Possessor (2020)

 Score: 4.5 / 5

David Cronenberg hasn't directed any new films in a distressingly long time, but thank goodness his son Brandon is diving into it. His second feature, Possessor, proves that this apple has not fallen far from its tree in the best possible way. He effortlessly combines sleek, sophisticated science fiction with graphic horror of both body and mind. Outrageous and disturbing, this new movie had me gritting my teeth and flinching so often that, had I been in a cinema, someone may have thought I had taken ill. Like father like son, what makes the name Cronenberg so enticing is not only its unabashed willingness -- even glee -- to "go there" with its horror, but also its ingenious pacing, plotting, and novelty of concept. One of the first shots is of a long needle piercing someone's own cranium, and as horrific as it is, it becomes more so when we begin to learn why and how this has happened. Horror that grows long after the shock? That's hard to do.

Andrea Riseborough (consistently performing as the most surprising and versatile actress of her generation) plays an assassin in a cool, slightly futuristic city I'm guessing is Toronto. She works in a top-secret organization run by Jennifer Jason Leigh, and yes, I got Annihilation vibes at first, too. The characters all had names, but frankly I don't remember them, and I'm not sure they are important. Why? Because to stay secret in a world of surveillance and paranoia, the assassins abduct innocent people close to their target, body-snatch them by transferring their consciousness, and then carrying out the hit like characters in James Cameron's Avatar. 

As if that wasn't enough for a fascinating movie already, Cronenberg centers his story on Riseborough's professional growth. Leigh, as her boss, seems determined to groom her for a promotion, seeing the assassin as potentially her best asset. Unfortunately, Riseborough's family, her estranged husband and son, has all but disintegrated (no doubt due to her macabre line of work) and she begins acting oddly while on the job. After coming out of her possession state, she is questioned by Leigh, apparently to ground her in reality; as she answers, Riseborough reveals her desire to reconnect with her family and expresses guilt over once killing a butterfly. The best killer would never have such personal connections or sentimentality.

It's the next job, as it always is in the movies, that screws things up. When hired by an ambitious client to kill his own family members so as to assume leadership in their company, Riseborough body snatches Christopher Abbott (handsome and talented, most recently seen in Hulu's excellent Catch-22), who is engaged to the daughter of the CEO. The problem is that Abbott (I think his name was Colin?) is feeling as alienated as she is. Though his circumstances are poorer -- a data grunt worker, he spies on people through their laptop cameras (!!!) -- he too feels disconnected and discontented with his life and intended family, fueled by consuming consumer lifestyles, no doubt. Both are predatory in different ways, and both are unhappy. Once Riseborough takes over Abbott's body, it's not clear that either of them are truly in control, and that both consciousnesses are in communication.

I don't want to say much more, because the entire second half of this movie is turn after fascinating turn, with plenty of violence to keep the horror fans happy and some uniquely engaging sci-fi thrills for everyone else. By the end, I was tempted more than once to think of this movie as a black comedy about corporate management and ambition, or even a satire about the age of information and consumerism, and maybe that is all valid. But this movie is bleak. I felt unwell after watching it -- its subdued colors and sleek, almost clinical aesthetic feels as disaffected as the characters -- perhaps even more than while I was flinching between stabs. Buckle up, y'all. This movie isn't playing around.

After Midnight (2020)

 Score: 2 / 5

Ten years into their relationship, Hank's girlfriend Abby disappears. She left a note with a sort of "I'm sorry" vague explanation, but no forwarding address or number. Hank is left alone in a rural house, slipping into drunken melancholy. His weird friend Wade is less than helpful in supporting him, and Abby's cop brother checks in on him, but even they have trouble taking the pathetic Hank seriously. Because Hank is convinced a monster has been visiting his house at night since Amy left. That's why he's sleeping on a sofa barricading the front door with a shot gun in his hand. That's why he's blown holes through the walls, door, and windows. He seems more upset about Abby's departure than about the monster, so what's really going on here?

We never really know, for what it's worth. The movie, written and directed by Jeremy Gardner (who also plays Hank), is so proud of its blatant central metaphor that it never really explores it. Anxiety over failed relationships -- and the haunting recognition of toxic relationship behaviors -- manifests in an almost unseen monster. The monster becomes more visible to us, the audience, as the film takes us through Hank's recollections of his romance and where it went wrong. Beginning with brighter memories, he recalls Abby as loving and sweet, the two of them comfortable and humorous in their early scenes together. Other than learning about their past and establishing the main theme, the first half of the movie is almost unbearably dull.

But then (spoiler alert!) Abby materializes again, out of nowhere, and Hank doesn't quite know what to do with her. Or himself. The movie's best scene comes shortly thereafter, as the two of them sit in the hallway, awkwardly spaced apart, drinking and waiting for the monster to appear. She's clearly uneasy (Hank is drinking heavily and wielding a shotgun), but as it's her birthday she seems intent on having a tough discussion. In the 13-ish-minute scene, filmed as a single take, the two people dialogue their way through the rough stuff in their past; his microaggressions and control, her uncommunicated longing for more. In many ways, the brilliant writing and effective performances in this riveting scene feel like a short film that better dramatizes and explains everything up to this point and could exist fully on its own without the hullabaloo that comes after. 

It's a cruel sort of some-to-Jesus scene that encapsulates their character, their emotional baggage, their exposition, their conflict, and their aim toward resolution. Sort of. Hank still has trouble looking Abby in the eye, but it's hard to feel pity so much as disdain for him as he swigs his drink and manhandles his gun. In my opinion, this scene is the only reality of these characters we can trust. It is unedited, unscored, and unembellished by effects; it is not memory, nor is it the possible insanity of an isolated, aggrieved man. But it's also left unresolved at the end of the scene, which moved forward to act two with renewed interest from this viewer.

Unfortunately, the film doesn't go much further into interesting areas. Abby, for her dubious integrity in returning, isn't treated like much of a dynamic character; indeed, the camera often views her as a subject of Hank's gaze (probably because the guy playing Hank is also the guy who wrote and directed everything). While we might hope she can encourage the sudden maturity of Hank, who is truly insufferable to witness as he mopes and whines and complains and indulges himself, we begin to realize that he is as monstrous as anything he faces. Almost. Wait for the end and decide for yourself.

Or don't, because it's really not that interesting.

Wendy (2020)

Score: 4.5 / 5

One of my favorite movies of 2012 was the indie smash Beasts of the Southern Wild, a brazen folklore coming-of-age odyssey through a Louisiana bayou community. Bound up with environmentalism were its central themes about age, race, gender, language, and community investment, and its sociocultural gumbo hit close to home for people far beyond its geographic specificity. But we haven't heard so much as a peep from its writer and director, Benh Zeitlin, since. Not, that is, until recently, when Wendy hit... a few cinemas? One of the greatest tragedies of early 2020, for me, was that Wendy was hard to find. At least where I live. It wasn't until it appeared, miraculously, on HBO Max that I was finally able to see it. And it quickly stole my heart all over again.

It's not really a surprise that Zeitlin decided on another story of children in the bayou, and while some will criticize his return to the same form so many years later, I will not. It's a gorgeous aesthetic, tied to timely and important messages, and nobody else is making movies like this. It's fresh and beautiful, endlessly inventive even as it reveals truths about hidden parts of our culture. Zeitlin effortlessly makes his bildungsroman about outcast children as much as it is about the planet we've used and abused to the brink of catastrophe. He structures his tales on the skeletons of myth, fleshing out the juicy bits while dressing the action in unfamiliar but effective trappings. More importantly, he proves yet again that budget does not -- and should not -- matter when it comes to real imagination. If anything, Wendy feels like an extension or companion piece to his earlier work.

And what a piece it is! Loosely inspired by J.M. Barrie's timeless classic Peter Pan, Wendy finds us centering our story, yes, on a young girl faced with the realities of a rough adult life in the rural U.S. south. We're placed seamlessly into her mind as her thoughtful, calm voiceover narrates the more abstract parts of the story. In many ways, it's a more palatable version of the Terrence Malick style, and here it works all the better due to our already-bursting knowledge of the source material. Who hasn't wondered what the harsh realities of children running away from home might look like from a child's perspective, or an island run by children and crawling with pirates? This time Peter Pan doesn't necessarily fly, but he flies on the top of a freight train, and I was more than willing to take that leap of faith after him.

