Malcolm & Marie (2021)

 Score: 3.5 / 5

Gorgeously shot in black and white, Malcolm & Marie belongs to the great tradition of "dinner party gone wrong" dramas. It of course pioneers a few new variations on the genre, and in these it brilliantly succeeds. First, it features only actors of color. Second, there are only two characters in the film. Third, it was one of (if not the) first feature film created and released during the COVID-19 pandemic, and though it's not part of the plot, we feel the effects of isolation, paranoia, resentment, and loneliness pervading the movie. As the two characters talk, tired and hungry and eager to unburden their souls, they shift from space to space around the house in various states of undress. Their desires for each other are often eclipsed by desire for themselves, the end result looking something like a ballet of titanic proportions as they verbally assault each other until there is nothing left to say.

What's it all about? Malcolm (John David Washington of BlacKkKlansman, Tenet) is a writer-director whose new film just premiered. He's riding a high from the emotional audience response, and he wants to celebrate with his girlfriend. Well, he also wants to pontificate ad nauseam about film critics. It's sincere, and quite funny to hear when it's not grating, but it also reveals intense insecurities in his mind. Marie (Zendaya of The Greatest Showman and the MCU's Spider-Man movies) has been supportive all night and does not want to start a fight, but feels slighted for not having been thanked or even mentioned in Malcolm's premiere speech. She's mostly quiet at the outset, but you can see her begin to seethe when she lights up her first cigarette. It's simple but significant, and the two begin what will prove to be an exhaustive argument that will stretch late into the night.

It's mostly significant, as we learn through their dialogue, because Malcolm appears to be using Marie for dramatic inspiration, pirating her life and turning it into his grand works of art. He constantly strokes his ego, pretentiously parading his brilliant mind in circles around the flock of vulture-like critics, who have notably not yet descended. He's insulating himself against their attacks, but Marie knowingly lets him dig his own grave, as she feels like the carrion he himself has feasted upon, without so much as a public acknowledgement. But in many ways, and because it's all coming from writer-director Sam Levinson, it also feels a bit like a manifesto from someone we don't fully know and therefore can't fully appreciate.

The potential problem with this movie is that, even before the halfway point, it all begins to feel like a writer playing with himself, rather than two distinct and rounded characters squaring off at home. His masturbatory tirades against critics are intelligent and articulate, but Levinson is showing his hand in a surprisingly aggressive way in only the first half hour of the film. Even when things veer into more personal, emotional territory, as the characters engage in a full-blown domestic about their history, it feels like their dependency on each other prevents us from seeing them as separate people. Much like other recent works have explored (Let Them All Talk and The Wife come to mind), this is about an artist -- here a man -- using the women around him in his work without thanking them, and becoming so deluded in his own genius that he isn't even always aware of his own vampirism.

But Levinson's movie stretches on through new evolutions of the same fight, and it does indeed become repetitive in increasingly exhausting ways. How many ways can these characters rephrase their grievances? Always one more, according to the writer, who nevertheless has worked into his screenplay a very clever means of deflecting his own critics. Their fight becomes a series of monologues, as one character rests before returning to the microphone; the performances are masterful, and we can certainly hope that this role will land Zendaya some leading parts in serious fare in the future. But frankly, this screenplay could have used some workshopping to make it more cinematic. Levinson as director is fine, and the movie is beautiful to behold. But the screenplay, as it is, would probably work better on stage than on film. It would still need some work, though, if only to increase the dynamism of its scope and its seriously confounding pace.

The United States vs. Billie Holiday (2021)

 Score: 4 / 5

"All of Me" is the featured song of this film, and I'm more than a little surprised it wasn't chosen to be the title. Because indeed we are treated to all of Billie Holiday in this dramatization of her life. Showcasing her brilliant artistry, the film nevertheless creeps into her infamous personal life in the 1940s, as her problems with alcohol and drugs became public knowledge. And much like her vocal style, unconventionally jazzy and swinging with unusual phrasing, the film tries hard to make a case for another adaptation of her life story. It doesn't always succeed in that endeavor -- though Lady Day's legacy surely calls for more visions like this -- because the plot and themes are now cliché: fame and wealth motivate stress to find self-destructive release through substance abuse and abusive relationships. 

What saves this movie from others of its ilk -- those that often cut-and-paste bits of an artist's life to show how fame corrupts and destroys -- is its darker, external story of the targeting of Billie Holiday by the government in their so-called War on Drugs. The United States vs. Billie Holiday, the title taken from this highly publicized but notably shady series of encounters, makes Harry Anslinger, the first chief of the government's Bureau of Narcotics, the white villain. Played by Garrett Hedlund, Anslinger is a cardboard cutout racist, of the "jazz is jungle music" variety. This explains his apparent obsession with Billie Holiday, whose new single "Strange Fruit" is making big waves for the singer who usually sings romantic songs about love. The song, about the lynched bodies of Black people, of course upsets the people looking to racialize the war on drugs. Before you criticize that judgment, take a look at how Judy Garland was treated by law enforcement and the press and compare the two cases.

The movie suggests, quite clearly, that Anslinger has authored Holiday's troubles, from losing her license to perform to being victimized in a drug bust arranged by dirty cops who planted evidence. Much of the dramatic tension of the film, however, focuses on Holiday's relationship with Jimmy Fletcher, an up-and-coming FBI agent trying hard to be a sort of model Black man in a white boys' club. Played by the amazing Trevante Rhodes (Moonlight, Bird Box), Jimmy is not unlike O'Neal in this year's Judas and the Black Messiah, which works on some similar themes, in that he has been seduced into helping to bring down a popular Black artist and activist for the government. A quick Google search unfortunately shows that much of this character is drastically different than his real-life counterpart, but the change allows Holiday to have quiet, romantic, and sensual dynamics to her character that would otherwise be difficult for the performer to rely upon.

And what a performer. Andra Day is nothing short of astounding as Billie Holiday, from her looks to her impossibly accurate singing voice. In her big moments -- of which the film features many -- she outshines everyone around her. I find myself now more concerned about the film's bizarre editing techniques, its thematic suggestions to a streaming audience, and its lavish production values, but while I was watching, I didn't care about anything as long as the star was on screen. She takes this vehicle and rides it hard, letting the gritty, cruel underbelly of her life motivate every look and every note. It helps that, when she's first introduced, she's squaring off with a deliciously naughty Leslie Jordan as he interviews her about her legacy.

Then again, with such a sprawling story, it was difficult to always know what else deserved paying attention to. Her friendship with Tallulah Bankhead -- surely ripe for dramatization -- is forgettably and regrettably brief. Each new friend or assistant in her circle becomes an addict like her, resulting in seemingly endless scenes of people tying off and shooting up, sometimes with unexpectedly graphic attention by a voyeuristic camera. Are we meant to feel uneasy due to our own worship of celebrity culture? Maybe, but the film doesn't do enough to make us feel voyeuristic except in two or three notable scenes, as long takes drag us through especially traumatizing scenes from her life.

