Scream (2022)

Score: 4 / 5

What's your favorite scary movie?

We're finally going back to Woodsboro, for the first time since Wes Craven left us. I was an outspoken fan of the MTV series that he helped launch, though it ended with a bit of a whimper, and frankly I worried that would be the end of the franchise. But we live in an age when the horrors of our youth are returning with a vengeance, and our culturally jaded sensibilities about these things live on Reddit threads and Twitter in ways Kevin Williamson knowingly predicted back in 1996, when it was all cafeteria conversations and underground movie screenings. And with the fairly recent phenomenon of the "requel" -- a reboot and sequel that tends to go back to the famed original -- it makes perfect sense for us to Scream again.

This time, however, it's mostly new folks behind the scenes. Williamson is back as producer, while the screenplay is from James Vanderbilt and Guy Busick, and the film is helmed by Matt Bettinelli-Olpin and Tyler Gillett (from Ready or Not, Southbound, and V/H/S). These new names, however, are uniformly determined to honor Craven's legacy, and much of this movie looks and feels like the franchise we know and love. There is a reason this series resonates so strongly with its cult fanbase, and this movie was clearly made by members of that group. Meticulously plotted, written within an inch of its own life, Scream 5, or as I prefer, 5cream (I'm sorry, but I just can't call it Scream), is a thrilling whodunnit, a razor-sharp satire on self-awareness in the age of information, and the most shockingly violent entry in the series.

It opens, as we expect, with a phone call, during which time an isolated young woman plays horror movie trivia with a murderous stalker. But the movie throws us a delicious bone to chew on as Tara (Jenna Ortega of You, Jurassic World Camp Cretaceous) reveals that she prefers "elevated horror" to slashers, and her favorite movie is The Babadook. A few other tasty references in the film include The Witch, Hereditary, and Jordan Peele, but those modern masterpieces aren't as palatable for psychopaths, who want to reinvent the proverbial wheel. The kids in this installment aren't oddballs like Randy Meeks (from the first two) who stock VHS tapes at Blockbuster all day; these are kids so disaffected by horror that they choose to stream a Stab marathon while in the hospital room of a girl who was literally just stabbed. Their knowledge surpasses that of the expert, but their wisdom leaves more than a little to be desired.

As bodies begin to pile up around town, the kids band together to hunt the killer. Of course, they do so while sitting around a sectional sofa and accuse each other. More than once during this movie, I wondered how on earth these kids were friends with each other, as they so readily and earnestly think each other butchers classmates. It's not tongue-in-cheek as it was in Craven's films. These kids live in a world where teens their age walk down streets with assault rifles on national television and get away with it. And the filmmakers know it, as they inject a fierce, terrifying brutality into the film's limited but intense kills; when one returning character is gutted in broad daylight in the front lawn, and that character's charming offspring gets his carotid slit in seductive and repulsive real time, my stomach was in tight knots.

Ghostface's return prompts Tara's sister Sam (Melissa Barrera of In the Heights) to return to town, her boyfriend Richie (Jack Quaid of The Boys) in tow. Much like the original heroine of the series, Sam has some really dark family history, and it's revealed surprisingly early to us in a series of haunting visions she alone can see. Without spoiling it, we get a delightful legacy cameo, and the inclusion of this plot devices works hard to validate some of the weirder elements of the usually more-disparaged Scream 3. Fewer than 20 minutes into this movie, it's already established an incredible amount of information and detail, to say nothing of its expansive cast, which includes Randy's twin nephew/niece pairing Chad and Mindy (Mason Gooding and Jasmin Savoy Brown), Tara's protective friend Amber (Mikey Madison), group friend Liv (Sonia Ben Ammar) whose boyfriend was recently butchered, and legacy character Judy Hicks (Marley Shelton), now sheriff, and her son Wes (Dylan Minnette).

