Operation Finale (2018)

Score: 3.5 / 5

We all know the story -- even peripherally -- of Adolf Eichmann, one of the Nazi brains behind the "Final Solution," the Holocaust. We know that he escaped Europe and lived for a decade in Argentina under a false identity. We know that Israeli intelligence agents tracked him down, captured him, and returned him to face trial before sentencing him to death. We know, too, that his name is synonymous with the "banality of evil" and that "little Eichmanns" are the sort of sycophantic, mindless paper pushers and bureaucratic desk workers who never get their own hands dirty but whose activities cause great harm to others.

It would follow, as we know the basic story and characters, that a cinematic depiction of these events and characters might be one of those great war thrillers or revenge dramas that sweep awards and educate while they provoke and honor. Operation Finale, while serviceable and highly entertaining, falls short of such expectations for many reasons. Though a pretty amazing team of artists hide behind the curtain -- to say nothing of the ones on screen -- there's just something that didn't quite work on the grand, epic scale of (for example) Munich or Zero Dark Thirty.

Which is not necessarily a bad thing. I don't think Operation Finale even wants to be considered a "great film." It's almost a chamber piece, revolving around its two main characters as they intellectually spar during Eichmann's captivity. The great pleasure of the film lies with these characters and the actors who portray them. Ben Kingsley is chilling as Eichmann, at once silly and conceited yet calculating and manipulative. He seems to have no remorse for his crimes, and endlessly seeks justification for his own existence, about which he has apparently no delusions. He knows he's just an animal, and though brief insights into his emotional state occasionally flash through his stony visage, his existence seems based on instinctual tasks like eating, shitting, and finding comfort.

Oscar Isaac carries the film as his primary captor, Peter Malkin, who struggles to keep his mission professional but nevertheless succeeds where his peers fail. He crosses boundaries in his efforts to get Eichmann to comply, alienating his team, but as the story's end attests, Malkin apparently knew exactly what he was doing the whole time. His beauty in no way detracts from the proceedings, though it does distract on occasion; his greatest contribution to the character, however, is in his dedication to the little moments of silence as he contemplates the horrifically complex ethics of the mission.

With a team including Javier Aguirresarobe and Alexandre Desplat, Operation Finale had great resources and guidance. While director Chris Weitz may have been ill-prepared for a postwar espionage thriller with timely and important themes, there's not a clear reason why this flick isn't a new staple in the WWII canon. Perhaps we can blame the story itself: not really a war movie, it flips constantly between feeling like a thriller or drama or history. How do we read it? How did the director read it? It's not an easy question to answer, made all the more difficult in the film's repeated tonal shifting; I love breaking the mold of genre and experimenting with new art forms, but it's important too to have a sense of purpose and intent and, it's true, direction. Its attention to detail and fabulous nuance in ethical dilemma make Finale engaging if not quite thrilling, and even got me to forget (briefly) how the story would end.

P.S.: Keep your eyes peeled for Simon Russell Beale in a surprising single-scene role as David Ben-Gurion, blessing Malkin's team before they depart Israel.

IMDb: Operation Finale

The Shape of Water (2017)

Score: 4.5 / 5

What a year for horror. First we got Get Out, and since then at least three major Stephen King adaptations, two space-traveling alien flicks, new Annabelle and Insidious installments, Aronofsky's psychological bloodbath mother!, the severely underrated Happy Death Day, and now this. That's not all of them, of course, but enough to show the broad range and scope of the genre this year and to show that at least three are what some are considering high art. Three. Get Out, mother!, and The Shape of Water each transcend the genre in ways I've certainly not seen recently, if at all, in mainstream movies. Get Out, though people will insist is essentially a comedy, and mother!, which nobody really can label, were perhaps more extreme in their violent disruption of normative culture. But The Shape of Water, for all its beauty, is no less brutal in its explicit horror elements nor in its good old-fashioned monstrosity.

The plot is largely uninteresting. Elisa, a mute custodian (an astounding Sally Hawkins) working at a high-security American laboratory during the Cold War, discovers and befriends a monster (Doug Jones). As they embark on a romantic journey together, they must fight the forces that seek to destroy them, namely the cruel colonel Strickland (Michael Shannon). That's it. The crux of the thing. A sort of typical tale told with a few alterations -- I'll never really be okay with the fish-man sex scenes -- it reads as a dark fantasy, a Gothic monster movie not wholly unlike Whale's Frankenstein or a leering Lon Chaney silent film.