Lee Daniels always makes interesting movies, but the audacity of Precious and The Paperboy is utterly absent here. This reminds me a bit more strongly of The Butler, a similarly serious, sentimental, and sprawling account of a long life well-spent, or rather, well-serving. In recalling my viewing experience, I found the film lovely and challenging and entertaining, but in remembering the film itself, it's hard for me to say it wasn't unfocused. Or even that it had much to say other than "Don't do drugs" and "white cops are bad for Black people", things we don't need to watch a Black woman suffer through to understand.

The Dig (2021)

 Score: 3 / 5

Edith Pretty wants to dig. She lives with her young son Robert on a huge estate in Suffolk, in poor health, no doubt partially due to her nursing of her own father before his death, and her subsequent marriage leaving her a widow. But she's sure those mounds out on her property fields contain something interesting; her childhood interest in archaeology has piqued her adult interest in culture and history. No time like the present, either: it's 1939, as war in Europe began its march, and the fear of losing art and history was becoming palpably real. Carey Mulligan plays Ms. Pretty with all this left mostly unspoken, providing a depth of character with the grace of an English lady, someone whose past has scarred her but whose future she is determined to claim for herself.

She hires Basil Brown, an excavator and archaeologist working at Ipswich Museum to come unearth her mounds, which now that I say it, sounds much more sexual than this movie ever gets. Mr. Brown, a humble man with no formal education or financial pretense, arrives on the scene determined to work hard. Played by a typically eccentric and introverted Ralph Fiennes, he gives off the impression he learned from his father and grandfather and knows that their way is best. Honoring the past means honoring his own legacy too, right? But when Basil sees the property, his hopes teeter on doubt; the land has not been preserved, and these mounds have been scoured before. Between the considerable money Edith offers him and Robert's clear affection, viewing Basil as a father figure, he assembles a small team and starts digging.

The titular dig site reveals a wealth of treasure, ultimately known as the Sutton Hoo cemeteries. The Anglo-Saxon burial ship has been touted as one of the greatest archaeological finds in British history, predating the more common but similar Viking sites. After Edith and Basil, in a mesmerizing first act of the film, approach the same questions from totally different backgrounds, they (and we) are rewarded with the feeling of awe as the burial ship stands uncovered. Before long, eager authorities descend on the site, determined to assist and, of course, claim some fame. They bring with them ambition and drama, which starts to annoy Edith and Basil and carries the bulk of the middle of the film.

Simon Stone's drama is lovely to behold. Soft, warm, and tranquil, this is the kind of sentimental historical drama that, ten or twenty years ago, would have been produced by the Weinstein Company. Its strong performances, pervasive thematic underpinnings about art and history, and absorbing sense of place would have made it awards-bait in years past. But right now, after the last four years and during a pandemic, as those awards shows continue to be lambasted about their lack of diversity, The Dig feels distinctly out of place. Like the treasures unearthed by Edith and Basil, this relic is as beautiful as it is forgettably quaint. Even as it tries to peacefully and nicely hammer home the importance of this event and this find, it rarely manages to break free from its own quiet self-importance to make us care about it. Because of this event, we know Anglo-Saxons had culture and art, as one impassioned character declares in the film; this movie just wants to show us how that knowledge came to be known.

Which would still make for a nice movie, I suppose, except for all the silly drama that enters in the second half. Once outsiders pop in, Basil all but disappears and with him went the movie's heart. Vapid exchanges between strangers churn out drama faster than the mounds churn out gold. Ken Stott (The Hobbit trilogy) plays a famous archaeologist who wants to take the site from Basil's amateur hands. Johnny Flynn (Emma.) shows up as Edith's cousin Rory, who takes pictures of the dig. Stuart and Peggy (Ben Chaplin and Lily James) arrive to help, but they are both dissatisfied in their marriage; as Peggy and Rory grow closer together, Stuart seems too interested in a male colleague. Then Rory is summoned to the war effort. It's all a lot of drama that doesn't really have to do with anything, and it arrives far too late to be of any consequence to the film. Even the impending threat of the Blitz only marginally matters, adding the tiniest sense of urgency to the whole proceedings, making most of the romantic aspects of the second half merely irritating.

Falling (2021)

 Score: 3 / 5

Willis jolts awake on the plane, and we immediately know there will be some trouble. He's an old man, clearly being looked after by his middle-aged son John, and he seems confused. Lurching down the aisle, he grumbles curses and insults at the other passengers and shouts for his wife. John hurries after him, trying to hush him and get him to the washroom without too much disturbance. Though most of the passengers and flight crew watch, some with bewilderment and fear (rightfully so, these days) and some with knowing sympathy, none get up to help. They reach the washroom and Willis lights up immediately. His wife has been dead for years, and smoking hasn't been allowed on planes in many, many years. Willis is losing his mind.

It doesn't help matters that John, played by Viggo Mortensen doing his best work in a decade, is gay. A jet pilot who lives in sunny California with his husband and daughter, John has flown to his childhood home in New York to collect his aging father. It's a desperate move, one which challenges logic but hinges on our empathy, and we can't help but feel this plan is more than a little naïve. John plans to take Willis away from his isolation (and horses) and find him a new home on the west coast, where he can be closer to what family he has left. But dementia won't let Willis have a peaceful exit from life, nor will the demons now locked in his mind.

The relationship between father and son, we learn, has never been very good, even before John revealed his sexuality. The film runs along two plotlines, the present domestic drama and the past, as Willis grows increasingly violent and abusive to his family. The episodic scenes cut back and forth through time, especially when John's sister Sarah (Laura Linney, who always deserves more screen time) shows up with her kids; it is through her interactions with Willis that we learn the extent of his bigotry and cruelty to a family he has never known how to love. He explodes at random times, seethes at others, consistently and aggressively unpleasant for everyone to be around.

Sure, Willis doesn't understand how his son could be gay, but he also doesn't understand his grandkids dying their hair different colors or wearing new fashion styles. He spews vitriol and slurs at people of other races, even while in international-inspired restaurants. All women are whores to him, worthy of his disdain as well as his lust, perhaps most unabashedly the nurses caring for him in the hospital. Played by Lance Henriksen doing what I'm ready to call his best performance ever, Willis is the stuff of nightmares. While he's easy to hate -- profoundly easy -- there is a pitifulness to him not unlike that of King Lear; as the film drags on through harder and harder to watch venomous battles between characters, we recognize that his hatred isn't specifically about the people around him, but just directed at them. His rage is deeper, founded in the age when other old white men say America was great, and his operatic outcries are against the dying of the light; he is determined to not go gently into that good night.