I'd argue that this movie is, ironically, a bit more grounded than Zeitlin's earlier film, but that only serves to deepen my appreciation for what he's doing to the story and themes at work. Sure, we have the familiar moments, including the famed Peter Pan, a small Black boy whose shadow leads Wendy out to the fateful train. Even when things tilt -- during the train ride, a wonderful transition to Neverland -- into more fantastic imagery, we're treated to more than enough sensory details to keep things realistic, as when Peter mischievously pushes his charges off the train and into the muddy swamp. Even when on the island, which reads frighteningly close to Lord of the Flies (mercifully sans wild pigs), there are touches of whimsy, as when Peter and his lost boys, who indeed do not grow older, seem to control the island's volcano telepathically.

Could the magic of Neverland be little more than that of a childhood fantasy destination? After all, there is a volcano there. But there is more to it than that, a fantasy element that takes full form once the children go swimming under the island. There are no fairies or mermaids in this version, only the whale-like luminescent creature Peter calls Mother, who swims peacefully through the subterranean caves under Neverland. She's about as heavy-handed as the aurochs in Beasts, but there's no denying the children's belief in her life-giving magic. At least, for a time. The tranquil beauty of this Caribbean island is shattered when the children realize that loss of faith in the magic will result in their sudden aging.

Shocker? Perhaps not to us jaded viewers, but this horrifying development in the children's psyche manifests more like Lord of the Flies than I previously suggested. And Zeitlin, much to his credit, reimagines Captain Hook in such a brilliant way that I was moved to tears more than once. Watching the children grapple viscerally with the reality of mortality is more than I ever expected from Peter Pan, though the subtext is certainly there for those willing to lean into it.

And while I dearly loved the movie and look forward to another viewing, I can't rightly say I understood all of it. Especially in the middle, when various strands of plot and theme complicate themselves perhaps needlessly, I found myself daydreaming about the film's possibilities more than its presentation. That's not a great sign, and no doubt this is why many will surely decry it for cultural and racial appropriation, poverty porn, and exploitation of the same kind aimed at Beasts. While we can discuss these concerns, I'm not sure they're entirely valid as the movie has nothing, really, to say on the class or race of any of its characters (except that Peter is a Black boy while Wendy and her brothers are white, I'm not sure there's any other concrete example of racial dynamics at work at all). The island's population is more diverse than we are fully aware of, and they seem united by their alienation from the "real world." Age and gender, though, seem to be more of a concern, but only in thematic terms.

By the riveting climax, I hope you'll be as invested as I was. I wept openly multiple times, especially as the fight between Hook and Pan began, as they all sang for their dying source of magic, and of course as Wendy returned home. The famous final scene hits hard, as a grown-up Wendy... well, you know. I don't have to tell you. Just close your eyes and think of happy, wonderful thoughts. 

She Dies Tomorrow (2020)

 Score: 4.5 / 5

Amy just bought a house. Amy is young. Amy is cute. Amy has a life to live. Amy should be excited. But our first shot of Amy is actually an extreme close-up of her eye, a vibrant hue of blue amidst black, smudgy mascara and bedewed with tears. She wanders slowly around her new house, drinks a lot, and has Mozart's "Lacrimosa" on repeat. Is she in quarantine like the rest of us? Well, yes. But not because of a viral pandemic in the film. This is apparently self-imposed, though there are suggestions otherwise. First, unlikely colored lights attract her to one room in particular. Second, as she approaches, staring out of the screen and into our eyes, we cannot tell what she's thinking. And, of course, there's her confession -- prediction? assertion? affirmation? intention? declaration? -- that she is going to die tomorrow. Amy is not well.

When Jane calls to congratulate Amy on her new house, Amy is dismissive and absent. Despite needing to go to a birthday party for her sister-in-law, Jane hurries over to check on her friend. Amy's morbidity has led her to search for urns online; it has also led to her looking at leather jackets. After she dies tomorrow, Amy tells Jane, she wants to be turned into a leather jacket, so she can be useful. Disturbed, Jane returns home and then goes to the party, carrying something of Amy's state of mind with her. It's not sorrow, exactly, or fear, or any other distinct emotion. It's more like a cold assertion, a harsh reality with which the subject is attempting to make peace or at least to accept. But it's catching.

Writer and director Amy Seimetz -- whose protagonist's name might suggest a frighteningly personal basis for this movie -- has crafted a movie about life that consistently rejects liveliness. Or at least any conventions of cinematic life. Almost inert, the film feels fragmented, stitched together like a Frankenstein monster with large episodes and oddball shots of microscopic cells, sunsets, and more abstract color-heavy images. There is no exposition, except in shorthand as scenes unravel and we see Amy (and, eventually, others) reveal their symptoms to others. Nobody likes to hear their friend, family member, patient, co-worker, passenger, client, or lover is going to die tomorrow, as if that was something any of us could even say. In that awkward conversation, which repeats uncomfortably in this movie, they laugh it off, sweetly deny it, get angry or afraid, express concern about sanity, and generally fail to comprehend until it is too late for themselves.

She Dies Tomorrow is not even typical arthouse fare. Don't let its starry cast fool you; this is a difficult watch, both due to its content and its delivery. Seimetz exerts incredible control over the film, keeping our attention on what plot exists while forcing our minds to metaphoric "what if" considerations. She shifts her storytelling between time and place, keeping us unsure even as we slowly realize what exactly is happening. It helps that cinematographer Jay Keitel's shots are often unexpected, moving to alarming perspectives that highlight disorientation in the screenplay and in the characters' lives. Deaths. Whatever.

In this way, it's a nearly perfect movie for isolating during a pandemic. Which is to say, it's a terrible movie to watch right now. An overpowering sense of doom compels the film, and it only gets worse as the contagious awareness of death spreads. Of course, there is also real death, which satisfies the horror fiend wanting entertainment even as it increases viewing anxiety in general; this contagion may be less visceral than COVID-19, but it is far more insidious as a disease of the mind. Though we know precious little about these characters, we are them in more ways than one. As they, one by one, gaze into the brightly colored lights like Amy did, they respond in as various ways to their own death as they did to news of hers. Is it fear spreading, or is it something far worse?

While watching, I thought of everything from The Happening to The Neon Demon, but ultimately this movie feels, to me, like the love child of It Follows and Melancholia. An unbearable, looming comprehension of death elicits strange responses from people. But, as we've learned over the past year, collectivity isn't the experience we ultimately undergo. We'll face death on our own, in the end.

Amulet (2020)

 Score: 5 / 5

A stunning work of Gothic horror, Amulet sees actor Romola Garai directing her first feature film. It is the voice of a brave and brilliant newcomer to the genre, much like Jennifer Kent with The Babadook or Natalie Erika James with Relic earlier this year. No doubt aided by her training as an actor, she elicits stunning and nuanced performances from her three principal cast members. But as a new director, she is in full control of this movie and manages to make it beautiful in its ugliness. And, most impressively, her incredible writing skills use this story to aggressively, angrily challenge the status quo of women in horror -- indeed, in the world -- while changing the game for feminist genre pictures.

She begins with Tomaz (the beautiful Alec Secareanu of God's Own Country, Ammonite), a man squatting in a London den by night and working hard labor by day. His difficult life is dramatized in effective shorthand, but we recognize that he's haunted by something more traumatizing. We learn through flashbacks that he is a former soldier of an unspecific conflict, but it is also clear that he was not a frontline warrior, as he is only shown as an isolated sentry in a quiet, foggy wood. We see, early, that he binds his hands with duct tape before he sleeps, as if afraid his own Mr. Hyde will do something terrible. This pairs, uncomfortably, with his flashbacks, in which a lone woman suddenly materializes and Tomaz (who, for an attractive man, is quite creepy) aggressively tries to make her feel safe with him. As these scenes progress, we sense him wrestling with certain urges through his body language and side-eye ogling.

The haunted Tomaz is forced to the streets when his squatter's den catches fire, and he is found and taken in by the kindly Sister Claire (Imelda Staunton of Harry Potter, Vera Drake, Maleficent, Pride). She takes him to a house wherein he can live for free, in exchange for his help as a repairman. The house, he quickly learns, is falling apart, and grimy plumbing problems plague his days. His companion in this house is the quiet Magda (Carla Juri, Blade Runner 2049), who cares for her ailing -- read: screaming -- mother locked in the attic. The house becomes a sort of character itself, helped by strong production design, and it quickly becomes clear that everything is not as it seems. Not just because all of Magda's meals for Tomaz are heavy on meat. There's the weird hints of who previously lived in the house and left their possessions. And, of course, there's the horrific batlike creature bathed in bloody sewage.