It's a huge cast, and then the real legacy characters come in. Sam and Richie enlist the help of Dewey (David Arquette), the retired and perhaps slightly disgraced former sheriff, who is consoling himself with the bottle following Gale's divorce. The news leads him to call Gale (Courteney Cox) and Sidney (Neve Campbell), and before you know it, they're back in town. They're not the focus of this film, but they are treated with profound respect and authority, not unlike the legacy characters in the Star Wars or Jurassic World requels. Each of the three made me cry in this movie, and the love with which their characters are treated is nothing short of satisfying. But, as we know (or will learn from the Meeks kids), requel rules are different; legacy characters will likely end up on the cutting room floor this time around.

Whereas Craven learned his craft from John Carpenter and even Alfred Hitchcock, the new directors here model their craft from Craven, and so this movie feels authentically part of the franchise. It's by no means my favorite entry, or even favorite sequel, but it is a solid, thoroughly entertaining movie that sparkles and chills in all the right ways. It's frustrating at times, but in the way that most slashers are, and that's part of the calculated risk of this genre. While it's hard not to wish for Craven's impossibly tight control of editing and content -- never a slack moment in any Craven film -- and frankly the performances of the young cast leave a bit to be desired, it's really not fair to compare this work with the Craven entries. Let's just be thankful we can still visit Woodsboro for a creepy good time again, and frankly, I think we'll be returning again soon.

Being the Ricardos (2021)

Score: 4 / 5

The sort of high-brow chamber piece no one expects based on its subject matter (not unlike Steve Jobs), Being the Ricardos is a deliciously dramatic exercise in how even an unbalanced film can succeed through the craftsmanship of its writer and the dedication of its actors. Much like that earlier project, this film is a pressure-cooker of a viewing experience, as we are thrust into the lives of Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz during a single, intense week in 1953. And while the facts and history may not be nailed down, the visceral impact of the characters' lived experience is the point of this film. Aaron Sorkin's latest work is certainly not as timely as his latest and greatest film (The Trial of the Chicago 7), but it does showcase a cast as adept with his rapid-fire dialogue as any he's yet assembled.

In terms of plot, the story concerns Lucy and Desi as they work together on recording their hit show I Love Lucy in 1953, during the second or third season. Despite having one child and another on the way, the show seems to have become their baby. They collaborate endlessly (read: chain smoke and banter with writers around the staff table) on every creative choice, but it's clearly Ball who has the final say. Her stamina and wit -- sometimes caustic -- carry her through each ordeal, such as when she orders "healthier" food for her irritated costars for breakfast, or when she clashes with directors on the logics of writing, reading, and even blocking one particular scene. Shrewd and sometimes bitchy, she holds no punches, and much like her famed character, Ball doesn't harness her tongue in the face of the male-dominated industry. It sometimes serves her well, as when (in one of the film's many, lengthy flashbacks) she threatens her entire career if she can't do the show with her Hispanic husband.

And, for now, her catty but well-meaning behavior seems to have saved her marriage, with little to no help from her philandering husband. As they counter each other privately, they support each other publicly, perhaps most clearly in this film when news of Ball's current pregnancy hits the producers, who panic about keeping her stationary, behind furniture and bulky costumes, and even cancelling the show. The power couple team up to trailblaze the idea that a pregnant woman on prime time television is nothing to be ashamed of, as the executives most certainly are. This story's biggest threat to their stardom -- did I mention that, in Sorkin's vision, this is a really stressful week for them? -- comes in the form of Walter Winchell, the infamous tabloid snitch, who revealed Ball's past connection to the Communist Party. This news, more than anything, threatens their livelihoods, and the pair comes out guns blazing to defend themselves. I do wish the film leaned a little further into the real history of the Red Scare and its impact on Hollywood, or even on Ball's factual and staunchly fierce fight against McCarthyism, but this is no historical treatise.