John, on the other hand, is too much of a good guy, here. Endlessly kind and patient, he thoughtfully responds -- rather, often chooses not to respond -- while bending over backwards to care for his demented father. His character is less realistic than idealistic, but it should be remembered as a gold standard for how to handle situations like this. It helps that Mortensen, who by all accounts is as generous and soft-spoken in real life as many of the characters he's played, imbues John with so much unspoken pain that he doesn't need to verbalize his precarious and thankless position, as the caregiver in a less emotionally intelligent film would.

But this isn't The Judge or anything close to Still Alice in terms of sentiment. Despite its tendency to touch on hot-topic issues and deeply traumatic themes, the movie never leans into those impulses, choosing instead to let them pile up into an unspeakable elephant in the room. Which is true to life, to be sure; you can't hardly have ideological debates with people suffering from dementia, especially those in your own family. But dramatically, this hamstrings the film to the point that it pivots from being a relatively universal conceit to a grotesquely idiosyncratic chamber piece. And that would be fine, except that the characters are far too broadly written, too one-note and un-dynamic, to support a psychologically honest character study.

Then again, quite unusually for this subgenre, Mortensen (also acting as a first-time feature director here, which I don't think I mentioned previously) never asks us to see Willis as anything but a horrible man. Even though this makes for bleak viewing, I fully respect this as a storytelling choice because it puts the onus for kindness on John, yes, but also the viewers. We're challenged at every step to not yell at the old man, to turn off the movie and switch to nicer fare. We're forced to be patient and introspective in ways nobody is on social media. Like John, we can't just cast him out, ignore him, or "cancel" him because he's still here, a consequential force that is present and in vital need of attention.

The melodrama -- paired as it is with dark memories -- marches onward like a dirge toward its inevitable climax. As honest and inspired as many lines are, and they are, I was left feeling that I had looked into someone else's life rather than gained any wisdom, guidance, or insight into my own. I'm not sure what the purpose of loading this much sentiment into a movie is, if I'm left only wondering what I'd do in the given situation. Inevitably, when John unleashes his pent-up feelings about Willis, I found myself wondering why it took so long to get here, and what on earth conclusion could be remotely happy afterward. Spoiler alert: there is no happy resolution, but rather a cleverly fleshed-out denouement that matches the mother's metaphoric criticism of the father-son relationship earlier in a flashback scene. It's all very smart, but it's also a sorely taxing two hours to endure.

Judas and the Black Messiah (2021)

 Score: 5 / 5

What a great movie to watch during Lent. In this riveting, incendiary film, we follow Judas through his fall from grace, his seduction by money and power, and his torment as he prepares to betray his savior. But this particular story takes place roughly nineteen hundred years after Iscariot handed the radical Jesus over to the Romans. This Judas is, rather, William O'Neal, the infamous FBI informant whose work in the late 60s directly led to the murder of revolutionary Fred Hampton in Chicago. And while the film features both men in nearly equal capacity, there is a clear narrative and thematic focus on O'Neal, much as in the musical Jesus Christ Superstar. The story will be tragic, and will force us to face our own demons, much as Judas did unsuccessfully.

With the immeasurable help of its two leading men, Judas and the Black Messiah takes us on a tour de force of acting, of history, of production design, and of course, of allegory. LaKeith Stanfield, one of the most talented young actors working right now, is mesmerizing as the tormented Bill O'Neal. Carrying the heaviest weight of the drama, he internalizes everything around him; some of the film's most unforgiving scenes are between him and the white men using him for their own ends. When his FBI handler ingratiates O'Neal, he does so by an unusual form of intimidation; this isn't Detroit, but something more akin to Othello. In one of the more chilling scenes, a visibly uncomfortable O'Neal is invited to the home of his handler, played by Jesse Plemons, who tells him to make himself at home and offers him "the good stuff" from his bar cart. It's a noticeably underwritten scene, one that shivers with anxiety and dread as the white hospitality is a little too thick. And while, over the course of the film, Stanfield could be written off as being one-note in his performance (due, I think, to the screenplay's determination to not give him many truly dynamic moments), I found his nuanced shifts endlessly fascinating, his ability to absorb everything around him and then internalize and deal with it a masterclass in acting.

On the other hand, Daniel Kaluuya as Fred Hampton is equally brilliant in a role that will be more appreciated and more praised. The screenplay definitely gives him ample time to show off his skill set, and Kaluuya has never been better. Several scenes allow him to raise his voice in front of his audiences, not so much performing as he is channeling the kinds of speeches that made his character famous in Chicago and beyond. He looks a bit like Hampton but he sounds exactly like Hampton, commanding every space through the immense, operatic power of his voice and his vibrant, revolutionary ideas. Though, historically, I only really knew about Hampton's untimely death, this movie reminds us that his life was truly incredible, short as it was. At his most electrifying, and in the film's fraught midsection, Hampton goes to Hispanic and white supremacist group meetings to build bridges and found the Rainbow Coalition.

It's a brilliant move to remind us of his most radical and beautiful legacy, but it's also a devastatingly timely observation to make. In an age when even being Facebook friends with bigots can be damning, to say nothing of decades-old social media posts, we've turned identity politics into something not unlike a social pandemic, a means to isolate ourselves further from the sizable communities that could work together for change. But Hampton, in identifying capitalism as the root of all injustice in America, succeeded in teaming up with significant (and significantly different) organizations to demonstrate against their collective oppression. More importantly, none of the parties lost dignity or compromised their beliefs to do so. In only a few brief scenes, the movie reflects on the current state of social movements and politics and finds us sorely lacking.

Of course, it is exactly this kind of firebrand revolution that terrified J. Edgar Hoover (Martin Sheen is deeply disturbing in his two or three scenes), whose covert COINTELPRO is put under direct scrutiny here. Coining Hampton the "Black Messiah," the FBI sought to systematically discredit him before removing him from the game board entirely. Obviously they needed an inside man to do this, and so caught O'Neal red-handed on his desperate thievery spree and used his need to survive against him. Grooming him as an ideal new member of the Black Panther party, they had him get close to Hampton and relay private information back to the FBI, including the layout of Hampton's apartment. It was this that ultimately led to Hampton's murder, in an assassination staged as a raid exactly twenty months after the assassination of the previous Black Messiah, MLK. 

Sean Bobbitt's beautiful and harrowing cinematography effectively pulls us into both the historical world and the fraught psychological landscape of this movie. And Dominique Fishback, who plays Hampton's girlfriend, magnetically pulls us along on a tightrope between strength and sass, heightening the tragedy we know will ultimately happen. Her final scene, haunting and brutal, will hopefully bring her more starring work soon. Writer and director Shaka King, who I wish had provided a little more depth to his Judas, has suddenly made a huge name for himself, and we can all pray he will keep up this momentum. This movie is just amazing, guys. Go see it, go see it again with a friend, purchase it when you can, and share it with everyone. It's already in my top 10 of 2021.