But while the mysteries unfold, Garai is most interested in the many references she can make. The rotting house with pools of moldy discoloration feel not unlike something from Japanese horror, along with the rarely seen but distinctly terrifying specter of Magda's mother crawling around the attic. Amber light in the hallways below seem to scream "yellow wallpaper" to us, and Magda's submissive behavior fits right in. Cinematographer Laura Bellingham transitions between drama and horror by interjecting shots of nature like raindrops on the eaves or snails gliding along moss. It swirls into a heady concoction of textile interest, a film about high-brow concepts that uses the physical senses -- don't even get me started on the sound mixing -- to keep you grounded and invested.

By the film's final act, the mysteries are revealed and the particularly graphic imagery all along suddenly makes sense. We understand why there have been so many yonic symbols: partly due to the ultimate theme of the film, sure, but also because we are meant to view the movie from Tomaz's perspective, and the imagery means something very specific for him, as we eventually learn. Magda slicing open a fish and pulling out its organs isn't just dinner preparation, and the bloody bed sheet isn't just her period. And then, as the film shifts our assumptions about a protector and the protected, it also inverts our understanding of the intentions of hospitality. After all, earlier Tomaz offers Magda a particularly creepy amulet he found in the dirt. It is this symbol, one intended apparently for comfort or protection, that informs Garai's Gothic aesthetic and her feminist themes, apart from supplying the film's title. It indicates a specific history and tradition that, to discuss here, would spoil too much of the film.

Amulet has a lot on its mind about superficial gender norms, about revenge and forgiveness, about internalized trauma and externalized guilt, and Garai handles it all with grace and a grim sense of fun. While most of the film could be called a slow-burner, it has its share of gruesome, bloody body horror moments to shock and excite. Despite the occasional dip into giallo territory, though, there is no mistaking Garai's sense of fun for her audience's sense of fun. This is an outspoken, angry film, determined to make us squirm with guilt as much as disgust. In fact, I'd liken this film to mother! and the remake of Suspiria more than to the recent films I referenced in my first paragraph, simply due to its righteous anger centered on gendered bodies and violent bodily violations.

I found myself, by the end, still questioning a lot, though, and that is why the movie will continue to fascinate me. Is there a distinction between evil behavior and evil that possesses or compels? Is it possible for someone to earn forgiveness without confronting themselves with their own actions? Does forgiveness require suffering, and if so, for which party? Is sacrifice always about love (as a burgeoning romantic scene between Tomaz and Magda suggests), or is it often more masochistic and selfish than we admit? And just what the hell is that half-bat, half-rat thing doing in the toilet anyway?

Alone (2020)

 Score: 2 / 5

You know those movies that are just unpleasant to watch? Ones that, even if the craft is indisputable, the content or tone make it anything but entertaining? They're different for everybody, but ones that come to mind for me right away are Deliverance and Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer. Something about the gritty violence and lack of redeeming filmmaking elements make for an unforgiving and unforgivable viewing experience.

Alone isn't quite there, but it certainly approaches my limit. It begins when Jessica packs up and leaves Portland for the rugged wilderness of, well, somewhere. She's fleeing something mysterious and traumatic, as final girls often do in these movies, but of course she must be tested yet again by our standards. Very early in the film, we notice that she's being stalked by a mysterious man in a black Jeep; after some road rage "chicken" games, he returns time and again in her periphery. When he finally approaches her, he's as creepy as you'd expect. His character's credited name is "Man," so that tells you pretty much what you need to know. He's never subtle. He's a caricature of monstrosity, decked out with predictably grotesque facial hair and thick glasses.

Then comes the inevitable -- but surprisingly early -- assault. After sabotaging her vehicle, he smashes in her window, drugs her, and takes her to his basement. Once she awakens, he materializes to taunt her and question her about her life, her trauma. Thankfully -- an unexpected grace note in this one-note flick -- we aren't forced to watch any torture or sexual assault. In fact, right around the time I was expecting it, Jessica overhears him talking to his wife and daughter on the phone, lying about his whereabouts and doings. He seems almost normal, except of course for that moustache. "Man" is just a serial killer, apparently, rather than also a rapist or terrorist or pedophile, which is almost uniquely refreshing in the genre. Almost.

The movie progresses much as we expect. She escapes and flees into the Pacific Northwest wilderness, followed by Man with a gun hunting the most dangerous game. Though she's not quite dangerous, and her foot is injured early. As the movie drags on, Man's taunts and weak attempts at psychological torment become less interesting. Some of his lines are downright laughable. Thankfully, Jules Willcox imbues Jessica with enough physical strength to keep viewers interested, even if her wide, weeping eyes becomes tiresome to behold. She is never much more than a damsel in distress, even during her climactic attempt to steal Man's phone and call -- well, not the police. And despite occassionally good depictions of survival instincts, she is no Woman Against Nature icon; hell, she's not even much of a Woman Against Man icon. Which begs the question, why did the filmmakers think this movie was a good idea?

It's not all "bad", and I found it a diverting hour and a half on a cold day in quarantine. The most interesting part to me, other than the first 20 minutes or so, was when the only other consequential character shows up. Anthony Heald pops in for a hot minute; he played Frederick Chilton in The Silence of the Lambs and Red Dragon, and he really should be in more movies. Unfortunately for his character Robert, an extra in a movie like this isn't long for the world, he is fairly stupid and panicky. What's interesting about him is that he has a gun. Though our national conversation hasn't discussed "good men with guns" in a while, the movie's most interesting scene suggests they are incapable of stopping evil intent.

Ammonite (2020)

 Score: 4 / 5

Loosely inspired by what little is known of British paleontologist Mary Anning's private life, Ammonite dramatizes a bleak existence scraping amongst the rocks and cliffs of the English Channel in Dorset. Anning wasn't seemingly as well-known as she may have deserved: as a Protestant separatist from Anglican society, and of course as a woman, her scientific discoveries were the result of backbreaking work. Denied funding from the male- and Church-dominated scientific communities, it's likely she did not receive much credit for the work she did produce, which included the first icthyosaur skeleton as well as the fact that what were commonly called bezoars were actually fossilized feces. These details, among others, are suggested in this film, and frankly I'd have been interested in more tidbits like this.

But unlike Radioactive, the only other major movie this year to explore the real life of a pioneering female scientist, Ammonite isn't a historical treatise. In fact, some might say it's more like fan fiction. It takes as its dramatic focus Mary Anning, a character more than an entry in the encyclopedia, the perpetually dirty hermit living with her mother Molly (Gemma Jones). Played to perfection by Kate Winslet, delivering her most impressive performance in several years, Mary toils along a solitary shoreline in silence to find rocks worth polishing and breaking open to find fossils. Even when the drama begins to pick up, she doesn't speak much. Winslet controls the flow of the entire film with simple twists of her brow, piercing gazes, and of course rigidly calculated body language.

When another paleontologist pops in to her shop, one who seems genuinely interested in her work, Mary seems immediately repelled by his professed indifference toward gender relations and inequity. He controls his wife with, if not outright cruelty, disdain and annoyance, telling people she suffers from "melancholia" and takes it upon himself to keep her subservient in all things. Charlotte Murchison (a brilliant Saoirse Ronan) becomes sick, and her husband (I think his name is Roderick? It never seemed to matter much) leaves her with Mary to get healthy in the seaside air and sun. Because of course an already working woman can just casually nurse his ill wife at his whim, right? But, despite a few rough bumps, the two women take to each other well, and there isn't much tension in terms of class, wealth, or lifestyle.

Charlotte even accompanies Mary to the shore and assists with her work. Their physical labor together gradually shifts into physical affection; after several beautifully emotional encounters they finally consummate their feelings. But this isn't quite the kind of explosive sex you might think; this is deeply emotional, about the importance of human relationships even when they aren't expected or wanted. There is no melodrama here and certainly no soap. The emotional climaxes are understated and deeply introverted; the nuances of Winslet and Ronan are masterclasses in acting, precisely because they are so precise and clear, even as they could easily be missed, if you watch with one eye on the screen and one eye on your phone. And then, of course, the sex scenes are actually quite passionate, sensitive, and tasteful. Apparently Winslet herself choreographed these scenes as well as controlling the atmosphere behind the camera; the record of this is remarkable, and champions both feminist filmmaking and feminist male directors.

