad hoc courtroom drama without the courtroom, as the trial takes place in the street due to the lack of a town hall in the remote outpost where it occurs. They could play out as three different films, just sharing characters, but Thornton, working from a screenplay by David Tranter and Steven McGregor, keeps the narrative and pace together enough so the entire film can work as a unified piece. That plays out in surprising ways, especially during the trial where the tension comes from silence as much as it does from the revelations during testimony.

Sweet Country is a slow film in many ways, at least in contrast to the pace of most big-studio American releases, and probably would look even better on a big screen where the cinematography would play up, with the second act showing the variety of landscapes and climate types across the northern part of Western Australia. It’s also lighter on dialogue than mainstream films until the trial commences, which is why my attention started to drift during the middle third of the film. I especially appreciated Thornton’s decision to cloak the rape scene in complete darkness; while it would still likely trigger some people by sound, the entire sequence is pitch black on the screen. If you’ve even read the description here of the plot, you can probably guess the film’s ending, although it’s still powerful for the reactions of the characters rather than any real sense of surprise – and again feels timeless for its depiction of a black man trying to find justice in a white man’s world.

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→ January 3, 2019
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Sorry to Bother You.

Sorry to Bother You (now streaming on Hulu), Boots Riley’s debut as director and writer, is a total mess of a film. It’s not a mess in the sense of, say, The Room, which is legendary for its badness, but in the sense that Riley tried to do way too much in a single 110-minute picture, packing in enough thematic material for three movies, attempting to shock the audience at least one time too often, and, when the film starts to go off the rails in the final third, steering hard into the skid when he needed to correct his course. The result is a film with high-concept ambitions that can’t achieve any of them.

Lakeith Stanfield (Get Out) stars as Cassius “Cash” Green, an unemployed Oakland resident who lives in his uncle’s garage and lands a very low-end job with a telemarketing firm, RegalView, at the very beginning of the film. After a bunch of prologue that doesn’t entirely matter, he learns from an older colleague (Danny Glover) that he’ll sell more stuff if he uses his “white voice,” which Cash eventually finds almost by accident (voiced by David Cross). He becomes a star, is promoted to a “power caller,” and goes upstairs to the VIP level at the telemarketing firm, where he finds himself selling some ethically dubious products services. Meanwhile, his girlfriend Detroit (Tessa Thompson, whose earrings are the film’s best running gag) is a progressive artist and part-time agitator who works with a leftist-anarchist group The Left Eye to protest a new company, WorryFree, that promises workers employment, housing, and food for life if they agree to work for the company for life without any salary. And Cash’s colleague Squeeze (Steven Yeun, who had a pretty good 2018 for himself) is actually a union organizer who leads work actions at RegalView. There’s more, but you’re probably getting the idea by now.

Riley is trying to take out a bunch of rabbits with a machine gun here, with entirely predictable results. Unfettered capitalism might be his main target, but he’s also hitting materialism, conscious and subconscious racism, cultural appropriation, worker exploitation, police brutality, police militarization, the dumbing down of American culture, genetic engineering, and a lot more. No film could adequately address that many disparate issues in two hours without turning into a scattershot mess; Terry Gilliam’s Brazil tried to hit fewer than half as many concepts, and was still incomprehensible to large portions of the audience.

One of the keys to effective satire is focus – the satirist picks one target, maybe two at most, and then drills deeply enough to take something essential to that target and use that facet against it. Riley goes the other way here, skimming off the top, and thus relying on superficial depictions of his targets to lampoon them by simply making them more ridiculous. The “white voice” gimmick is the best deployment of this technique, and to Riley’s credit, he doesn’t overuse it – only four characters get white voices at all, and only two get them for more than one scene, while it becomes unremarkable for Cash and his boss upstairs, Mr. _____, after a few conversations. That sort of restraint is lacking elsewhere in the film; the most popular show in the alternate universe of Sorry to Bother You, a game show called “I Got the Shit Kicked Out of Me!,” appears repeatedly without ever saying anything that wasn’t apparent the first time Cash and Squeeze watch it on TV at a bar after work.

The film also has one of the worst endings of any movie I’ve seen from 2018; The Wife‘s was worse, since it was the most predictable, and First Reformed‘s was more of a copout, whereas Riley just decides to go full batshit with his conclusion here, introducing a new plot element in the final third of the movie and making it essential to the resolution. (He also loses five points for casting Armie Hammer, who might know his claret from his Beaujolais but is not and will probably never be a good actor, as the CEO of WorryFree.) Riley doesn’t just go over the top in his conclusion – he pole-vaults over the top and clears it by a country mile. The problem with that approach is eventually you have to hit the ground.