Of course, that's where things get really interesting. After reading an interview with director and writer Guillermo del Toro, I learned his love affair with the 1954 Creature from the Black Lagoon served as his impetus for this movie. Of course it was. It's impossible to watch The Shape of Water and not see Gill-man in half the scenes. What's interesting, though, is that del Toro wanted to see what happens when the monster and the damsel consummate their affections. That's the great tragedy of Black Lagoon, isn't it? Miscegenation (and inter-species romance) and female agency, etc., is doomed by the white men with guns, etc., seeking to exploit and control nature, etc.

The Shape of Water, though, is also surprisingly timely. It's a love letter to horror, to be sure, but also to the freak show America that is under assault right now. The movie carries intense environmental overtures. Our heroine and romantic star is a woman who has incredible agency, and is also disabled, rendered mute. Her best friends are another black woman (Octavia Spencer) and a closeted gay man (Richard Jenkins). Together, and with the help of a Soviet spy (Michael Stuhlbarg), they escape the laboratory to set the monster --and themselves, I might add -- free. What here isn't spitting in the face of the Trump administration?

It's also, as ever, an uncommonly beautiful movie. Impressionistic and evocative, del Toro crafts yet another dark fantasy of haunting imagery. His lighting and special effects meld into the real world so seamlessly that we are transported to a magical hyper-reality. We know exactly what's happening, if not always how we should feel about it. Even the opening scene, in which Elisa dreams of her flooded apartment in contented peace, reveals a poetic power in del Toro's fantasy beyond most filmmakers right now. Each shot could be framed and mounted in a gallery. The music is pitch-perfect, both Alexandre Desplat's score and the more familiar period tunes.

Gorgeous and chilling, violent and funny, heartwarming and deeply disturbing, The Shape of Things reminds us that romance is always present in horror, and that horror is always present in romance.

IMDb: The Shape of Water

Suburbicon (2017)

Score: 4 / 5

Don't pay attention to the critics on this one. It's an absolute delight of a flick for pre-Oscar season nuts like us.

Suburbicon takes two stories and meshes them into one, though the synthesis isn't quite inspired. Think Stepford Wives meets mob-affiliated home-invasion thriller. The bare bones story is that of the Myers (?) family, consisting of a black man and woman and their young son; their presence serves little narrative purpose other than to demonstrate the horrors of Suburbicon, the all-white paradise of Trump's America. Oops, I'm sorry, I meant 1959 America, when America was "great" to begin with. There's a difference, right? Only the day after the Myers move to town, the mailman starts spreading the word, and neighbors begin picketing their property. The neighborhood decrees privacy fences will be installed around their yard. Groups of chanting malcontents gather on the street, shouting insults and appropriating spirituals to taunt the family. Ultimately, the rioters, despite halfhearted attempts by police to restrain them, attack the house, burn the car, and terrorize the family.

But their son makes tentative friends with another young boy, the white boy whose backyard mirrors their own. That boy, young Nicky, has family problems of his own, and though his skin grants him salvation from community bigotry, he goes through another kind of hell, and it is this that the film centers on.

Matt Damon, the patriarch of this family, plays a weak and desperate sort of suburban white-collar worker. He spends his days in an office pumping away on stress-relief squeezers, and it seems he has gotten terribly involved with "the mob" from another city. He lives with his infirm wife (Julianne Moore) and her sister (also Julianne Moore, praise be to Jesus), and their relationship is only barely introduced before their home is victimized one night. Two thieves appear and molest the family, tying them to kitchen chairs and chloroforming them before supposedly robbing them; they end up murdering the wife/mother Julianne Moore in front of little distressed Nicky.

I don't want to spoil anything, because half the joy of the film is its ability to story-tell. Nicky is the only sympathetic character -- apart from the Myers family -- and his ability to observe the corrupt dealings of adults informs our understanding of the evil at work in white suburbia. The white people are all variously destroyed by an effort to perfect their lives: through order and sense, through money, through status. Well, not "all", because of course the general population lives on to spin their own story. The final shot is of media interviewing "bystanders" who are declaring the Myers family responsible for the violence in their midst. Survivors and victors get to determine history.