It's a drama, one that hinges on its players' skills in order to succeed. The cast, led by some of the best work from Nicole Kidman and Javier Bardem we've seen in years. Thankfully, they are not chameleonic here; the vogue of the last ten years or so in biopics has been to physically transform characters into uncanny imitations of the real thing; I usually like that to some extent, but there's a lot to be said for suspending that expectation and simply letting actors channel real characters. That's what happens here. Even though Kidman is layered with some prosthetics on her nose and cheeks, it is very much Kidman working to breathe believable life into a distinctly unrealistic caricature. Similarly, Bardem looks almost nothing like Arnaz, but his voice and energy feel as fresh and magnetic as anything his real counterpart delivered on screen. Add J.K. Simmons and especially Nina Arianda as their co-stars "Fred and Ethel," whose hatred for each other shines in this dramatization, and these four performers give us nothing short of an actor's masterclass.

I confess myself surprised by some of Sorkin's directorial choices here; Molly's Game similarly had a few baffling moments, perhaps because he's still working on auteur status. This film is framed, annoyingly, by interviews with older versions of the writers of I Love Lucy, who usually set up exposition and provide details to the flashback sequences. The mockumentary trope employed here is sometimes funny, sometimes sad, and always heavy-handed; it distracts from what would otherwise be a taut focus on the main characters. And it's not like Sorkin is afraid of his leads; indeed, multiple times he takes us directly into Ball's mind, visualizing key scenes from her show in black-and-white to work out physical comedy and timing before putting it on its feet (or even on the page). This isn't the ultimate work to explore the inner lives of two of the most iconic golden-age Hollywood stars -- or of the sexism that came with the territory -- but it's a damn good place to start. Now we can all just wonder what Debra Messing might have done in the role.

French Exit (2021)

Score: 3 / 5

Michelle Pfeiffer is one of the best character actors of her generation, usually combining her age-defying beauty with cold, distant cruelty. Naturally, this often eases her into villainous roles, ones that ooze gilded sensuality from balustrades of wealth as she climbs (or descends) steps of social strata. And so is the case in French Exit, a rare comedy that capitalizes on Pfeiffer's unique sense of luxurious detachment. If produced onstage, it would almost certainly be labeled as a farce: its absurd contrivances remind me more of Frank Capra or Noel Coward than of anything in Pfeiffer's list of credits. Even the first episode of Schitt's Creek was more confident in embracing farce than this movie. Apart from Pfeiffer's character, everyone else feels like a caricature meant to swirl around her and inform little of the story or themes apart from the weirdness of her life.

Frances Price is newly broke. A Manhattan heiress and socialite, some years widowed, she has been raising her son Malcolm (Lucas Hedges) much as she herself behaves. Indifferent to the restrictions of the lives of others, she -- in an early introductory scene -- plucks her son out of boarding school with a rebellious smirk, defying the headmaster and tempting Malcolm to indulge his whims. But she's playful and engaging, probably more with her son than she was in her marriage. Time leaps forward quickly to Malcolm as a young man, swaddled in his privilege (Hedges is deliciously disassociated from his character), secretly engaged to his girlfriend (Imogen Poots). Suddenly -- and this is the inciting incident -- Frances is slapped with the reality that she and Malcolm have blown through their entire fortune.

Of course, that's what happens after probably two decades of living it up without any new income. Frances can't even pay her housekeeper the $600 of her wages. Instead, she starts to crack, drinking her last reserves of good wine as she sharpens knives in a dark kitchen; Malcolm's latent fear in seeing her thus is a wealth of humor for us, but it reminds us that dramatic renditions of this scenario would probably result in some kind of violence. Not so here, where the characters seem to be keenly aware that they are clichés -- Frances drily says as much to her friend Joan (Susan Coyne) -- as sad, rich white people who are no longer rich.