I’d rather have a film with too many ideas than a film with none, and Riley has a lot to say here with enough cleverness that I’m still interested in whatever he’s doing next, even though Sorry to Bother You just doesn’t work. The bravura that Riley brings here does not serve him or the film well, and the best of the ideas – runaway capitalism and the economic inequalities it creates – suffers as a result. If Riley gets an editor, or even a voice over his shoulder encouraging him to pull back on the throttle, his vision could still lead to something brilliant down the road. This just wasn’t it.

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→ January 2, 2019
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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 30, 2018
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Minding the Gap.

As much as the awards-season conversation has been dominated by Netflix (for Roma) and amazon (for several TV series, including the very good Homecoming), Hulu has quietly had a banner year as well by moving into documentaries, with two of its properties making the shortlist for this year’s Academy Award for Best Documentary Feature. One of them, Minding the Gap, seems like a lock for a nomination given its universal acclaim and the timeliness of its subject, exploring the lives of three young men in Rockford, Illinois, all skateboarders and all products of traumatic childhoods.

Bing Liu is the filmmaker and one of the three subjects, having begun filming his friends as they skateboarded around Rockford as preteens and continued it in his early 20s (Liu is 24 now) with both interview footage and scenes from their daily lives. The two other main subjects are Zack Milligan, a handsome, volatile kid of 21 or 22 who now has a son with his 18-year-old girlfriend Nina (also a product of a violent home); and Keire Johnson, an African-American kid who can pile systemic and tacit racism on top of the challenges he already faced from a traumatic upbringing. The three men all respond to the challenges of their lives in different ways, notably Zack, who has become a physically and emotionally abusive partner to Nina and even tries to manipulate their depictions on camera by playing an audio recording of Nina screaming at him without explaining that it was preceded by him physically assaulting her.

As the story progresses, the details of the family lives of all four of these young adults become clear – three grew up in physically abusive environments; Keire lost his father at a young age, while Bing only saw his father three times since age 5. Zack’s childhood is the most opaque, even though he really never shuts up while he’s on camera, and is blessed or cursed with good looks (he reminds me of the ’90s actor Jeremy London) and a self-confidence that convinces him he’s smarter than he really is, which becomes very apparent in a soliloquy later in the film where he justifies his own bad choices by calling people who choose a predictable family life as ‘weak.’ He’s damaged, as all four of the principals (including Nina) are, but he’s also doing the least to cope with it, self-medicating, lashing out physically and emotionally, and stringing Nina along until she finally takes him to court for child support.

The appeal of Minding the Gap is how raw it is, including the footage Liu shot ten years earlier, as well his decision to insert his own story into a narrative that also includes other people. Documentaries seem to follow the either/or path: it’s about your own story (Strong Island) or it’s about someone else’s, but not both. Liu’s history of abuse comes out later in the film, but the arc of his life, including his use of skateboarding as an escape from a bad home situation, dovetails perfectly with those of his friends. And while Liu is occasionally heard interviewing subjects, he’s as unobtrusive in that role as he could be.

Where the film falters is around the three men themselves. Keire and Bing are compelling and sympathetic, but also both reserved by nature, and there’s often a feeling that they’re not revealing as much to the camera as the audience might need to hear from them – especially Keire, who has a mischievous smile he puts on every time he’s lost in thought, even if the thought is unpleasant. Zack, meanwhile, comes off as a real asshole – granted, one with trauma in his own past, someone who probably needs real treatment for PTSD and other mental health issues, but his treatment of Nina and general disregard for others around him is hard to accept even with Bing essentially vouching for his buddy by including his story. He also seems to have a knack for finding women he can manipulate, which comes off particularly poorly as Bing gets Nina’s back story of a horrendous childhood and lack of any kind of family structure until her aunt and uncle take her into their house when she’s 21 and has a 3-year-old in tow.

I personally found the domestic scenes between Zack and Nina excruciating to watch because he is just awful – awful to her, and awful in the way a child trying to act like an adult can be awful. There’s a sense here that Liu is still finding his voice as a documentarian, that he had great material and stumbled on a tremendous subject, but has to learn more about assembling what he collects into a coherent narrative or series of them. Minding the Gap has garnered incredible acclaim to date, with 62 positive reviews for a 100% rating on RottenTomatoes, and the Best Documentary Feature award may come down to this versus Won’t You Be My Neighbor?, but I didn’t see it in quite that light. It’s a strong debut that might be the harbinger of a great career for Liu, but it’s also flawed and didn’t do enough to grab and hold my attention throughout its tapestry of three stories.

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→ December 27, 2018
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Zama.