Raya and the Last Dragon (2021)

 Score: 5 / 5

Knowing very little about this movie going in, I was completely blown away by it. It begins with Raya, a young girl, who has grown up learning the stories of the dragons and how her homeland came to be. We learn along with her, in typical fantasy fashion, seeing the dragons and humans of a land called Kumandra living together in peace until a monstrous enemy called the Druun arrive, turning their victims to stone before multiplying like cancerous cells. In their last stand, a small group of dragons create a magical stone to stop the Druun and revive the humans before turning to stone themselves. Then the humans, desperate for the power to control the stone, divided themselves up along the river that sustains their land and schemed how to take it from Raya's kingdom.

The five realms of the humans are called together to Raya's kingdom for a feast. Benja, her father, is the primary guard of the magic stone and has been training Raya for that job as well; but more importantly, he has been training her to lead with kindness, hospitality, and peace, in the hopes that the kingdoms will unite someday. But, of course, lust for power prevails, the stone is broken and divided between the realms, the Druun return and decimate the populace, and Raya's father is petrified. It's a harrowing opening sequence, one that at first feels overwhelming due to its scope -- and its extensive fantasy terminology -- that, by the end, was almost too emotionally draining. A land divided? Greedy factions seeking control? Dashed hopes for reconciliation? A little direct, Disney.

Then the film jumps ahead six years, as Raya (now a badass rogue fighter and treasure seeker) travels across the land, much like the love child of Mad Max and Indiana Jones. She's looking for Sisu, the last dragon who created the magic stone, who she hopes can help her find the scattered pieces and vanquish the Druun. When she finds her, the movie bubbles with a sudden burst of infectious energy that never lets up until the credits roll. Beautiful animation, music, and storytelling are more than enough to make Raya and the Last Dragon a fabulous viewing experience, but this movie makes the most of Awkwafina as the titular dragon. Much like Robin Williams as Genie, Awkwafina lets herself loose on this material, eliciting laugh-out-loud responses from this viewer with almost every line. It helps that her counterpart, played by Kelly Marie Tran, so effectively plays a fully fleshed, deeply dynamic character. These parts are so well-rounded, and so skillfully voiced, that I felt more moved by their believability than almost any other animated movie I've ever seen.

Together, these two buddy-adventurers traverse the land, stealing the other pieces of the magic stone from their respective kingdoms while fleeing Namaari, Raya's former friend and now antagonist, after the same prize. Namaari gives off major queer vibes, and it's really nice that she's neither pathologized nor truly villainous. Actually, none of the characters in this movie give off full-villain energy, and it makes for a welcome extension to the newest fad in Disney features. Especially in a movie explicitly about East Asian cultures, featuring mostly female leads, it's ideal to not demonize anyone. While the various kingdoms seem to represent distinct cultures, I confess myself not always able to identify the traditions, architecture, and habiliments. And that's great! They are realistic enough to hopefully get kids (and all viewers) interested in expanding their awareness of East Asia, while not so specific as to caricaturize or simplify any particular culture.

And it's just a beautiful movie. This is state-of-the-art animation, from the water and the hair to the stunningly realized fighting style of the characters. Both classic and novel in equally important ways, this movie transports us like the Disney Golden Age features we love even as it shows us imagery and tells us stories we've never heard before. More importantly, the filmmakers never let the spectacle -- breakneck-paced as it is -- distract from the heavy, dense, and timely themes. There are crucial emotional stakes here, as we are repeatedly reminded that this isn't just Raya hoping to save her father and her newfound friends (one from each kingdom, who combine into a hilariously funky ragtag group of weirdos); her primary goal is to unite the land. It so easily could have been about a girl, chosen by magic, to save the day, but it's not that movie at all. Instead, this is heady, complex theming that trusts its audience -- especially children -- to accept and handle the difficult questions while having a really great time.

Son of the South (2021)

 Score: 3 / 5

Despite some of the simplistic movies about the fight for civil rights in recent years, which often turn the dynamism of revolutionary politics into melodramatic character studies, I still think these movies are important viewing. Though they often work as morality plays dressed up as biopics, in which two vastly different and antagonistic people end up becoming unlikely friends in their quest to make the world a better place. Schlocky and trite at worst, these films seem catered to white audiences, knowing as they must that nobody who voted for 45 would likely pay good money to sit in on these Hallmark-esque dramas hoping to have their lives changed. But just because the people who need to see these movies probably won't doesn't mean they aren't valuable in general.

It's all about Bob Zellner this time, a young, white Alabama man in the early '60s. We are first introduced to him as he is about to be lynched as a "race traitor" before we flash back a few months to see how this came about. Of course, the underlying expectation we have of his downfall from racist grace makes it a little difficult to appreciate the realities of Bob's optimistic youth. As he prepares to graduate from college, he visits a local church to interview Rosa Parks and Ralph Abernathy (Sharonne Lanier and Cedric the Entertainer, much to briefly) for his final on race relations. It's the fifth anniversary of the Montgomery Bus Boycott, and Bob has been warned by his German professor to avoid the scene. But Bob's precocity won't be dimmed, even as he is nearly arrested and expelled. It helps to have an influential daddy (a Methodist minister who reformed from racism in a climactic flashback).

Bob soon joins up with white liberals partly due to his education, no doubt, but we see so little of that that we are left with only one other clear reason. Well, other than that Bob is so shallowly written; played by the reliable if stock performer Lucas Till, Bob is never particularly compelling as a protagonist, even if his antics are enough to be written in memoir and produced for the screen. This movie, though, suffers most as it dips into sentimental territory: Bob is perhaps most intentional in his quiet independence when confronted by his grandfather (Brian Dennehy in one of his final roles), an outspoken KKK member who will never forgive his son for forsaking the cause. That, combined with Bob's girlfriend Carol Anne (Lucy Hale), who after initially supporting Bob's convictions eventually breaks up with him, provide the apparently relatable, white melodrama to round out Bob's character enough for us not to ignore him.

What's interesting to me, though, is the way this movie works hard to make Bob grounded and helpful, rather than a leader. Though any movie about civil rights that focuses on a white man will surely draw criticism, this one feels more than a little different. Bob is certainly privileged, most evident when he joins SNCC (the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee) and trains to be its secretary. His approach is expectant, almost entitled, assuming (arguably rightly) that the Black-led chapter needs white people to join in a visible capacity. When he's questioned on the phone for his white-sounding voice, or questioned by a woman at a march about his ability to pass (who is laughably surprised when she realizes he's just white), it feels meant to make us laugh. But why? Are we supposed to feel that the prejudices of Black people are silly, indicating partial blame for poor race relations? It's dangerously ambiguous, though thankfully these moments are fleeting.