Thankfully, Joan offers her empty Paris apartment to her newly homeless friends, and so Frances and Malcolm embark on the titular French "exit." They take few possessions with them, but they intentionally bring Small Frank, their formerly stray black cat, whose green stare and deliberate movements suggest alarming sentience (spoiler alert: the cat is evidently Frances's husband reincarnated). Paris doesn't seem to fix the relational problems Frances and Malcolm have, but they are soon jolted out of their self-pitying stupor by Madame Reynard (the hilarious Valerie Mahaffey), an eccentric expat who seems to think her own first name is "Madame." Her bubbly energy almost entirely disguises the fact that she is actively reinventing herself, and her eagerness to forge kinship with Frances is endearing when it's not a little cringey. Frances is initially cruel to her, determined to ward off any real emotions, and so when Madame Reynard simply replies, in a voice that only slightly breaks, "I'm ... lonely," she immediately breaks any ice left between the women.

Other, poorer attempts at human connection become the driving motifs of the film, often helped by the production design. Though it seems to take place in the present day, characters often use pay phones or send postcards to communicate, and their stilted language reminds me more of George Bernard Shaw or David Lindsay-Abaire than of real-life speaking patterns. Other characters fly in and often stay in the apartment, including Danielle Macdonald as a sad fortune teller on the transatlantic ship who psychically knew Small Frank wasn't just a cat, a private investigator (Isaach de Bankole) Frances uses to locate Small Frank when he disappears, and even Malcolm's recent ex-fiancée shows up again with her new boyfriend. By the time Joan checks in on her friend and discovers her apartment has become a bizarre hostel, the movie careens wildly toward its simple, silly, and sweet ending. It's not a rollicking comedy the whole time -- although when a seance results in Tracy Letts doing voiceover as Frances's deceased husband, I almost lost it -- but it's got some cool ideas on its mind.

No Sudden Move (2021)

Score: 3 / 5

There's a lot of joy to witnessing Steven Soderbergh returning, as he does every few years, to an ensemble-driven crime drama. He's the master at it for a reason, and since his premature "retirement" is now bunk, we can all be groveling with gratitude that he's back at it again. Sadly, this time his feature film is only streaming on HBO Max, meaning most people will see his beautiful work on a tablet, phone, or otherwise pathetically small screen. But Soderbergh's uncanny attention to detail and passion for men in sticky social and economic situations shines here, mostly overcoming this narrative's confusing plot and energizing what could otherwise be fairly boring material. It helps that the film gorgeously transports us to Detroit in the mid-'50s.

As with most grizzled detectives or gangsters in films noir, recently un-incarcerated criminal Curt (Don Cheadle) just needs one good job in order to get out of town for good. Partnered with Ronald (Benicio del Toro), they are hired by a mysterious recruiter named Doug Jones (a delicious Brendan Fraser) to threaten the family of a GM accountant named Matt (David Harbour). The gangsters are both desperate; we learn eventually that Curt is being hunted by a haunting figure called Watkins (Bill Duke), while Ronald is having an affair with the wife (Julia Fox) of mob boss Frank Capelli (of course, Ray Liotta). This tangled web of angry men is enough to spur the two gangsters to succeed in this new endeavor, so they can escape with their lives.

Possibly due to their precarious position, Jones teams them up with a mysterious third man -- much as Macbeth does to Banquo's assassins -- played with creepy efficacy by Kieran Culkin. Shortly after they take the accountant's family (including Amy Seimetz and Noah Jupe) hostage, they convince Matt to retrieve a secret item from his boss's safe; it helps that Matt's affair with the boss's secretary will grant him access. It doesn't help that all these people are suddenly thrust into a panicked frenzy and surreal circumstances, and it follows naturally that things don't go according to plan for anyone.

It's all an extraordinarily taut exercise in screenwriting from Ed Solomon (Now You See Me), and frankly a fair bit of the middle act was lost on me. Names dropped faster than I could catch them, and something about older men squabbling over wealth and behaving badly in pursuit of it is generally unappealing to me anyway. The focus shifts several times between characters, and I realized about halfway through that the main character at the beginning was no longer the main character. In fact, I'm still not sure now if there was a main character. And that's fine, but it requires another viewing to appreciate the plot's relay effect, and I don't think I have it in me yet. I found more pleasure in Soderbergh's delivery, as each scene drips with atmosphere and detail, working to place the audience keenly within the awareness of its characters. To this end, almost the entire film is shot (by Soderbergh as "Peter Andrews" again) with a fisheye lens, exaggerating the middle of the screen and warping the frame, forcing us into a magnified and myopic view of the scene. 