Zama, available on amazon Prime, is the weirdest movie I’ve seen this year. Originally released in Argentina in 2017 and submitted by that country for this past year’s Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film, it’s based on a 1956 novel and plays out like a Kafkaesque fever dream in colonial South America, where lives are cheap and promises worthless. It’s violent and full of confusion, to the point that it’s unclear whether any of what we’re seeing is real, or whether the main character himself is losing his mind. I haven’t read the novel, which wasn’t translated into English until 2016, but any sort of guidebook would have helped me navigate this weirdness, which had me befuddled from the opening scene and never did much to set me on track.

Don Diego de Zama (Daniel Giménez Cacho) is a local functionary in Spanish South America, in the town that is now Ascúncion, Paraguay, who has been waiting some time for a transfer order to reunite him with his wife and child. His title, corregidor, was unique to the Spanish colonial system and referred to the top official in a subdivision of the country’s massive holdings in the Americas, dating back to Castile in the Middle Ages, and they were typically quite powerful because they worked at such great distances from their superiors. Zama, however, always answers to a governor in this film, first one and then his replacement, and the transfer is forever delayed or even forgotten by the men with the power to put them into action. He continues to rule over petty matters of the locals but becomes increasingly erratic, at one point promising two Spanish landowners thirty Native Americans as slaves, and eventually gives up hope of a transfer and joins a vigilante party searching for the bandit Vicuña Porto, who was supposedly killed (twice, I think) earlier in the film but remains a threat to trade and travel between cities.

Zama starts the film as a sort of would-be lothario, obsessed with the lady Luciana (Lola Dueñas, who is made up and dressed to look utterly ridiculous), and acting as the protector of some young women in his household of unknown purpose. He becomes more disheveled as the film progresses, and the dialogue starts to break down and become increasingly disjointed, to the point where I wasn’t sure if I had missed bits of it or if the characters were simply speaking past each other. Zama brings up the letter multiple times in conversation at one point, only to have the governor seem to completely forget what he was talking about. There’s also a llama in the governor’s office at one point, never explained and never remarked upon by any characters, who seem to regard it as just another llama in the office (reminiscent of Elizabeth Moss’ roommate in The Square). I assume it was partly a play on Vicuña Porto’s name – a vicuña is a South American camel related to llamas – and thus an acknowledgement that he always exists under their noses and they’re unable or unwilling to defeat him.

Zama felt like an experimental novel brought to the screen but losing too much in translation. The gruesome finale feels absurd and metaphorical, but a scene like that requires a greater foundation to provide it with sufficient impact beyond mere revulsion. The extra descriptive text in that sort of book can make it comprehensible, but here I couldn’t get much further than understanding that Diego de Zama was a man trapped in a remote place in circumstances he couldn’t control, to the point that it may have caused him to lose his sanity. And that is a story I’ve seen before.

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→ December 26, 2018
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Blindspotting.

Blindspotting (amazon • iTunes) marks the writing debut for its co-stars, Daveed Diggs (of Hamilton) and Rafael Casal, who play the two lead characters, best friends in Oakland who end up confronting explicit and implicit racial bias over the course of three days in the city. It is spotty – no pun intended – okay, maybe a little bit intended – but also contains many strong scenes that point to the tremendous vision of the two writers that might just need a little more development time.

Diggs plays Collin, who has three days left on his yearlong probation for an assault that occurred while he was working as a bouncer at an area bar, and Casal plays his best friend Miles. Collin is black, Miles is white, and the two have been best friends since grade school. Miles ‘acts’ black, to the point where Collin refers to him with some affection by the n-word, but their relationship doesn’t reflect how the world as a whole views the two of them. Meanwhile, Collin is driving home from one of their jobs for a moving company one night when he sees a white police officer kill an unarmed black man who is fleeing and has his back turned when he’s shot. Because of the circumstances of his probation, he chooses not to come forward as a witness, which haunts him over the remainder of the film.

Blindspotting is about everyday racism, which means we get a greatest hits sort of look at the subject. Police brutality and BLM come up multiple times, in humorous and serious contexts. Guns and how people, including the police, view a white man with a gun and a black man with a gun differently also figure in the plot. The gentrification of Oakland, which has been becoming less black, is a regular topic within the dialogue, and drives a scene where Collin and Miles go to a party held by a white hipster tech executive that ends poorly when Miles loses his temper, as he’s wont to do.

There are plenty of well-drawn side characters here, including Collin’s ex-girlfriend Val (Janina Gavankar), whose ethnicity is left unstated in a film where racial identity is paramount; and Miles’ African-American wife Ashley (Jasmine Cephas Jones, also of Hamilton), but the two men are the heart of the film. Both are complex, but Collin is better developed, and the script maintains the audience’s connection to him by gradually revealing the depth of the character over the course of the film, reserving the story of why he went to jail until somewhere around the midpoint, a flashback that really changes the perception of his character.