And yet writer/director Barry Alexander Brown does one thing very well: he never makes Bob a white savior. This is implicit in several ways, as when he defers time and again to Joanne, a fiercely intelligent and firebrand woman who becomes a romantic interest. Played by Lex Scott Davis, the thinly written character feels important when she's on the screen, and one might have preferred a movie about her more than about Bob. Similarly, Shamier Anderson plays Reggie, a veteran who is suspicious of Bob's presence and intentions, isn't really treated like an irrational paranoiac as he so easily could have been. Explicitly, though, one scene stands out: an irritated Bob asks Carol Anne "what would Jesus do" to defend his public behavior, and she pointedly tells him, "We both know you're not anyone's savior." Though we aren't really meant to like her, in the end, that little nugget of wisdom is one filmmakers would do well to remember the next time a historical movie is made about civil rights.

When all is said and done, I don't think this will be seen by many, and for those who do watch it, I don't think Son of the South will mean much more than others of its ilk that came earlier and had more urgent, intersectional, or complex messages on their minds (if ever so slightly), like Green Book and The Best of Enemies most recently. Though it's notable that Spike Lee produced this movie, the story it presents -- and the style in which it is delivered -- doesn't feel up to his usual scratch. But it does have something to say, something that hits a little bit differently if only because Zellner is still alive. The history dramatized here is far too recent for this film to be ignored, even if its particular delivery leaves plenty to be desired.

The Dark and the Wicked (2020)

Score: 4 / 5

Bryan Bertino's latest film surprises us yet again. And yet, while The Strangers and The Monster also featured dark and wicked things, primarily mental, both were manifested in the flesh. Home invasion and monster attacks are terrifying things on screen, but the way Bertino staged them (alone in the wilderness) and filmed them (earned scares with psychological depth) made them unique in the genre. Here, however, in his third major movie, he turns his attention to the horrors of the spirit. We never learn exactly what the dark and wicked malice is in this story, though hints abound, but we are keenly aware that it is nothing we could ever be prepared to handle.

The setting is a remote farm in Texas, and rarely has the state been filmed so coldly. A palpable chill exudes from cinematographer Tristan Nyby's images, and we know immediately that something is terribly wrong here. The family patriarch is dying, looked after though he is by his dutiful wife, and is filmed almost exclusively in close-ups, identifying his suffering as the locus of this movie's horror. We know, and so does his wife, that this will be his deathbed, despite his being hooked up to oxygen and the sudden arrival of their adult children, who have clearly been out of the picture for a long time.

Louise and Michael, after briefly reacquainting with each other, show up with almost unbearable-to-watch feelings of guilt and shame about having abandoned their family. It's heavy stuff, and would make for compelling drama if it weren't so tense with unspoken resentment and anxiety. Mother, which is her only identifier in the dialogue and credits, has been traumatized somehow; she's fixated on telling her children they should not have come, casts furtive glances at open air, and tries to calm her shell-shocked demeanor by singing (incorrectly) repeated lines from the hymn "What a Friend We Have in Jesus". Trials and temptations, indeed, Mother.

I made the very smart choice to watch this movie on a computer while wearing headphones, and I highly recommend that you do something similar. A bigger screen would have been more ideal, but the sensation of surround sound is key. The soundtrack has some music, but much of the score is made to sound like moaning winds and creaking wood, while many of the movie's sound effects (often also wind and creaks) feel like diegetic music. The way it moves around you feels immersive, and I can only imagine how harrowing this viewing experience would be in a cinema. This works in favor of the film, too, which forces us to admit by the halfway point that there are horrible things happening on this farm and within this family that exist outside of our sensory perception.

Tactile and auditory evidence notwithstanding, we're occasionally given access to the hallucinatory visions plaguing these characters, in addition to the herd of goats that are constantly on edge due to a shadowy being in their midst. But fear not, scaremongers! Or, rather, fear more, because unlike many psychological horror movies of late that embrace the unseen and uncanny, this movie packs more than a few genuine jump scares and gory shocks. In fact, the scare factor starts surprisingly early and doesn't let up, even as some of its more disturbing scenes are those that feel ripped from an arthouse response to The Exorcism of Emily Rose (one of my favorite genre movies that similarly works in the gap between flesh and spirit).

I don't think this movie will win any new fans of the genre, and even I occasionally had to shrug off my annoyance at characters who refuse to talk about what's happening to each other, even though their own sanity is clearly slipping and their lives are at stake. The beginning of the film sets up a slow-burner of diabolical proportions, and though the latter half spins through scare after scare like a scream park attraction, I couldn't help but wonder what the purpose behind the film could be. It hints briefly at parent-child relations, estranged sibling relations, and the psychological burden of learning to cope with death. In that way, it's not wholly unlike The Babadook, and you could view the supernatural horror as manifestations of the grief process or fear of losing your parent, but I'm not sure an extensive study of that would lead to much insight, psychologically or aesthetically.

Rather, I suspect that this film is mostly an exercise in unrelenting nihilism. A visiting priest and part-time visiting nurse indicate that the devil tormenting this family (I'm thinking lower-case here, because it doesn't really seem to be an incarnation of Satan) wants Father's soul, presumably due to his bitterness and grief over his children's abandonment of him. But the devil exhibits multiple times its ability to kill lots of other people around the family, which begs the question why he doesn't just kill Father. Maybe it's all about causing pain and fear in others before collecting the devil's due, something we've seen in Devil notably, or even in The Strangers, though that example is purely secular. Ultimately, the siblings, working through their own mental health, are indeed wrestling with their demons, but this time the demons come out on top. It's indeed a dark and wicked movie.

The Wolf of Snow Hollow (2020)

 Score: 4.5 / 5

Werewolf stories were always really about sexual hunger and toxic masculinity, weren't they? Monologues about "the beast within" and their ravenous appetite were thin codes about men's unbridled lust and need to objectify others for their flesh; it helps that the victims or targets are often young women, even back in the Brothers Grimm stories. Even when the tables are turned (notably in Michael Dougherty's Halloween masterpiece Trick 'r Treat) and a woman is the monster, it's usually a commentary on rape-revenge scenarios, where the woman targets the man who has attacked her (or who will attack her). And while writer/director Jim Cummings's second movie (no, not the Jim Cummings of voice acting fame) is certainly predicated on exploiting this thematic tendency of werewolf myth, it also turns it into a rare horror-comedy that honors its subject matter.

Poor Deputy John Marshall. He didn't need a violent murder to make his life any more stressful. In quick succession, after he is summoned to the scene of a murdered woman who had been ripped apart in the snow, we learn that he is a recovering alcoholic, he's trying to be a good father although his ex-wife hates him, and he's caring and covering for his ill father who is also the sheriff (and you thought working with a spouse would be tough!). As he takes in the scene, it's pretty clear he might not be up for this case. Cummings himself plays the character with a twitchy anxiety, not of a Don Knotts type but one whose good intentions have met their breaking point. It doesn't help the guy that his team is almost incompetent; though his quiet partner Julia (Riki Lindhome) is supportive and reliable, John increasingly barks orders at the other officers who are never able to give him a moment's peace to process evidence. Their constant barrage of information and summons would be enough to drive anyone crazy.