Francis Lee was already a great director in my book for giving us the gift that is God's Own Country back in 2017. And here it just gets better with two amazing performances from even bigger names. While at times the film's silence is frustrating, I find myself haunted even now, days after viewing it. I've read several angry accounts of people saying Lee, who also wrote this screenplay, is rewriting history, because there is no evidence of Mary Anning's queerness. I reject that utterly, as this film is by no means a historical record. However, it is certainly possible that Anning and Murchison (or someone else) were romantically involved. How many stories have been told, about any number of historical figures whose intimacies were unknown, that explicitly showed people to be heterosexual? Why should a single, relatively unappreciated and even unknown, movie like this be subjected to such disdain and criticism? Lee deserves a damned award for simply being audacious enough to shift the status quo and allow for speculation like this in such a thoughtful, poignant way.

And, of course, it's an insightful and warm-hearted story about unexpected, transformative love, all the more powerful in a year when we ourselves have been so isolated.

The Secret Garden (2020)

 Score: 1.5 / 5

It's the same story we all know, adapted by a brilliant writer in a completely rote way, and I just cannot figure out why anyone thought this movie would be a good idea. There have been so many adaptations of Frances Hodgson Burnett's novel in the last century, most of which are indistinguishable from each other. Writer Jack Thorne's ability to craft something fresh and interesting out of the familiar (Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, The Aeronauts, Radioactive, Wonder, His Dark Materials) here manifests as something completely beyond the scope of the source material. That is to say, in a now-cliché story about overcoming grief by tending the garden of life, this ill-intentioned adaptation turns the titular garden into an actual magical place.

It's a Narnia -- or, perhaps, Terabithia -- for orphaned Mary Lennox and her new friends Dickon and Colin. As they enter its vine-covered walls, the light changes and colors enhance, and before we can say "CGI" they're running through the paths as impossibly large flowers burst into bloom around them. I half-expected the petals to have faces and burst into song, a la Wonderland, so strongly was the drug-induced aura of the scene. Why work on interpersonal skills, proper British etiquette in manicured lawns, or even dealing with grief when you can be so easily distracted by fae robins leading you away from your troubles. Even when the dog is injured, it's the garden that miraculously heals it, right before our eyes. Any sense of wonder or mystery is hamstringed by the film's indulgence of pretty but vapid animation. 

Even the reliable Colin Firth and Julie Walters are given next-to-nothing to do, as director Marc Munden obsessively follows the children around. If they aren't frolicking through yellow and green woodlands, they're sneaking through Archibald Craven's Gothic manor, so thickly atmospheric it feels ripped from a different movie altogether. Whereas other versions lean into the human tragedies of this story, allowing us to really understand the pain and torment these lonely adults suffer, this movie forces Firth to gaze out from sunken eyes in a pallid face, trying desperately to Act, giving us the impression of an old man in the throes of bereavement after his late wife's lengthy illness.

Much as it does with the dog, the garden magically helps Colin, Craven's bedridden son, to walk. While this is perhaps a more ambiguous development, the precedent has already been set by the time Mary and Dickon spirit her cousin to the garden. Instead of allowing these characters real, dynamic growth, the movie denies both children and adults the ability to cultivate affection, putting them through alternating scenes of self-torment, indignation, and escape. And if you think I'm being too harsh, take a look at the almost camp quality of the climax, when -- spoiler alert -- Craven "accidentally" lights his own house on fire. In the (lack of) ensuing chaos, he tries to find his son, who is of course in the garden and not in the house; when Mary leads him to the garden to see Colin walking, the movie skips any articulate resolution or reconciliation between the two and assumes, through visual shorthand, that we understand their relationship is suddenly cured. Another magic trick of the garden? Who cares?

I do not understand why any studio would greenlight another production of The Secret Garden if it is not to finally adapt the musical to screen. Nobody wants yet another child-focused "drama" of the same story.

Barb & Star Go to Vista Del Mar (2021)

 Score: 5 / 5

What a start to 2021! If you're feeling blue from an isolated winter, fatigue from pandemic, or heavy from what we might still loosely call Oscar season, jump aboard this raucous romp through campy excess. Refreshingly silly, Barb and Star delight all the senses on their titular trip to sunny Florida where they get caught up in a terrorist plot. This is the kind of madcap nonsense that made Abbott & Costello so popular, or the delightful mess of old Elvis movies, where silliness and style smash together to create joy. It gets aggressively weird, but that's the point; you can sense the glee with which Kristen Wiig and Annie Mumolo, the stars and writers, developed their off-the-wall ideas. "You want to toss in a musical number?" Sure. "Do you think Reba will pop in as a mermaid?" Of course. "Will Jamie Dornan let us do this to him?" Obviously.

Two nice ladies, as they would surely like to be called, Star and Barb (Starbara and Barb, just Barb) decide to go on a little trip. It's apparently their first together, though they've lived together in the Midwest since their marriages ended. And what a trip -- sunny Vista Del Mar is their resort destination, where they can put some extra fluff in their curled hair, don their culottes, and ride a banana boat. Immediately upon their arrival -- to the wrong "resort", though they are welcomed by a fabulous musical number -- they meet hunky Edgar and fall in lust. It's especially satisfying to see Dornan do his first real comedy film, after being so scary, violent, and sexy in his other movies and shows; he's still sexy here, perhaps never more so than during his shirt-tearing song among the seagulls and palm trees on the beach. Their vacation is off to a great start.

It's a particularly tough achievement for Wiig and Mumolo; comedians often make the best character actors, though it's rare for them to do so in a full movie. The broad mannerisms and lack of subtlety require endurance as well as judicious choices, so they don't dazzle too much too early and coast their way to boredom. These women are never less than delightful and manage to keep their characters, thin as they are, distinctive and eccentric and even a little surprising until the very end. It helps, too, that the film rapturously embraces post-menopausal sexuality with taste and humor without really naming it; early on, their love triangle with Edgar leads directly from a disco version of "My Heart Will Go On" to their threesome, and there isn't shame associated with it. Indeed, though a rift between the two women starts to form much later in the film, they mend it quite easily and remain solid friends throughout the thinly plotted drama.

Plot, you ask? I suppose, if you count the bizarre plot to destroy Vista Del Mar by the film's mad scientist-ish villainess, the albino woman ostracized by sunbathers for her allergic reaction to sunlight. Captioned in the film as "Dr. Lady" and played by Wiig, I think she had a name, but I don't remember it. Dr. Lady is better anyway. With the help of Edgar, who unrequitedly loves her and hopes his efforts to wipe the beach resort off the tourist maps will finally allow them to consummate their relationship, she plans to unleash killer mosquitoes from an underwater submarine, to torment her former tormentors. Though this criminal plot is the only real plotline in the film, it feels unimportant most of the time, allowing the antics of the leading women to fully control the film's structure and pacing. Which is smart, because there is never a dull moment with those two.

I've still never seen the now decade-old Bridesmaids -- I know, I know, I'm dead to the gays -- but it's definitely on my list now. If it's anything like this movie, I'll love it. There's just something infectious about the irreverent absurdism of this kind of movie, a series of elongated SNL skits, that is never less than entertaining for me. And that's from someone who doesn't like a lot of comedy. Plus, we've got Jamie Dornan as a beach babe, so there's that. But perhaps I most loved this movie as an escapist, nonsensical balm that delivered much-needed kitsch to a year mostly void of it. A movie like this, in times like these, provides comfort and joy, reminding us that it's always okay to be silly.

Synchronic (2020)

 Score: 3.5 / 5

First responders see the weirdest things. Philandering Steve and domesticated Dennis are two paramedics working the late shift, and they are called to the scene of what appears to be attempted murder. That is to say, it appears someone was impaled on a sword, but the sword in question is stuck in the wall and...rotting? The other person at the scene is incoherent, clearly under the influence of something strong. Over the course of the next few nights, more strange and violent scenes crop up, and other than horrific circumstances, the only link is the presence of a mysterious new drug called Synchronic.

Of course, as a new feature from filmmaking duo Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead, this movie aims to mess with your mind. I don't want to spoil too much of the plot or themes, but then this review would have to end now. Their previous movies (Resolution, The Endless, and Spring) work best, in my opinion, when you know nothing going in, letting their wild rollercoaster take you on a totally surprising ride. They tend to play fast and loose with genre, and Synchronic is no exception. And while I'd say this latest science fiction venture clearly has a bigger budget to work with, it still feels small and intimate. Much like last year's Antebellum, this one has a lot on its mind and works hard to stay grounded and tactile, despite its thrillingly complex concepts.