Director George Clooney isn't making a treatise here on racial dynamics or white morality. He isn't making a statement on feminist culture or domestic patriarchy. These elements are present, of course, and arguably make up the meat of the movie. But he stays somewhat aloof, allowing the elements to blend and conflict at their own volition, and forcing the viewer to think. If nothing else, that's a damn valuable thing these days. And as a white lower-middle-class American, this movie made me even angrier at white middle-class America. The Coen brothers with Clooney have crafted a script that doesn't pursue the directions it could have taken -- intensely subversive domestic horror, hilariously scathing satire of white hegemony -- but certainly suggests all of the above and more. I laughed out loud more than once, and covered my eyes at least twice. (Seriously, why the hell wasn't that fire truck sounding its siren?!)

It's not a great mystery. It's a mediocre thriller, and a not-very dramatic drama. But as a quirky sort of crime flick, it works really well. Its well-rounded cast (including Glenn Fleshler and a scene-stealing Oscar Isaac who will make you feel all sorts of spectacular things in his brief onscreen appearance) provide a fabulous hour-and-three-quarters of entertainment. Workable if uninspired vision from the usually exceptional cinematographer Robert Elswit and typically mesmerizing music from Alexandre Desplat provide enchanting visuals and aurals to soak in, even when the plot isn't as daring as we might want. And, if murder and sexism and money and racism and child endangerment and classism weren't enough, there's always a crazy Julianne Moore, a sweet and terrifying Matt Damon, and a sexy and suave Oscar Isaac to soothe your soul.

Check into Suburbicon. You won't be sorry.

IMDb: Suburbicon

Florence Foster Jenkins (2016)

Score: 5 / 5

This is exactly the kind of comedy I love. Classy and sassy, the picture sparkles its way across the screen and into our hearts. Not a moment is wasted, not a line tossed aside. While some of the humor is certainly face-value -- or, rather, voice value -- the film carries a sweet weight to it, keeping each comic beat balanced with a sincere concern for our subject. As you may know, the titular socialite wanted to be an opera singer, but famously performed with poor (if any) ability.

It would be so easy for the filmmakers to just mock her, as many have both during her life and since. To be sure, the first scene of her practicing is nothing short of riotous; I was crying so hard from laughter, I'm sure I missed half the scene. But as the film continues, we see the woman as a woman, more than as a caricature. The film suggests, mercifully well, that her poor vocal ability has less to do with her training and passion and more to do with the ravages of syphilis on her body and with the side effects of taking arsenic and mercury as prescribed by her physicians. Though the film feels conventional in its approach to a distinctly unconventional woman, we do see a few instances of her without her facade, namely in private moments with her husband and her accompanist. Her tenderness and generosity in these moments belie the exuberance we see in her public appearances.

Meryl Streep delivers in her uniquely knowing way (not that we could ever expect less) and reveals a character of joy and light, of passion and power, without ignoring the intense narcissism and privilege that that same character also possesses. She is infuriating as much as she is delightful, intoxicating in her vibrant energy, and exacting in her pursuit of pitch-imperfect singing. She nails the infamous voice, which certainly took a fair amount of skill for someone who can actually sing, and do so very well. Only slightly less astounding than our leading lady, Hugh Grant foils Streep's energy with masterfully sharp turns and a devilish twinkle in his eye; playing her faithful and endlessly supportive husband, Grant turns up the charm as he facilitates the action of the film, secretly hiding or bribing detractors and mockers before they can wound his wife's pride. He even safeguards his own opinions and behaviors so well that we feel not a sting as we discover his duplicity and his mistress. We understand, we sympathize, and we love every moment. Some credit is due to writer Nicholas Martin, to be sure, but Grant most successfully walks the thin line of our approval.

The surprise joy for me in this film came in the form of Simon Helberg (The Big Bang Theory), whose portrayal of accompanist Cosme McMoon is nothing short of enchanting. Effete and often bewildered, McMoon is revealed to be a small but highly ambitious man, seeking approval, recognition, and ultimately success from and over the people who have made his life difficult. His effeminacy and sickly-sweet demeanor at first endear Florence to him, but we may understand later, when she visits his rundown flat, that she feels a certain care and even responsibility for him. He grows exponentially as a young man and as a performer under her stardom, and by the finale, he is a new man, confident in himself and supportive of the woman he has not-so-discreetly regretted meeting.

Do yourself a favor and go see this movie. Its message is clear, and though the film hammers it home several times, it certainly doesn't lose its relevance or potency. Passion, far more than technique, is the true beauty of the arts. Ambition can be a great asset, if also paired with generosity and love. And, as Florence herself says near the end of the film, "They can say I couldn't sing, but they can't say I didn't sing." She had a gift and she used it to both express herself and to help others. How many of us can say the same?