And it only gets worse as, night after night, more bodies pop up around the Utah ski resort called Snow Hollow. The eccentric, silly villagers (think a watered-down Fargo type place where people are used to getting too much snow and too little sunshine) almost immediately suspect a werewolf, but John is convinced that it's a serial killer and he's the one to bring him down. It's not quite toxic, though, and Cummings's brilliant screenplay walks a fine line of making the proceedings hilarious and remarkably realistic. These are regular people dealing with an impossible situation; they butt heads and roll their eyes and let their imaginations run wild because that's what anyone would do. As such, they make mistakes, and while John's angst occasionally gets the better of him, he never devolves to a bumbling fool, mostly because his personal life is too grounded in real pain.

The work is one of an understated genius, delivered with the easy accessibility of a confident veteran filmmaker, and it's awesome to behold. Though it comfortably sits in that uncomfortable tonal region of a specific horror tradition and sincere comedy, The Wolf of Snow Hollow works best because it never fully goes in for hair-raising terror or laugh-aloud humor. It knowingly denies us those senses of release, preferring to let us chuckle darkly before flinching when things get bad, forcing us to feel the kind of mania its characters surely feel. And though its references are there for anyone to read (other than the Coen brothers and John Carpenter, I noted some Scream in the funny-until-it's-not opening sequence) it never feels like a cheap facsimile, or that it's preying on our expectations.

Indeed, by the final act, I was fully absorbed in the twist-a-minute pacing. It felt more than a little rushed, and I definitely would have preferred more character moments and general understanding of the villagers' stakes, mostly because they are all so unique and fascinating. Especially John himself deserved more solo time on screen, if only to help us feel in cahoots rather than spectators. But you have to admire the film's determination to pump out its story quickly, and I think its unusual style works in its favor for viewers tired of content choking with unnecessary fluff. Plus, the ending of this movie brilliantly dramatizes not only the surprisingly realistic way a werewolf story should work in the modern world, but knowingly focuses our attention on why the genre is still so important in terms of men, women, and voracious appetites.

The Little Things (2021)

 Score: 4 / 5

Deputy sheriff Joe Deacon ("Deke") is summoned back to the City of Angels and back into his own personal hell. A former L.A. cop who had to leave his post after his obsession over a nasty murder case led to a failed marriage and heart attack, Deke returns to help his replacement Jim Baxter with the renewed case. It's a pretty typical role for Denzel Washington, but he delivers an unusually grim performance, adding incredible weight to his hard-boiled world-weariness. Rami Malek's character, a more energetic and eccentric detective, we sense is a little too much like Deke was in the past; we instinctively know that Deke's sad recognition of his new partner stems from the inevitability that Jim will follow too closely in the disgraced cop's footsteps.

Before long -- but almost halfway through the film -- they identify their prime suspect. An intensely creepy loner named Albert Sparma, played of course by Jared Leto, who we instantly believe would stab prostitutes to death around the city. His energy is much like Malek's, and when set against the stolid, pseudo-stoicism of Washington, we are utterly unable to predict which way any scene will go. It could explode, implode, or spiral into something truly mesmerizing, which of course it does. Because unfortunately, Sparma gets off on being a suspect. Is he excited because he thinks he'll get away with his crimes, or is he excited that he's suddenly somebody? This isn't the criminal fame of Chicago's Velma Kelly, but instead something far more insidious, perhaps most disturbing when he finds himself aroused at psychologically toying with Deke during an interrogation. His record indicates that he has falsely confessed to previous crimes, and his obsession with true crime makes him unreliable in more ways than one. 

It's hard, these days, to appreciate movies like this, and it probably won't be remembered as anything important. We've been inundated, in the last two decades or so, with this kind of criminal content. David Fincher's career has been effectively built on it, notably with Se7en, to which The Little Things will no doubt be endlessly compared. And they are similar, no use saying they're not! Writer and director John Lee Hancock wrote this piece in the 90s, and it shows; apart from a few startlingly beautiful visuals and a slow-burning pace that wasn't part of the pre-millennium aesthetic, it could have been filmed in the 90s too. That's not a bad thing, and actually feels more authentic to its 90s-set plot than most movies of its ilk. Except Zodiac, which is just effing phenomenal.

But, because this movie came out now, after a year of near-universal binge-watching of true crime series on streaming services, these characters hit with more potency than they might have at other times. We all feel world-weary and beaten down with our jobs and relationships, and many of us have found solace in the abundance of cold case podcasts and serial killer or sexual predator shows available at our fingertips. Are we so different from someone who obsesses a little too much, and then gets involved with the police, if only to feel important? Given repeated public outcries against the police and dangerously invasive and even violent social media campaigns, I'm not sure we are anymore. Interestingly, the film is determined to pathologize Leto's Sparma, which no doubt helped him garner critical praise for the performance, but I can't help but wonder how creepier the movie might be if the character were more of an average Joe.

In other ways, the movie tries to increase the fear factor, but few stick as effectively. Deke is truly haunted by his old cases, and as he spirals out in his room by night, he sees ghosts of victims staring at him. It's chilling enough, but as we learn nothing about them, we can only take the cinematic shorthand at face value. Similarly, for those viewers deeply determined to have a case fully solved by the end and to fully understand the M.O. and motivations of the criminal(s) involved, this movie will be sure to disappoint. Sometimes the bloody carnage of the killer is what makes a movie work best. But here, as we focus so tightly on the thinly written but deeply acted detectives, the point of the movie is its effect on the "good guys" rather than the violent legacy of its "bad guys." There won't be much closure, because these men will continue to be haunted, and we will be made to suffer with them.

This movie may not have a lot of new things to say about the genre centered on detectives and cops losing their work-life balance and their minds, morals, or both -- which has increasingly moved toward limited series and police procedurals -- but unlike True Detective and countless others, this has the pleasant bonus of being only two hours in length. In the age of binge-watching and streaming, we've begun to rely on overwrought, senselessly endless plots that double back, spin off, and even rebrand before reaching anything close to conclusion. This viewer prefers feature films if only for simplicity's sake. 

And, if you are looking for a thoughtful, patient mystery-thriller, The Little Things gets a lot right. Its bleakly nihilistic view of a dark world that's only getting worse is the stuff of neo-noir wet dreams. Performances that range from grounded and nuanced to terrifyingly flamboyant make the proceedings something like if The Silence of the Lambs crossed with Prisoners, and Washington's best asset here is his usual one: he listens and watches, profoundly, to everyone and everything else in his scene, turning his acting into reacting of the most authentic kind. The moving score, beautiful cinematography, and effective direction make this movie a prime example that movies don't have to be wholly original to be effective, and revamping classic stories and characters can be an entertaining, provocative, and valuable exercise.