The movie takes quite a while to set itself up; we don't even hear the word "Synchronic" for a long time. Much like the elusive meaning of the title-- which doubles in referring to the mysterious drug (by using the slang) as well as time theory -- the movie shifts between genre tropes and references to other movies. Is it an arthouse character study, despite its limited scope in terms of probing the two main characters' minds, or is it a time-bending thriller a la Tenet? Does its tendency toward horror reflect its aesthetic or its political-historical interests? Even its basic concept, once explained in a rather beautiful way around a vinyl record player, becomes the tool by which our main characters can be less understood: as Steve uses the drug to try and find Dennis's missing daughter (who also used the drug), their motivations and fates and traumas begin to swirl together around a gaping empty space where we are asked to do the hard work of understanding the characters' internal lives.

This is where the editing and cinematography come into play. While watching the movie, I became increasingly annoyed at what I assumed to be unnecessary and distracting shots of starscapes, upside-down pans and bird's eye views, and even things moving backward like an ambulance early in the film. But, as the movie progressed, I sensed that these interjected shots were meant to destabilize our understanding of time; it is still linear, unlike recent big-budget sci-fi pictures would have us think, but our characters' experience of it has been broken. We see, to some extent, what they see, and becoming "unstuck in time" alters their sense of reality and of self. Thankfully, the film keeps a sense of mystery and wonder by utilizing a few quirks of the drug's capabilities, so this does not become a sort of camp Alice in Wonderland pill that says "EAT ME." It also approaches the mystery through real science, in scenes of Steve testing its effects and limiting variables; most of the film is purely visual, and the filmmakers are asking us to participate in observing and deducing, rather than lecturing to us.

It helps to have two strong leading men who are fairly stoic. Jamie Dornan plays the deceptively complex Dennis while Anthony Mackie shoulders the dramatic burden as Steve. Despite his frequent flings, he seems to be a bit of a burnout; when he visits the doctor, things only get worse. But it seemingly makes him an ideal candidate to go searching for Dennis's missing daughter via experimental and experiential drugs. It also strengthens the strongest theme of the film, which is the alienating effect of being in a place out of time. Though the film consistently stops short of making overtly political references -- in fact, it's frustratingly absent of clear themes in this vein -- it is telling that Mackie plays a Black man in the deep U.S. south who resents hegemonic domesticity. As he travels to various times (all in the past) it becomes evident to us that nothing in the past is welcoming. He is attacked time and again, and it is not always clear if it is because of his futurism or his skin color.

Actually, now that I've said that, I think it's fair to say it's always because of his skin color. Though a longer movie or series might explore both sides of this, it's fitting that it was released this year, as America decided not to go back in time yet again to reclaim a lost, fictional "greatness."

Ultimately, the film flirts with burning itself out, and its final takeaway seems to be little more than a vague sense of alienation. Initially a strong theme, the finale indicates that trauma has a way of changing our lives (in a bad way, if these two men's experiences are to be taken seriously), and that fate isn't escapable, no matter how we try to manipulate or change it. For such a promising premise, I can't help but feel this concept was a little wasted in this movie. Then again, it's a beautifully minimalist approach to a genuinely intriguing and novel idea, and that's, in this viewer's opinion, the very best the genre can offer.

One Night in Miami (2020)

 Score: 5 / 5

Four Black men meet in a motel room to celebrate, sympathize, antagonize, and realize their potential over the course of one night. That's the premise of the first feature debut of director Regina King, adapted by Kemp Powers from his 90-minute one-act play, One Night in Miami. It could be an August Wilson play, for its strict enclosure in a tight space, forcing its language and actors to be brilliant. But Powers populates his drama with four iconic men who were, in fact, friends in real life, though the events here are fictitious. Who are these men? What are they all doing together? Where do they go from here? Not easy to answer, as we learn along with them, but these three questions loosely structure the proceedings of the night.

It's February 25, 1964, and Cassius Clay just won a boxing match against Sonny Liston. He's suddenly a star, winning the championship and on his way to becoming "The Greatest." His friend and mentor Malcolm X is there, and to celebrate, invites him and two other men to his motel room. When they arrive, there are no ladies and no party. Despite the disappointment, Malcolm wants them to reflect and strategize moving forward. The physically imposing Cassius, played by Eli Goree (Race, Riverdale), dances in the ring but just as quick-witted in dialogue, charming even as he commands the attention of whatever room holds him. Goree also hits each beat of the immediately recognizable accent, on par with Will Smith's portrayal of the same man, while he works overtime to keep the peace between the larger-than-life personalities. Kingsley Ben-Adir (The Comey Rule) probably has the hardest job of the cast in playing Malcolm X, who has been helping Cassius on his road to the Nation of Islam and his future name of Muhammad Ali, a conversion that makes up a major plot point during this night of intended celebration. Ben-Adir equally nails his character's iconic verbal cadence, seemingly easily, despite an abundance of recordings of the man himself in addition to Denzel Washington's masterful portrayal for Spike Lee. I can't wait to see what this relatively fresh actor does next.

The other two men join up, these two most excited for a party. Football star Jim Brown, played by a quietly devastating and thickly muscular Aldis Hodge (Straight Outta Compton, Hidden Figures, Clemency, The Invisible Man), was a commentator on the boxing match. Jim has recently become aware -- during an excellent introduction sequence probably not in the play -- that despite his fame among sports fans, he is still a Black man in a society that puts his achievements below even the weakest white link. Singer Sam Cooke is perhaps most out of place, and Leslie Odom Jr. (Hamilton, Harriet, Murder on the Orient Express) imbues the fabulously famous character with surprising gravitas even while beautifully singing the famed verses. Probably the only true celebrity of the group yet -- possibly eclipsed tonight by Cassius -- Sam is nevertheless harangued by the activist Malcolm who sees great potential in his use of his mainstream recognition to further Black rights causes. He feels justified in his abilities and his career, and denies that he is pandering to white audiences for success. In a rare flashback scene, we witness Sam's uncanny musical talents creating powerful community, and it is this harmony that Malcolm wishes for a nation of oppressed Black folk.

All four men work overtime to fulfill the needs of their enormous roles, and all are utterly brilliant in their performances. It's hard to separate the award-worthy performances from the beautifully written characters, and it is occasionally difficult to separate Powers's words from history. The dialogue is all emotionally and ideologically accurate, even if this particular meeting never actually took place. This is the sort of chamber piece that resonates best when you have one viewing that lets it wash over you, then revisit it at least once to dig deep into the heady, weighted ideas battled out. Battled, I say, but not violently; these men occasionally have bones to pick, but they continue the conversation out of passion, respect, admiration, and love for each other. Their nascent identities are about to bloom into timeless cultural touchstones, and in this purely Black space, they engage with each other honestly and freely, as friends looking toward a bright future, which we don't often see in movies about Black people in the '60s.

I don't really want to get into the specifics of their conversation during this one fateful night. Frankly, it all starts to blur together, and they are really just meditating on the current and future culture of Black people in a changing America. But their dialogue itself is anything but vague and often so grounded you forget this is a masterclass in writing, acting, and directing. It's just four grown men talking. As conflict arises and dissipates, we feel a transcendent sense of pleasure as wallflowers, listening in to conversations beyond any expectation or assumption we might have going in. King has perfect control over the proceedings, even beyond establishing what was surely an extraordinarily safe space for these guys to flesh out their craft. It's an absolute joy to witness and behold, and I cannot wait to watch it again.

Come Away (2020)

 Score: 2 / 5

In an idyllic British forest, a beautifully multiracial family live their best lives. Children David, Peter, and Alice romp through the greenery playing fantastic games with tea parties and pirates. We experience much of it through their eyes, such as when a washed-up boat on a secluded river suddenly unloads its piratic passengers, and when the children's twigs become rapiers to defend them. It's all sweet and charming, the sort of fantasy we've seen in Finding Neverland and others of its sickly sentimental ilk, but warm for two main reasons: an immediately likable cast and references to common cultural fantasies. Here, the references are overtly to Peter Pan and Alice in Wonderland. It's very cute.