The climactic scene in Blindspotting is both absurd and its best, tightest sequence, requiring a fair-sized coincidence and a touch of reality suspension … but this is Diggs’ screaming guitar solo here, and he absolutely nails it. Although this is fiction, it reminded me of the monologue Hannah Gadsby delivers at the end of her comedy special Nanette, where she has lulled the audience into acquiescence with some blisteringly funny jokes, only to turn very serious on her captive audience and give a speech on equality and identity that could crumble mountains. Diggs’ performance in this last scene enters that same zone of unreality – we were here, now you’ve just moved us somewhere else, but we were already in the moment enough that we’ll just come along for the ride. There’s a level of trust required to pull off that kind of trick. Gadsby completely earns that trust. Diggs gets most of the way there, and has to resort to a gimmick to keep viewers in that moment long enough to complete the scene.

Blindspotting‘s humor isn’t as consistent as it tries to be – the best gag in the film is a sight gag around Collin’s hair – with a lot of cringeworthy jokes that don’t land and feel out of place in a film that’s trying to deal with some huge subjects. Miles handles the bulk of the successful comic relief, and Casal’s fast-talking act is riveting to watch. His negotiations with a potential buyer over a sailboat are Marx Brothers-level comedy and among the funniest moments in the film. That lightens the mood for a while, but the humor eventually fades out or just stops working (the scenes at the hipster party, with the utterly clueless white host, are really painful) while the serious nature of the film takes precedence. It’s not a top ten film of the year for me, but it’s a very good one, and I think a very promising writing debut for Diggs and Casal.

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→ December 24, 2018
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The Ballad of Buster Scruggs.

The Ballad of Buster Scruggs is technically a movie – it was released to theaters, and is also on Netflix as a single, 135-minute … well, movie. But it’s also kind of not a movie: it’s an anthology of six stories that have nothing in common beyond their settings, the American West of the frontier period, and the fact that Joel and Ethan Coen wrote and directed all of them. As you might find with any short story anthology, this sextet has highs and lows; the longest story here is the least interesting and perhaps worst acted, while there are also some truly brilliant moments comparable to the best work the Coens have done.

The first story bears the title of the whole film, and it’s short, silly, and establishes the theme that runs throughout the entire anthology – fate does not care for your narratives. You may take this as meaning the universe is random, or simply that man proposes, God disposes, but regardless, the Coens revel here in setting up one story only to take a right turn at the conclusion. Buster Scruggs is a sharp-shooting, fast-talking outlaw, prone to hifalutin vocabulary and expressing himself through song, a bad guy who enjoys killing worse guys and then singing over their corpses. He’s utterly ridiculous except that he’s good enough to shoot off a man’s trigger finger at a significant distance, until, of course, he meets someone a bit quicker.

The six films are all pretty dark, even when they’re very funny, and only one has anything you might consider a ‘happy’ ending. Tom Waits appears in the fourth story as a lonely goldpanner who spends days digging in a bucolic riverside spot to find the vein he believes is there, only to learn he’s been followed by a jumper with a pistol. What follows turns the narrative on its head and then flips it back again, although all of the story takes a back seat to the gorgeous scenery, which reminded me of the incredible landscape shots from the Coens’ remake of True Grit.

The worst of the six, by far, is set on the Oregon Trail, where Zoe Kazan plays a young woman traveling with her mansplaining brother to Oregon, where he’ll start a business and she’s due to be married to his business partner. He dies rather early in the trip, which is no great loss to the viewer, leaving the story to focus on the travails of a young woman left on her own on the caravan with no one to help her but a hired boy she may not be able to pay. The plot itself fits the broader themes of the anthology, but Kazan looks and especially sounds completely out of place here. I thought she was the weak link in The Big Sick, and I think she’s even more of a problem here, only adding value because she’s little and that helps emphasize the helpless nature of her character.

That leads into the concluding story, a gothic horror story set on a stagecoach at night, the one part of the film that feels like a play and by far the portion of this anthology that boasts the best cast, including Tyne Daly and Brendan Gleeson as two of five travelers on the coach. As they talk and argue, telling bits of their life stories, it becomes less clear that the passengers understand where they are going – and, to the Coens’ great credit, it isn’t clear at the end of the story, either.

Aside from the uneven nature of The Ballad of Buster Scruggs, which is inevitable for any set of six mini-films, the anthology suffers from how few real female characters it has in the film. Four of the stories have none; the last two have one each, Kazan’s and Daly’s, and the latter, while probably my favorite performance in the entire movie, shares screen time with four other actors all kind of having the times of their lives. (There’s a little surprise for Major League fans in this segment, but I won’t ruin it.) I could understand an argument that a movie set in the Old West would likely have few women in an authentic plot, but six different stories, only one revolves around a woman, and she’s not very strong at all. In a year where most of the best films had women at or near the hearts of their plots, the lack thereof in this film stands out as a real weakness.

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