Nomadland (2021)

 Score: 3 / 5

The problem for me is that it's so boring. I felt similarly about First Cow and Roma, though I only actively hated the latter of those. And I certainly found this movie more interesting, more engaging, and more satisfying than the former. "Slice of life" movies can be important, and Nomadland arguably fits the bill for that distinction. Quiet chamber pieces reflecting on lives on the edge of civilization can be nice, though I prefer horror movies to Wild or Land or similar Oscarbait, which is what this flick certainly is. While its star is digging deep into herself to carry this movie, the rest of it feels voyeuristic and transitory, largely inconsequential despite the growing movement it seeks to unveil and the increasing need for legal and political aid for people forced into this lifestyle.

What lifestyle? That of a nomad, of course. Frances McDormand plays Fern -- although I don't know why they didn't just call her Fran in accordance with the cinema verite style of this picture -- who loses everything. Actually, you could rightfully say everything has been taken from her, as the film's beginning describes how once the manufacturing plant in rural Nevada closed, the town quickly became a ghost town. In half a year, its zip code was eliminated. It was the company that employed Fern and her late husband for many years, so she sells everything and buys a van as her home. Quite alone, she hits the road in pursuit of seasonal work in the wide plans of the American West. Typical for movies starring McDormand -- is it her talent that shines through, or her choice of roles, or a result of rare, brilliant typecasting -- the film focuses tightly on an unusual kind of person for movie subjects. More importantly, given the increasing polarization of wage gaps in this country, this movie is at once fiercely political and hauntingly poetic.

During her travels across sometimes bleak, often deserted landscapes, Fern connects occasionally with a community of nomads. That is to say, with communities of nomads, sometimes finding familiar faces at seemingly random sites and often making new friends. And while the people seem to know they may never meet again, their interactions are not shallow. Sometimes they barely talk, if their business with each other is transactional: bartering for goods, networking for jobs, offering advice on living well out of your vehicle. But as they sit by a fire, share canisters of water and pots of food, conversation dives much deeper than casual small talk. These people know how to really connect with strangers in ways most of us living in towns and cities, attached to social media, with filled schedules and no room for adjustment will never understand.

This came across to me quite clearly as a result of the film's unflinching desire to understand Fern's adopted (or forced) lifestyle. She seems to drift at times, and at other times her drive is infectious. She's often alone but doesn't seem to deserve pity. Though she's of course sad, about many things, she rarely shows it, preferring to simply live the life she's determined to eke out. Director and writer Chloe Zhao has no interest in forcing this character into dramatic tumult or stretching an otherwise honest portrayal into sensationalism. It's an exercise in empathy, and so it is only fitting that McDormand -- even more nuanced than usual, which is extraordinary -- is her star. She always imbues her briefest of scenes with history and pain and curiosity and strength, but with the slightest of looks; it's calculated, make no mistake, but so are the many ways she counters any ingrained attempt to "act" or, heaven forfend, overact. People will call her performance raw and earthy, but that's not to say it isn't stunningly smart.

I do wonder, though, how much (if any) of the film was unscripted. So many of Fern's interactions with fellow nomads feel improvised. Not in a showy way, but truly unrehearsed and perhaps unwritten. Knowing that many people filmed are actual nomads, not actors, increases my suspicions. Apart from that, though, is the beautiful weight these people add to what must be the film's primary conceit: a simple reminder of how large and wide our country is, and how many people live and work in places we often forget make up a huge swath of our geography. Each of these people, like Fern, have a story to tell, probably many, and how few of them are heard any measurable distance from their little, moving communities. It's sad, I suppose, especially in our viewing of it, filtered as it is through Fern's grief and loss. But this is not a tragedy, and it's not an example of a "woman takes off to discover herself" film. It just exists. Which is why it is often so transcendentally beautiful and so frustratingly dull at the same time.

My Top 10 Favorite Films of 2020

2020 was a terrible year for many people, not least because so many cinemas were closed for so long, and many closed permanently. Highly anticipated movies were pushed back, then pushed back again, and some still don't have publicized release dates. Others debuted on streaming services, which in this viewer's opinion does intense disservice to the films themselves, as people viewing at home (or, heaven forbid, on their phones) are subject to all kinds of distraction when not in a dark room with a large screen and surround sound. With so many streaming services, it became impossible to keep track of new releases and where they could be found. And then there are the increasing prices for these streaming services, or the ludicrous costs of on-demand viewing!

I have finally seen all the feature films on my watch list, and so now, while celebrating this year's Golden Globe Awards, I present to you my ten favorite films from 2020, along with several honorable mentions that almost made my list here: everything hyperlinked to one of my reviews was in the final running for my list, and each counts as a personal favorite.

10. Wonder Woman 1984

Wendy might have stolen my heart with its fantasy, but this fiercely ambitious sequel won a place on my list. Exciting, heartbreaking, timely -- by happenstance, but all the more potent for it -- the movie is everything I hoped it would be, and so much more. Each time I see it, I understand its genius better. And it gave us two of the most interesting villains I've ever seen in superhero movies!

9. Amulet
The profound horrors of this movie cannot be overstated. Writer/director Romola Garai is a major newcomer, aggressively, angrily challenging the status quo of women in horror -- indeed, in the world -- while changing the game for feminist genre pictures. I also loved the female-driven Relic and Underwater, but this Gothic nightmare is hard to escape.

8. Sound of Metal

A brutal peek into a musical life rendered silent, this movie features one of the best performances of the year from Riz Ahmed. Sensitive, thoughtful, and deeply moving, we learn along with the characters the value of community, especially with people you'd never expect to learn from. A close contender here was News of the World, which also highlights community but primarily in a verbal form of communication.

 

7. She Dies Tomorrow

This one is more than a little surprising to me, and frankly I should have watched it again before including it here. But after seeing it once, it hasn't left my mind. Haunting and deeply disturbing, this movie is nearly perfect 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 its plague -- or perhaps only the contagious awareness of death -- spreads. Possessor, The Wolf of Snow Hollow, and the incredible reimagining of The Invisible Man were all close to claiming this spot.

6. Promising Young Woman

What an amazing year for edgy movies about empowering women. Portrait of a Lady on Fire, I'm Your Woman, and Pieces of a Woman were all exceptional works, but Carey Mulligan and Emerald Fennell have crafted a movie meant to defy genre categorization at every turn, even multiple times in the same scene. While I still have trouble accepting the finale, this movie has bothered me since it came out, its uncanny ability to evade simple rationalizations making it a brazen assault on complacency after #MeToo.