And then, in a tragic accident (that I didn't even realize was happening until later, no doubt a result of a pathetically PG rating), David suddenly dies. Alice and Peter, while trying to make sense of the tragedy themselves, see their parents struggling with addictive and destructive behaviors as a result. The brother and sister work together to help their family as the metaphorical wolves close in, launching on an adventure to improve their circumstances. I confess to being utterly unclear about exactly what the children are up to, and they come and go from the house with some regularity, indicating that they are not far away. While their parents stew in a miasma of sorrow and perhaps guilt -- their father's gambling addiction and increased debts bring violent men seeking payment, while their mother drinks dubious liquids from little bottles around the house -- the children run to seedy city dens where shadowy, threatening figures leer from the darkness and other children gang up in dank alleyways.

Director Brenda Chapman is no stranger to fantasy filmmaking, as she was a writer on animated Disney classics like Beauty and the Beast, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and The Lion King, in addition to directing Disney/Pixar's Brave and DreamWorks's The Prince of Egypt. But this, her first live-action feature, tries to combine fantasy with drama in forced yet vague ways. Generally, I'd say this movie is a coming-of-age story about children who use fantasy to cope with their troubles. In the best examples of the genre, it's not unlike Pan's Labyrinth or A Monster Calls. Harsh reality provides room for magic and horror that creeps into our awareness of the world around us, teaching us about ourselves through the prism of the impossible. That's what the storytelling tradition began as; Homer used it for history and the Brothers Grimm had their morality tales.

But Come Away is certainly not the most polished of its ilk. I'd liken it closer to Bridge to Terabithia in its awkward handling of the boundaries between realism and fantasy. Both works feature starry casts; here, Angelina Jolie and David Oyelowo lead, supported by Gugu Mbatha-Raw, Michael Caine, and Derek Jacobi. Both work to understand the death of a young person, but ultimately don't come to much of a conclusion. Perhaps there ultimately isn't one that could fit in a family-friendly movie, if there is ever a way to understand or rationalize the death of a young person. Also in both, the fantasy elements are less logical and more emotionally felt. Come Away, however, has the particular problem that its references are to such popular and often-retold stories. Barrie and Carroll are too recognizable to be toyed with in this thin, inconsequential manner. Even when "Captain James" or a spookily unbalanced "Hatter" show up, we're not sure what's real and what's in the children's minds, and we often can't figure out exactly what the reference is meant to mean for the unfolding drama.

By the end, which seems to marry the stories of both Peter Pan and Alice, I even wondered if this strange mixture of the two was meant to be a first step into another, larger thing. As a grown-up Alice reflects on her life and coming to terms with maturity (pointedly noting that her imagination is the only thing she carries with her now), I couldn't help but feel that, had this movie been successful, it might have led to other ill-imagined mash-ups of classic characters in undercooked origin stories. But let's hope that doesn't happen for multiple reasons. First, I don't want to see Hansel and Gretel and Cinderella teaming up to fight off abusive parents or Dorothy and Pinocchio ganging up against their bullies (if it's not Into the Woods or Once Upon a Time, it can sod right off). Second, this movie comes dangerously close to abusing the children it purports to support; when little Alice takes a big ol' swig from her mother's "Drink Me" bottle of booze, which is totally in-line with the trippy source material, I couldn't help but worry about any children actually watching this movie. I cringed like I did in Radio Flyer, and that's just not a good thing.

The Comey Rule (2020)

 Score: 4 / 5

However any of us feels about him, James Comey will ultimately be remembered for his public announcement, only days before the 2016 presidential election, of an investigation into Hillary Clinton's use of private e-mails. It was unprecedented, improper, and undeniably ruined her chance at the presidency that year; it was also ethical to a disastrous fault. Read what you will into his book A Higher Loyalty, which may be little more than his "please don't hate me" attempt at mea culpa while pointing fingers at practically everyone else, but he's a fiercely intelligent and eloquent man with integrity. And, for that, he was also fired by the president he helped usher into power.

Between the title of this Showtime "miniseries", which is really just a two-part movie, and the casting of Jeff Daniels as Comey, I was sure The Comey Rule would lionize the man framed as its hero. And, much like the memoir that inspired it, a simple viewing gives that impression. The eminently likable Daniels imbues the character with all the quiet dignity and staunch righteousness that lives in our public perception of the former director of the FBI. And then when the screenplay daubs on thick scenes reminding us -- by beating us over the head -- that Comey is a firm, faithful family man and deeply devoted to the people who work for him, it's hard to find any chinks to exploit. He's the all-around good guy, prone to waxing philosophical about upholding the law and having integrity while carrying out his duties. It's inspiring in the way that Independence Day can be inspiring to a nation that needs reminding what patriotism really means.

But, I'd argue, despite its heavy-handed attempts to iconize its subject, the movie reveals some hard-to-swallow truths about the supposedly apolitical ex-director. After all, the problems inspired by the 2016 campaign season -- led by two candidates who could not be more at odds and, yet, so oddly similar in some respects -- manifested in serious problems of national and international security, apart from both credible and dubious claims of illegality from both parties. How could Comey have led these investigations when his professional experience of prosecuting mobsters in no way prepared him? Moreover, could he have even properly appreciated the political fallout of his actions when his actions were so apparently absent of political self-awareness? It's hard to think of the familiar procedures of his life, a routine gamut of clearly categorized situations and priorities, and imagine that he could even recognize threats to his ideals of respecting authority and exhibiting excellent leadership. And to have such blatant disregard for these things then use his good intentions to destroy democratic processes? It's a miracle he didn't crumble under the pressure; but maybe that would have been better.

The first part dramatizes the time before Election Night, as Comey and his staff engage in endless meetings to discuss the investigation into Clinton's e-mails. Despite lengthy and exhausting research, they could find no wrongdoing. Even when more information was revealed that, fatefully, pushed Comey to launch yet another investigation, they could find no evidence of criminality on her behalf. This is a point that must be made abundantly clear to understand what follows: by avoiding several key discussions I'd have liked to see dramatized, that despite all the hullabaloo about Clinton's e-mails, the FBI -- and, pointedly, Comey himself -- did not make public most of the crucial and ongoing information about Russian election interference. Similarly, but later (in the second part), Comey doesn't reveal that the president asked him to obstruct justice by dropping his investigation into Michael Flynn. Of course, we know that he did that after he was fired, which he should have known would raise questions of credulity. For a man obsessed with ethics, he wasn't very consistent.

In a totally thankless role, Daniels gives us his best fatherly impression of the utterly un-dramatic Comey, a character who, for the first 90 minutes at least, is about as dynamic as an office cubicle. But at the close of part one, as Clinton calls her opponent to concede the election, we recognize a dawning of uncertainty on his otherwise calm and controlled face. It helps that his family can't believe he acted the way he did. Even most of his staff has trouble reconciling his decision with its predictable outcome. But as the second part kicks into gear, his face morphs into something far more telling and far more frustrating: a sort of passive, blank look that indicates his awareness that he is in way over his head with the new president.

And what a performance from Brendan Gleeson as Donald Trump. Kept hidden for the first part, the second part dramatizes the new president from Comey's perspective in iconic and surprising ways. To the best of my knowledge, this is the first real movie about the 45th presidency, and it will earn its place in political thrillers even if the events it recreates have been overshadowed by so many other, darker events during the last four years. What's fascinating here is that, for those four years, we've been subjected to an onslaught of caricatures and satires of the man to the extent that we have become conditioned to think of him as funny. Dangerous and toxic, sure, but ultimately a sour joke or bad dream that can be mocked and discarded. But Gleeson injects open malice into the president, revealing his skills at intimidation and simplicity. Though it's not a new character entirely -- the script still gives him all Trump's gaffes and circular logic and mindlessly vain fixations -- this is a vision of the man behind closed doors and away from the cameras. He's terrifying. When he invites Comey for a private dinner in the White House, we are as uncomfortable as the stony-faced director, and we know this won't end well.

Ultimately, The Comey Rule will not live on as anything more than a fascinating, if minor, episode of the torturous circus act we've experienced under that administration. Ambitious writer/director Billy Ray (Secret in Their Eyes, Overlord, Flightplan, The Hunger Games, Captain Phillips) has done some really interesting work before (thinking of Shattered Glass and Breach, both about liars in Washington getting their comeuppance), but here his usually big-scale view feels unusually focused, despite its use of network coverage and media footage to contextualize his drama. This is almost certainly because the Comey episode was so brief -- roughly five months -- and has since been overshadowed by so many other scandals, not least of which was Trump's first impeachment. This makes it almost trite to revisit the beginning, and to spend prime time of this movie on two FBI agents sleeping together and exchanging intel, or Comey himself getting to know his underlings in the cafeteria line. Then again, the onscreen text that closes this film is deeply disturbing, as it updates viewers on the status of the FBI and DOJ members we've come to know. In case you've forgotten since the scandal(s), they've all been ousted.