IMDb: Florence Foster Jenkins

The Danish Girl (2015)

Score: 3.5 / 5

It's difficult to criticize the most mainstream queer movie this year and one of the most recognized trans movies ever. And I didn't hate it. I actually rather enjoyed it. But as I left the theater, I felt distinctly unfulfilled, because The Danish Girl leaves a lot to be desired, and worse, leaves a lot to be forgotten.

I'm not going to criticize it on its grounds as an adaptation of a fictionalized account of a real-life trans woman, because that's complicated and ultimately silly. And I won't complain about its joining the long list of films that use cisgender actors to portray transgender people; that I can forgive because, for me (and my privilege), the whole point of acting is pretending to be what we are not. I do take some issue with the film ending in our protagonist's death. Of course, her real-life counterpart, Lili Elbe, died after one of her experimental surgeries, so it's not entirely a fantasy ending. But the film neither explains her death nor justifies it. Despite the script's repeated attempts to describe the dangers involved in early sex reassignment surgery, Lili is shown to be coping well with her recovery in one scene, and then in the next, she is (apparently unsurprisingly) fatally ill.

I can probably just write this off as one of director Tom Hooper's bad directorial movements. We've seen before that he doesn't really care about plot timelines or editorial continuity -- remember Les Miserables, anybody? But it's a bit more problematic here, because mainstream queer cinema has a nasty history of its subjects dying. A good question here might ask why. Maybe the deaths of queer characters bring more gravity and sentiment to their stories (read: so the hegemony can pity them). Maybe the filmmakers are hoping to recreate tragic real-life stories (read: preventing stories of hope from reaching the mainstream). But I think the real issue is that the privileged masses don't want to see or hear a story of successful, affirming, lively queer characters who aren't bogged down in procedures and policing, who don't succumb to ostracism and brutality, and who self-determine their identities and behaviors in a safe and sane manner. I think we can all agree that we've seen maybe two or three big-budget, A-lister queer films that end in happiness. If that.

And yet, my frustrations with this trend don't really have much to do with this movie specifically. My annoyance with Tom Hooper's style very much applies. He seems to think that severe close-ups on bleary, teary faces make a movie Oscar-worthy, and he often delays in the hopes that he'll strike gold in the silences after dialogue. I wish he'd take some notes from his great success in The King's Speech instead and realize that, with the material he chooses, the gold is often found in the dialogue and when his actors bounce off each other. There are some real gems in the dialogue here (not many, but a few), and it's as if he skates over them so he can have another long shot on Eddie Redmayne's face.

Speaking of Redmayne, he is of course dazzling. I wasn't really feeling his character, though, probably partly because the script does not give him much to work with. Lili as she is portrayed in the film is just not very likeable. Apparently lost in her own mind, she is constantly downcast, weepy, and prone to bizarre turns. Redmayne's performance is fine, to be sure, but I never felt much attached to his Lili, and so her death was more a sentimental indulgence than plot point at the end. Alicia Vikander, however, steals the whole movie away from him, bringing an intense personality to each and every moment, digging into every subtle moment with fierce emotional awareness. She takes tough moments of vulnerability (tough because they aren't always fleshed out well by the dialogue) and makes them profoundly real. Her nuances I would compare to Felicity Jones's in The Theory of Everything in how well she reacts to her leading man. And yet, from her first appearance to the final shot of her over a bluff, she is in many ways the beating heart of the movie. It is her presence, and hers alone, that makes the film a romance, and it is only in her scenes that I ever felt tears come to my eyes. Strange that a movie about a trans woman actually finds its strength in a supporting cis woman.

What else? The production design is everything. Beautiful costumes, intricate details in the sets and props, the makeup and hair. It's gorgeous. Matthias Schoenaerts and Ben Whishaw pop in for a few lovely scenes, though I might have wished for more Whishaw. The score is, on the other hand, pretty underwhelming. I'm usually a staunch fan of composer Alexandre Desplat, but for some reason his string-heavy work here felt recycled and unbalanced. Let's just finish by saying the film got the Oscar nominations it deserved. No more, no less.

IMDb: The Danish Girl

Harry Potter 7 & 8

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 1 (2010)
Score: 5 / 5

My favorite thing about David Yates is that, while his "big picture" goal for his Harry Potter films remains constant, each of his four installments has a distinctive aesthetic that broadens our view into the wizarding world. Yates views Deathly Hallows: Part 1, the thematically darkest film in the franchise, with an eye toward gritty violence. Between the sweeping panoramas and emotional conversations, we see a few shockingly visceral fights, including the Death Easter attack in the night sky and the Snatcher chase near the end. Filtered through stylized camerawork and higher contrast, these sequences (among others) feel grainy and tactile, almost like footage from an action or war film.