I most enjoyed the film when I stopped trying to make sense of each character's name, occupation, and dramatic role, and instead let Soderbergh's style wash over me. It's melancholy and bitter and awkwardly funny, and unlike anyone else's crime thrillers out there. Moreover, even without full command of the story being told, its complex and unexpected climax and denouement hit me over the head with its central thematic concerns before I was able to really articulate what they were. No Sudden Move has a cynical axe to grind -- played out in the treacherous auto race, no less -- and its unsophisticated, greedy characters are determined to avoid that axe at any cost.

Georgetown (2021)

Score: 2.5 / 5

It's a real story, if disguised by layers of conceit. Georgetown is the curious crime drama that, although based on a shocking case, leans more into the drama than in the case itself. Comprising fraud and murder in the heart of DC, the crimes here are appalling but not quite shocking. In a world of socialites and political climbers, we see countless meetings in which people communicate primarily through acronyms and sly references to elite events. It's almost funny to see the ways people of wealth and influence ignore the vagaries of specifics and bend over backwards to accommodate complete strangers who simply sound impressive and name-drop the right tidbits. Almost, I say, because this behavior mobilizes the avaricious to deadly ends.

Enter Christoph Waltz. The character actor is far from one of my favorites, and here he acts as both antihero and director. His character, Ulrich Mott (barely changed from his real-life counterpart Albrecht Muth), works in DC near the beginning of the film as an intern on Capitol Hill. Fired in a hilarious scene, after openly lying to a group of tourists, he hunts for his next "in." He spots it, like a lion picking out the weakest in the herd, in an aging socialite recently widowed. Elsa Brecht (the always brilliant Vanessa Redgrave), a popular journalist and author near the age of ninety, grieves until Mott materializes in front of her. She seems amused, almost as if he were her own intern, and encourages him to make important social and political connections. As he leeches off her expertise and influence, he becomes -- as the film makes note via what amounts to onscreen chapter titles -- a butler, a diplomat, and finally her new husband, despite being some decades her junior.

Unfortunately, the film -- written by David Auburn of Proof and The Girl in the Park -- is too enamored of Mott to give its audience real meat to savor. You can get essentially the same information from watching the film as you can from reading its source material, the New York Times Magazine article "The Worst Marriage in Georgetown," though with more salacious art. Sure, in real life, we learn that Brecht's counterpart is Viola Herms Drath, advisor to many public figures including George H.W. Bush, and that Muth was 44 years younger than she. But I wanted details on his life -- where he really came from, how he got so far, and what his real goals were in perpetuating his own fraud -- rather than just seeing it play out on screen.

Waltz may not be my favorite, but he plays the sleazy character impeccably well. Annette Bening pops in for a few delicious scenes as Brecht's daughter, suspicious of her mother's new lover, and Corey Hawkins joins in as Mott's defense attorney after the murder. But neither of them are given much chance to shine as they are usually able. I'm not sure if it's Waltz's flaccid direction or the screenplay focused on all the wrong things that didn't fit for me, but this movie worked best by making me wish it had more to offer. Thankfully we get a nice amount of Vanessa Redgrave, who is always welcome in my eyeballs.

Single All the Way (2021)

Score: 4 / 5

I'll never understand the Hallmark Christmas movie niche. I suppose it's not different than the plethora of nonseasonal rom-coms generally, but connecting romance and Christmas has always felt icky to me. Perhaps that's mostly because a key demographic, until extremely recently, has always been ignored by the festive phenomenon. The Holiday was about as far as I would go into romantic yuletide cinema, and even that movie requires a fair amount of wine for this viewer. Even Hulu's Happiest Season, a messy and bewilderingly problematic attempt at inclusive merrymaking in 2020, made me want to pull out my eyes and feed them to a reindeer. And yet, lo and behold, I bring you good news of great joy for all the people with Netflix accounts.