Come for the history lesson -- which is to say, the reminder of the sad state of recent/current events -- but stay for masterful performances from a great cast. Daniels and Gleeson are the obvious stars, but Holly Hunter, Jennifer Ehle, and Michael Kelly support nicely. Then there's the fabulous cameo near the beginning of the amazing Kingsley Ben-Adir as President Obama interviewing the clear-cut "Bush guy" Comey for the FBI Director position. That's a far cry, we learn, from the pettiness and bullying of his successor, who ends up firing Comey via the news and trying to strand his perceived opponent in California. Now we just have to wait for Oliver Stone or Jay Roach or Adam McKay to make the next major movie about 45's tenure in the White House.

Sound of Metal (2020)

 Score: 4.5 / 5

Ruben is a heavy metal drummer, in a touring band with his girlfriend/singer Lou, when his hearing starts to fail. We're hardly introduced to him before we witness his realization of this failure, in a devastating scene at the specialist's office, when he fails a test by 80-90% and is told the rest of his auditory sense will soon be gone. This isn't a gradual problem, it's a crisis. Will they have to cancel the tour? How will they survive without the income, living in an RV? Can he continue to play drums without hearing? Will a surgery fix the problem, or can he get aids to help? How will he ever be able to afford it? Ruben's fear manifests not as anger, at first, but as denial. On to the next show, he says. I can still hear enough.

Much will be made of actor Riz Ahmed (Nightcrawler, The Night Of) in this movie, and rightfully so. His stunning performance combines impossible restraint and nuance with some of the most emotionally brutal realism I've seen on screen in the last year. Given that his character could easily have been violent, melodramatic, and explosive, Ahmed often goes for the less obvious and more effective responses. Subtly eking out the ravages of his soul, he allows Ruben to breathe when we expect him to scream, keeping his anger and sorrow dangerously bottled up; when he does lash out, it's earned and believable in a heartbreaking way, surprising us not with its grotesque performativity but with tragic authenticity that is never once exploited by the filmmakers.

The movie collects and grounds itself before moving forward when Lou (a quietly strong supporting performance from Olivia Cooke of Bates Motel and Thoroughbreds) gets Ruben checked into a compound for Deaf people run by Joe (Paul Raci). Knowing that Ruben, a recovering addict, is close to letting this new trauma push him over the edge, Lou is determined to help her boyfriend. He is terrified that she will continue with her life and leave him behind; without her love and their music, what is he to do? We don't suspect for a moment that he has any healthy ties with family or other friends, and he has no work experience or skills to halt his free fall. As much as this will be known as a movie about Deafness, it's also a movie about addiction; some of the most powerful scenes include AA-type meetings with the compound members, who discuss the ways they've coped with isolation and disability.

Joe tells Ruben immediately that he cannot be fixed. This compound is a sort of halfway house, a bootcamp for Deaf people to learn skills, language, compassion, and joy before going back to the hearing world. He will need to learn how to live with deafness, or he will never move on from his current bitter, angry rut. Most of the movie stems from this, as Ruben watches children learning sign language or journaling his thoughts to purge his demons and embrace the silence. Speaking of silence, the sound design of this movie often pushes us into Ruben's audio-awareness, and we often feel suffocated by the Charlie-Brownish muffled sounds of dialogue. It's not consistent, and I think another viewing would be required simply to analyze why and how the soundscape shifts into and out of Ruben's perspective. It helps, too, that director Darius Marder avoids a score of music, allowing the silence to deafen us as well as Ruben, forcing us and the character to deal with the raw reality of his circumstances without musical manipulation. 

This movie is all about empathy, and it's an incredible disservice to it that it's only available streaming through Amazon Prime. This movie should be seen on a big screen in a dark room with surround sound. So when you watch it -- not if but when -- do yourself a favor and get rid of all distractions. Put on good headphones if you must, and put your phone down. This is meant to be immersive in order to work, and if you let it work its magic, it'll stick with you for a long time.

I'm Your Woman (2020)

 Score: 4.5 / 5

The gritty crime dramas of the '70s -- and since -- are almost always about men. White-dominated mob brotherhood violence is manifest in our minds without much provocation, and while I don't want to disparage movies that dramatize organized crime, they tend to succeed by drawing attention to toxic masculinity, obsessive materialism, and cruelty to immigrants, women, and queer folk in a way more glamorous than condemnatory. Which is why Julia Hart's latest film is gobsmackingly brilliant in its subversive, progressive, and thoroughly entertaining twist on the genre.

Jean (Rachel Brosnahan) introduces herself in third person, much like a fairytale beginning, but her tone clearly indicates this is no love story. She has a nice life, lounging at her husband Eddie's (Bill Heck) home while he is away at work. They are apparently unable to procreate or even adopt children, and Jean seems to be dealing with that well; we first see her in fairly glamorous style at home alone, waiting for Eddie to return, stretched on a chaise in vibrant pink and sipping though it is certainly not cocktail hour. What does the hubby do? Well, we don't really know, but when he suddenly and mysteriously shows up with a baby, gifting it to Jean with no warning, we suspect foul play. Tellingly, she does not question it; if anything, she seems irritated that her carefully upkept appearance might suffer as a result of this sudden imposition.

She's not much of a housewife, beyond her good looks, as she can't even fry an egg, and she either doesn't care (or has learned not to inquire) where her husband frequently goes. But she accepts the burden of her new child, Harry, with apparent grace. Until, that is, she is brusquely awoken in the middle of the night by her husband's associate, who gives her money and directions to go on the run. Passed off to Cal (Arinze Kene, whose performance is terrific), she finally learns Eddie is missing and "everyone" (meaning very dangerous people) is looking for him, Jean gets placed in a suburban house with explicit instructions to stay in isolation and talk to no one. As anyone living during the last year could tell you, this isn't easy, and Jean quickly connects with the kindly widowed neighbor.

As Jean learns to navigate this half-world of crime and violence, she slowly comes into her own. I say slowly because the movie is almost unbearably slow-burning. But I suppose, in context, she actually starts standing up for herself quicker than you'd expect. More importantly -- and big kudos to Hart and co-writer Jordan Horowitz -- she learns a lot about her own privilege as a wealthy white woman. Through her relationship with Cal, her protector, and his own family of Teri (a dazzling Stephanie Blake), their son, and Cal's father (Frankie Faison), Jean's eyes are opened beyond the violence of organized crime to the violent nature of America. Her friendly neighbor might even be in on a scheme to get Jean and her baby, and the sequence that resolves that conflict is what kicks the movie from slick domestic mystery to full-blown suburban thriller.

Hart's eye shifts coolly, in this scene, from focusing on her own production design of fabulous seventies fashion to a noir aesthetic. Candy-colored clothes and furniture are slowly toned down to earthier hues, and the amber-tinted lightscape becomes heavily shrouded in encroaching shadow. And yet, as her world descends to paranoia and brutality, Jean comes into her own; with gumption and verve, she muscles her way through unlikely scenarios into a subgenre we've not yet seen on screen. Brosnahan is nothing short of amazing in this movie, supported as she is by her equally arresting co-stars, but the screenplay gives her a lot of great material to work with. Jean's initially weak, waiting character forges ahead into a strange and violent new world with rousing fortitude, all while raising a baby and building community with unlikely outsiders. Entertainment that deals honestly and encouragingly with motherhood, feminism, and race? Yes, please! This is no Godfather redone with a woman and Black folk as the main characters; this is a subversive approach to staunchly feminist possibilities of a new genre (more than once I thought of Widows while watching this movie), built on the dying framework of a genre best laid to rest.

Blackbird (2020)

 Score: 4 / 5

If you know me, you know "dinner party gone wrong" is my favorite genre, after horror. The acting has to be top-notch to pull it off. The script has to be brutal and beautiful. The filmmaking or theatrical staging, whichever the case, has to be kinetic in such a confined space. Of course, often such dinner parties only comprise a single scene or sequence, either as inciting incident, climactic turn, or devastating conclusion. Sometimes they pan the full work, but that is rare. Blackbird features one such dinner, during the climax, but the movie constructed around this scene is so intimate, isolated, and insightful, that the whole thing feels very much like my favorite brand of family tragicomedy.