5. TIE: Ma Rainey's Black Bottom and The Boys in the Band

Two major plays were adapted to film in major ways this year. We were gifted with two of the year's best performances in the former from Viola Davis and the late Chadwick Boseman as tensions ran hotter than the heat in a Chicago recording studio. We were blessed with a revamped queer classic in the latter, Ryan Murphy's star-studded tragicomedy about gay toxicity. Lots of queerness, lots of diversity, lots of drama. What can we say? Netflix had a great year.

4. One Night in Miami

Four Black men meet in a motel room to celebrate, sympathize, antagonize, and realize their potential over the course of one night. A chamber piece rife with philosophy and history, this anticinematic concept is brought to vivid life by pure movie magic. Who are these men? Their sudden fame does not fix their problems, and so they must collaborate before setting out to change the world. Mank similarly concerns itself with a man struggling against the system to cement his legacy, but it can't quite match the potency of Regina King's feature debut.

3. The Trial of the Chicago 7

Much like the revisited turmoil of Vietnam in Spike Lee's new joint Da 5 Bloods, Aaron Sorkin's latest feature about the chaos at the 1968 Democratic National Convention is very possibly my favorite of his films simply as a result of its massive scope and thrilling timeliness. Manifesting the best of his work, the Chicago 7 teaches as it dramatizes, assembling an amazing cast and letting each major player have glorious moments in the spotlight. A dense screenplay cuts through difficult ideological and historical complexities even as it entertains, a feat crucial to historical moviemaking if we as a culture choose to learn from the past.

"The whole world is watching!"

2. The Prom

The most rousing musical comedy in at least five years has arrived to save us from 2020! Ryan Murphy's magnificent production is a nearly perfect explosion of color and light (and zazz), reminding us to be brave, kind, and loving. This is the kind of musical film we always want and rarely get, the glittering gaiety of Burlesque and The Greatest Showman. Future stage productions of The Prom will look to this movie for aesthetic inspiration, while the rest of us will just wish they hadn't cut any verses for time in this production.

1. TIE: The Vast of Night and Buoyancy

I saw these marvelous little movies at the Chicago Film Festival in October 2019 and included them as a special mention in my Top 10 that year, but I actually claim them this year because both have finally been widely released.

The Vast of Night is a miracle of independent filmmaking. Depicting two outsiders in a small rural community who suspect something supernatural is going on, we follow their unique odyssey as night -- and something more sentient -- closes in on the town. It's a love letter to nostalgic science fiction even as its execution leaps into the future of cinematic technique. Unbelievable cinematography, brilliant production design, and two stunning leading performances of a breakneck screenplay make this movie utterly unforgettable.

Similarly, Buoyancy is a brilliant, searing, and transcendent work about the essential human crisis in a world that values money more than lives. The film dramatizes the plight of one boy as he is sold into slavery and fights to be free again. But because it is rooted so clearly in real stories and frames itself against the current humanitarian crisis that controls the lives of over 200,000 men in the Thai fishing industry, the film reaches a heightened level of reality and urgency. When the fourteen-year-old protagonist decides he is not a victim, the movie becomes a thrill-a-moment game-changer through the most important twist on the slavery subgenre ever on film. This isn't just an exposé on modern slavery. We're watching something we shouldn't be seeing, something we all desperately need to see.

What were YOUR favorite movies this year? Let me know and we'll chat about some stellar cinema!

Pieces of a Woman (2020)

 Score: 4 / 5

The first thirty minutes of this movie are astounding. We begin with Sean (Shia LaBeouf), working as a bridge builder, as he leaves work to be with his very pregnant partner. Martha (Vanessa Kirby) is expecting her baby any minute and is determined to make this home birth work. They've planned, they've practiced, and they are ready. But their midwife is busy and sends a substitute. Martha battles waves of nausea and excruciating pain. Sean has to call for an ambulance. As the birth teeters dangerously close to disaster, the tension unbearable, I realized that the continuous single take was at least twenty minutes long. This technique forces us into the scene much like in live theatre, but it also works as a sort of cinéma vérité for later in the movie, when the events of this home birth come under scrutiny. Tragedy indeed strikes, in a gut-punch of a title card one-quarter of the way into the film.

Kirby does tough work in this movie to fill painful silence with the agony of her loss. LaBeouf does too, although to a lesser degree; his role just isn't as potent or interesting. More than once, I was reminded of John Cameron Mitchell and David Lindsay-Abaire's brilliant movie Rabbit Hole. As their relationship deteriorates under the burden of bereavement, Sean spirals out, checking the standard boxes of his condition. He relapses with cocaine, has an affair with Martha's cousin, and seems eager for revenge on the midwife, who he blames for his daughter's death. This last is what informs the actual plot of the second half of the film, as midwife Eva (Molly Parker) is put on trial. We don't see much of the trial, though, and the feeble attempt at courtroom drama lies limp in comparison with the brutal psychological tragedy of Martha.

There is a particular scene, though, that really bothered me in this movie. Not because it wasn't honest or truthful, but because it was a little too truthful. A depressed Sean initiates sex with an equally depressed Martha, who clearly doesn't want to although she doesn't explicitly say as much. When she finally seems to consent (once they're awkwardly on the bed and partially clothed), Sean immediately loses interest and leaves the house. It's an uncomfortable scene by design, effectively setting up his affair and fall from whatever grace he might have had, but because it's LaBeouf, it's hard not to remember the sexual assault lawsuit brought against him in real life. I'm all for separating artists from their work, but this was especially hard to swallow. It was actually nice seeing him do real acting again -- he's quite skilled -- but this scene took me out of the movie in the worst way.

Neither Sean nor Eva add much to this movie, and I wish their parts were more fleshy. They're important, I suppose, but they aren't interesting at all and mostly distracted me from the real juicy stuff between Martha and her family. Actually, then again, as I attempt to recall details, only scenes with Martha and her mother come to mind. The siblings aren't really important either. Thankfully, Ellen Burstyn (who is currently 88 and still blowing me away) graces the movie as Elizabeth, the strong-willed mother who blames Martha for insisting on a home birth, Sean (whom she says she's never liked) for his toxicity and being below her standards, and Eva, whose trial she forces Martha to attend. Indeed, between Burstyn and Kirby there is more chemistry than anywhere else in this movie, leading to a dramatic climax where the two women erupt into conflict, each launching their aggrieved laundry lists while coming to the realization they simply don't know how best to move on.

So, where does that leave us? Come for The Scene (I think it was about 25 minutes and had me laughing, gasping, and weeping). Stay for Kirby and Burstyn. Some heavy-handed themes -- the bridge-building is a little too pointed -- and the abundance of apple imagery aside, this is an artful, sensitive, thoughtful, and haunting look at motherhoods we don't often see on film.