Single All the Way is a delightful confection of queerness and Christmas tied up in a bow of joy. Social media manager Peter (Michael Urie) is excited to travel from LA to his family home in New Hampshire for Christmas. Usually, he's annoyed about it because his family -- who are beautifully supportive -- always ask about his relationship status and he's always single. Not so this year, and his boyfriend Tim is going with him. All is great until Peter's roommate and best friend Nick (Philemon Chambers) discovers that Tim is married to a woman and has a family. To avoid the pity his family would bestow on him, Peter hatches a plan to bring Nick home instead and pretend that they are dating. After all, can two gay guys be platonic friends?

This isn't When Harry Met Sally, thank heaven, and so the clichés of heteronormativity are largely absent. True, the muscular Nick is a handyman while Peter has a bit of a limp wrist, but largely their friendship is based on trust and mutual affection. But, as we all hope, they do end up together for real. And, actually, the joy of the film is watching everyone else's expectations burgeon into fruition, because early in the film we learn that Peter's family dearly loves Nick already. As they push and connive and scheme to get the two to spend more time together -- in typical Hallmark fashion -- we wonder briefly if they're all laboring under a pathetic misconception that all gays want all other gays. But they're not, and in the expertly written dialogue (often heavyhanded, but knowingly so), each family member reveals their precise and lovely reasons for wanting this arrangement to work.

Tony-winner Michael Mayer, who directed Spring Awakening and Hedwig and the Angry Inch on Broadway (among many other projects) and the films A Home at the End of the World and The Seagull, draws special attention to the family in group scenes. He's not interested in nuance, and thankfully he knows exactly what he's doing in terms of genre, medium, and content. Mayer seems to pull out all the stops in making everyone feel good the whole time, especially the viewer. Jennifer Coolidge appears in full camp mode as Aunt Sandy, directing the Christmas pageant and belting out Whitney's "Joy to the World" before commenting to Peter that "the gays are always obsessed with me. I don't know why...but I like it."

Chambers was the standout here for me, and he does most of the heavylifting in both senses of the word. Urie is surprisingly likable in a role that could easily have come off as bitchy. The other actors are all solid, including Kathy Najimy (Hocus Pocus, Sister Act) as Peter's mother, Jennifer Robertson (Schitt's Creek) as his sister, and even Luke MacFarlane (an actual Hallmark leading man) as the hunky new spin class teacher set up on a blind date by Peter's mom. But this isn't a movie for actual acting, much as it's not a masterclass in editing, pacing, directing, writing, or anything other than inclusive joy.

It's important, though, because it avoids the dangerous and too-prevalent plot devices of keeping queer characters closeted. Even the most recent acclaimed gay films center on coming out, being outed, or having secret crushes that are made public by the climax: The Prom, Love, Simon, Boy Erased, and even that Hulu trainwreck two Christmases ago. Nothing else about this movie is groundbreaking; in fact, if Peter were a woman, I'd have never seen it. But I loved the film's casual, normalizing behavior in sidestepping the circular trauma of centering coming out at the center of queer romance and social visibility. And then to have the film really dig into the "found family" life-affirming attitude of its protagonists was almost too much positivity in a single streaming flick for this viewer. And a happy new year, y'all!

The Matrix Resurrections (2021)

Score: 3.5 / 5

Lana Wachowski returns solo to the franchise that made her name great in the latest requel churned out of a major studio. I'm not mad about this one, mostly because it felt much more like the original film than the sequels it spawned. I always had a soft spot for the turn-of-the-millennium masterpiece that changed science fiction cinema, and while its sequels are fun, they went a little too crazy for me with their effects and simple (if bizarre) stories. Resurrections is lighter in apocalyptic tone and more fun, even as it grapples with cerebral themes in surprising ways.