Lily awakens in her gorgeous Connecticut home overlooking a picturesque beach. Her husband Paul is already up-and-at-em, watering the plants and feeding the chickens, while Lily labors to put on her slippers and get downstairs to the kitchen. Her hand is clenched and she has trouble walking. Something is wrong, indicated partly by the somber music and by the idyllic, almost ethereal lighting streaming through the wall-to-wall windows. But she is not to be pitied; preparing for breakfast, she quickly switches the classical radio to jarring pop dance music and the two laugh as they get into the beat. It's sweet and charming, and it wouldn't work without two consummate, brilliant actors with stirring chemistry in Susan Sarandon and Sam Neill.

Lily has invited her family for the weekend, and they slowly begin to arrive. Her best friend of many decades Elizabeth (Lindsay Duncan) materializes, clearly comfortable with her life companions. Her well-to-do daughter Jennifer (Kate Winslet) arrives promptly on time, her husband and son (Rainn Wilson and Anson Boom) in tow. Late, and pleasantly buzzed on grass, Lily's younger daughter Anna (Mia Wasikowska) shows up with her sometime semi-romantic girlfriend Chris (Bex Taylor-Klaus). Each is given an archetype clear from their introduction, but in the hands of such a stellar cast, each is fleshed out beyond the bounds of their script, imbued with more nuance than you could find in an ensemble masterclass. They turn what is, admittedly, sometimes unwieldy dialogue into something approaching high art, and eke out surprisingly brutal emotions from otherwise simple, even wordless, moments.

Why have they gathered? Here's the kicker: Lily is dying. No real shocker there, as everyone is well aware of her degenerative disease. But Lily has decided, with her husband and with some measure of understanding and support from the family, to end her own life after this weekend. As she intends it, she will be filled with the joy of celebrating a final Christmas with them (even though it is not, in fact, winter) before committing suicide, passing peacefully into sleep and avoiding the messy, painful, and torturous decline she will certainly otherwise face. What's amazing about her character -- and the way the film uses her as the family's anchor, with everyone else swirling around while dealing with grief and denial and anger -- is that she has no fear, no second thoughts, and only love to give. She tells her grandson at one point that she has no wisdom to give, despite her age, but she is wrong. She works on forgiveness and compassion with her daughters only to learn that she's already been an amazing mother.

That's not to say there are no problems. As the family members break off to have difficult conversations privately -- and sometimes very much not privately -- the film teeters close to soap. But, given the strengths of the cast and their devotion to this difficult melodrama, each scene will elicit a dark chuckle, a knowing smile, or a painful tear from viewers who allow its sensitive beats to wash over them. By the halfway point, I was weeping, and by the end, sobbing uncontrollably. This is an unusual entry for director Roger Michell, but it also feels a natural direction for his oeuvre at this point. A beautiful parable about a life well-lived and the grace we must learn to afford for others, but also fiercely relevant in its grounded (albeit privileged) observations about what so many of us must eventually experience.

Black Box (2020)

 Score: 2.5 / 5

Nolan's amnesia stops him from functioning well. After a deadly car crash that rendered him a single parent with few reliable memories, he has tried his best to cope. Leaving sticky notes all around with little directions or helpful hints can only work so well, despite the best efforts of his precocious young daughter Ava, who has been forced to be far too mature for her age. Unfortunately, his forgetfulness often comes across as neglect, both as a father and as an employee, and when things come to a breaking point, he opts for an experimental procedure to reclaim his memories and his life. What kind of husband was he? What kind of father should he be?

Simple questions to some, but Nolan is desperate to live again. Enter Dr. Lilian Brooks (a delicious Phylicia Rashad), whose background in neurology seems to have borne fruit in new, relatively untested forms of hypnosis. Together, they use her "black box" tool -- a sort of virtual reality that Nolan can use to explore his hidden memories -- to middling effect. Nolan does begin to remember things, but he can only see figures, not faces. And then there's the monstrous entity stalking him each time he uses the therapeutic technology. Thankfully, the brilliant Mamoudou Athie (The Front Runner, Underwater) brings a lot of heart to the role, the kind of muscled sensitivity pioneered by Guy Pearce in Memento. As things shift from emotional and psychological into the thrilling and horrific,  Athie grounds it all in fierce realism that is never less than satisfying to behold.

Director Emmanuel Osei-Kuffour Jr. works hard to balance what appears to be high-concept science fiction with a self-discovery thriller, and his efforts mostly prove effective. He leans heavily on the unsettling specter of ghostly faces in shadowy half-worlds, and the creaking, cracking spidery movements of disjointed bodies following Nolan between memories. It's very scary, but the horrific effects never overwhelm the sensation of the film. Perhaps it would have been more memorable if they had, because the plot instead focuses on unstable sci-fi logic that never becomes totally clear to the viewer. By the incredibly twisty third act, I had very little understanding of what was actually happening, between body-snatching and hypnotic possession. Not because of its complexity, but because of its opacity.

For all its attempts at any big themes -- stolen identities and memories could have been major, especially in a 2020 movie about Black people -- this film seems satisfied to be little more than a one-off diversion. A deceptively simple genre pic with more thrills than it knows how to handle, and almost no relevance to its time, place, or method of distribution (Blumhouse released it through Amazon Prime as part of its new deal with that streaming service). Don't mistake me: it's entertaining as hell, if only to watch the two leads milk their scenes like an actors' workshop. But its relentless references to other, more important movies in a similar vein (Get Out, Memento, Upgrade, just the most recent) make Black Box frustratingly forgettable.

Radioactive (2020)

 Score: 4 / 5

For a biopic, it's not particularly grounded in reality. But that's precisely what I so enjoyed about Radioactive, Marjane Satrapi's high-concept investigation of the life of Marie Curie. This isn't meant to be terribly realistic in terms of historical accuracy, and it's not meant to be measured by traditional standards of biographical movies. Satrapi and screenwriter Jack Thorne (known for eschewing timelines and choosing magic over the mundane) here turn Curie's life into a fascinating, time-jumping adventure into the famed woman's psyche. More importantly, they seem to consider her own opinions of her legacy, neither the glory or horrors of which she could have possibly known.

The always brilliant Rosamund Pike continues her streak of surprising us with unexpected characters and brutal emotions as the famed physicist and chemist. Working through the time jumps in Curie's story -- from her early professional career in 1890s Paris to her death in 1934 -- Pike fires on all fronts, stealing every scene even as she carries the movie. While her dialogue often pronounces its themes and motivations with total disregard for subtlety or complexity, she delivers it with enough conviction and pride that it usually sticks the landing. Relishing the pragmatism and fiery spirit of her character, Pike often squares off with Sam Riley, who plays the Polish immigrant's scientific partner and husband Pierre Curie. Some of my favorite scenes feature the two interrogating their feelings for each other as if using the scientific method to test their own emotional journeys.

Most fascinating about this uncommonly straightforward feminist project, however, is Satrapi's direction. Some might call it heavy-handed and artificial, but I'd liken it to a Tennessee Williams memory play; after all, it begins with the collapse of our protagonist shortly before her death, and the entirety of the film comprises flashbacks (and flash-forwards) as she reviews her life, thankfully without voiceover narration. As such, it features a dreamlike aesthetic wherein feelings and themes become literal symbols. When Pierre and Marie kiss for the first time, a large open flame in the background literalizes their bright, burning passion. Indeed, the picture is never less than beautiful to be hold, with much credit due to cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle, whose body of major work with Lars von Trier and Danny Boyle, among others, is never less than dazzling. The many laboratory scenes, which could so easily have been cold and clinical, are rendered through gorgeously filtered light, reinforcing the dreamlike aura of memory. And then there are the impossibly beautiful moments of Marie in a dark void -- usually while in emotional turmoil -- lit by the light of radioactive, emerald stars.

Even as the dialogue sometimes lacks depth, the same cannot be said for Radioactive's dramatic structure, and it is in this that the film most succeeds as a biopic. Sure, the actual plot follows concrete points in her life like those you might read in a children's biography book about women of science or Nobel Prize winners. It's not deep, but a good refresher for those of us who don't know everything about famous physicists, if you take it with grains of dramatic salt. But interspersed with her victories and failures are the (perhaps inevitable?) consequences of her discoveries. Brief scenes show a doctor offering radiation therapy to the father of a little boy dying of cancer, x-rays saving lives and limbs on battlefields, an atomic bomb dropping towards the Hiroshima skyline, and a particularly brutal transition into the Chernobyl disaster. It is this unique, consistent attention to a very palpable legacy that sets Radioactive apart from so many others of its ilk.