The movie begins with what first feels like a flashback to the opening of the franchise as we watch Trinity's (Carrie-Anne Moss) eye-popping escape. The scene shifts to a new character named Bugs (Jessica Henwick) watching her, much as we are, who then also needs to escape and uses similar martial arts and time-defying action to do so. Within just a few minutes, we're already back into the world of the Matrix, even if we don't necessarily remember all the rules of the virtual realm. Bugs has discovered an old code being run in a loop around this moment, when Trinity first found Neo within the Matrix; it seems that someone is still looking for the "savior," who was presumed to be dead. But maybe she's after something else; it's when she locates a slightly altered version of Morpheus (Yahya Abdul-Mateen II) that the plot really kicks into high gear.

Speaking of which, I can't pretend I fully understand the plot of this movie after a single viewing. I felt the same way about the previous installments too, but this one does a lot of work to, well, resurrect characters that Revolutions carefully and caringly ended. As such, it jumps through didactic hoops that I'm not sure will ever make full sense to me. There's a new AI -- at least, I think that's what he is -- called the Analyst (Neil Patrick Harris) who is working to understand the human mind and perfect the Matrix before its reboot. Agent Smith (Jonathan Groff) returns, this time as more of a trapped denizen of the Matrix looking for something between liberation and revenge. And, of course, we're re-introduced to Neo, who is still very much alive.

Living in a mild-mannered existence as the successful creator of a video game series called The Matrix, Thomas Anderson (Keanu Reeves) has occasional flashbacks -- or hallucinations -- to his time as Neo, many years before. Drawing on these for his games, he also vaguely recognizes a woman named Tiffany (also Moss) at a local coffee shop; she's married with children and also has no recollection of their shared past. In the movie's best scenes, Anderson meets with creators in his board room as they hash out ideas for a sequel game. The dialogue is shockingly, wonderfully aware of its metafictional attitude, and the geeky characters bounce ideas such as "bullet time" around with knowing chuckles. To make the Matrix an inside joke while inside the Matrix is the most brilliant idea Resurrections has to offer, and it really is too bad the film didn't capitalize on this storytelling device.

In fact, my main gripe with this film -- apart from the hurtle-jumping required to follow its plot -- is much the same as it was with the previous three. Heady concepts aside, I will never get why the Neo-Trinity love story trumps everything else. In a world of reality-shattering revelations and impending apocalypse of humanity, their love is framed as more crucially salvific than anything else. It's as if, to make the amazing, daring ideas sell, the Wachowskis felt the need to centralize the love story; now, so long after the trilogy ended, I can't help but wonder why Lana and the new writing team decided to continue this trend. It makes what is otherwise an exciting, fun, and interesting diversion damp with sentiment and (in my opinion) unearned nostalgia. 

Clearly I'll need a rewatch soon, if only to see a preternaturally aged Jada Pinkett Smith doing her sassy thing, and I desperately hope the movie makes more sense. Because I really want it to! As I said, this is probably my favorite since the beginning simply because of tone and less of an emphasis on masses of tentacled machines clawing through the earth's crust, a la James Cameron. Perhaps the happiest surprise to me is that the Matrix itself doesn't feel nearly as dangerous or icky as it did before; this is the first time in the franchise I believed how and why people in the Matrix didn't question their reality. Similarly, the lack of imminent danger made the whole thing feel less emotionally draining than previous installments. It made philosophical nuggets in the dialogue more palatable and more fun to consider in real time! And, of course, there's the purely entertaining draw of seeing a Wachowski prove again that she is the real master of big-budget, eye-popping sequences that every other action filmmaker has been trying to imitate for decades now. The multiple high-speed chases and group battles feature some of the best CGI of the year, often incorporating multiple explosions or fights in different speeds in the same frame. It's cool stuff, y'all.

Passing (2021)

Score: 5 / 5

The movie begins with Irene, sitting alone in a hotel dining room in broad daylight. The sun streaming in lights up her white dress and white hat like an angelic robe and halo. A few furtive looks around her -- the camera subtly switches to her perspective a few times -- reveals that this is almost certainly an establishment for whites only, as the only other patrons are indeed pale. Irene herself has fairly light skin, and the gorgeous and dangerous black-and-white cinematography makes it particularly difficult to determine hue gradations. The camera does linger on Irene for a while, studying her incognito face with her dark hair and dark eyes barely visible beneath the brim of her lacy hat.

As the lengthy, almost wordless introduction to the film continues, the camera again uses Irene's perspective to survey the room. Is Irene, as the title suggests, a woman of color passing as white? It seems likely, even if you don't know the excellent performer to be Tessa Thompson. As she gazes at the white women in the sparsely populated restaurant, she locks in on one in particular. The shot lingers far too long as the other woman returns her stare. They recognize each other, but how? Or perhaps are they simply recognizing in each other a similar secret? It's an intoxicating scene, helped by intelligent editing, and one that effectively sets up the film to follow. This movie may be about words and ideas, but it's much more about lived experience.

Irene, we soon gather, only passes for white on occasion, when it might be especially beneficial to her, or when she just needs a brief escape from her life as a Black woman in Harlem in the 1920s. The other woman, Clare, does it much more frequently. In fact, as Irene's former classmate tells her, Clare is so light-skinned that she was able to marry a white man and live acting as a white woman. Played by the brilliant Ruth Negga, Clare seems hungry for the life of being authentically Black, having hidden her true self behind layers of conventional white mannerisms, speech patterns, and behaviors. But now, reconnecting with her old friend over their secrets and their history, Clare tries to hitch a ride on Irene's coattails into Black Harlem culture for the explicit purpose -- she says later in the film, before a dance -- "to see Negroes." Much as the Black men stare at this light-skinned flapper, Clare stares right back, drinking in the vibrant exclusivity of Black jazz nightlife. In these scenes, which make up most of the middle of the film, Clare shares a lot with Hugh (Bill Camp), a white writer who is nominally an ally to Irene and the Negro Welfare League, but who attends to watch the party like a child watching Sunday morning cartoons.

She's a mysterious character -- much like Irene, actually -- and we're meant to discover her bit by bit along with the protagonist. Is Irene's husband Brian (Andre Holland) in awe of Clare like the other men, or is his attention more intimate or lustful? Does Clare truly enjoy the privileged life of acting white, and if so, is she only using Irene to exert her own false sense of control over her secret identity? Perhaps the most arresting scenes involve the film's stand-in for a villain, Clare's racist husband John (Alexander Skarsgård). In his introductory scene, he is fooled into thinking both Clare and Irene are white; in his perceived safe space, he reveals his monstrous pet name for his wife, "Nig," earned as a result of her "getting darker and darker every year." The subtle reactions of the women in this scene -- and in the whole film -- constitute a masterclass of screen acting. Will Irene out her friend? What will be John's reaction?

That Passing, with all its impossibly complex themes and worrisome ideas, is Rebecca Hall's debut as director will never not blow my mind. It's an astonishing, confident, and nuanced work that brought to my mind similar films of split, shared, and conflicted racial identity such as Ma Rainey's Black Bottom, BlacKkKlansman, and of course both versions of Imitation of Life. With its heavy material, Hall is deliberate in her choices and pacing, which might sacrifice the attention of some viewers. But if you tap into its ebb and flow, the third act of the film will pull you out like a riptide and leave you breathless. It's a faithful adaptation of its source material that is also faithful to a modern audience; its gorgeous presentation in black and white the only heavy-handed artistic choice (one that I fully, enthusiastically support) in what is otherwise the most contemplative and thoughtful chamber piece in a year full of cinematic bombast.