Our three leads successfully venture into new acting territory. Rupert Grint's sulking presence is his best in the series. Emma Watson and Daniel Radcliffe shine in their connected, emotionally rooted performances. We see few other faces for any length of time, but plenty in passing. King of these is Rhys Ifans as tragic and chilling Xenophilius Lovegood. Bill Nighy gives a face to Rufus Scrimgeour, and Andy Linden (whom I do not recall from other major works) gives us an 'orribly charming Mundungus Fletcher. Imelda Staunton, Jason Isaacs, Helena Bonham Carter, Tom Felton, John Hurt, Ralph Fiennes, and Toby Jones reprise their roles from earlier in the series to great, if brief, success. Finally, I want to point out the amazing Kate Fleetwood, who plays the almost inconsequential Mary Cattermole, because she's a great Lady Macbeth (2010) and even showed up in Les Miserables (2012).

The emotional opening sequence takes us from intrigued to sad to terrified, as we see new Minister of Magic Rufus Scrimgeour taking power, our heroes leaving their homes, and Voldemort plotting with his Death Eaters. This expertly crafted opening leads into one of the more exciting action sequences we've seen in the franchise. Before Harry and his friends attempt to fly to safety, they take a potion to appear like Harry, creating a chaotic diversion for the enemy. The Death Eaters attack in a particularly disturbing aerial battle and split up to target the seven Harrys. Hedwig's death in this scene is more satisfying than in the book, because her sacrifice serves as the signal of which Harry is real, rather than a specific spell he uses.

Unfortunately, a few moments are skated over or hurriedly introduced because we have not spent nearly enough time on them in previous films (which has been fine, up till now). Scrimgeour and Mundungus are tossed into the mix rather unceremoniously, but not gracelessly. Auntie Muriel (Matytelok Gibbs) and Elphias Doge (David Ryall) have an abbreviated but memorable conversation during the Weasley wedding (oh, and we can't forget Fleur's lovely dress). While Voldemort's search for the wand is handled well, we could have hoped for more of Dumbledore's backstory; unfortunately, Yates had to cut something, and this was about all he could spare. The lack of information on this front, however, certainly adds to the atmosphere of doubt and speculation. Finally, the shard of glass Harry looks at is oddly left unexplained; though we see its significance in the final film, it still feels awkward and unsatisfying.

Talky and taut, moody and broody, this film oozes paranoia and desolation. Yates's approach even feels like in an indy film several times, and he highlights the complicated, mostly wordless emotions of our leads as they migrate through isolated wilderness. But even more typical Potter moments eke out surprising edge-of-your-seat sensations, as in our heroes' nervously funny infiltration of the Ministry and the masterful venture into Godric's Hollow (a scene that I would have dragged out longer). My favorite scene, though, belongs to Hermione's Tale of the Three Brothers, with its beautiful animation; its colors, pacing, and design are perfect, and serve as the film's crux in fabulous style. The palpably dark climax in Malfoy Manor, Dobby's death, and Voldemort's seizing of the Elder Wand make for a solid, brutal sequence and spike up the energy leading into the final film.

IMDb: The Deathly Hallows: Part 1

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2 (2011)

Score: 5 / 5

The perfect ending to the series, and a damn good film to boot, Deathly Hallows Part 2 is also one of the best fantasy action films I've ever seen. I say that for a lot of reasons, but foremost is this: Director David Yates understands that the key to any action/fantasy film is to use special effects in support of the drama. Of course, this film has more drama than most films, period, but Yates could easily have gone overboard with his special effects. As it is, the film is heavy with computer-generated visuals; Yates reins them in and darkens them so much, though, that they feel natural and essential to his telling of the story.

Though we see a lot of faces in this, few perform any noteworthy scenes, which is fine for this smash-bang finale.  Oh, and the makeup in this film is particularly great. Emma Watson and Helena Bonham Carter team up for a very funny opening sequence of breaking into Gringotts. Warwick Davis plays a delightfully nasty Griphook, and John Hurt sets a dire tone for the film as Ollivander. Daniel Radcliffe, Alan Rickman, and Ralph Fiennes own the film, as they should, in utterly incredible performances. Rickman's stony features finally crack and his dramatic power is laid bare. Maggie Smith and Julie Walters head the fight for Hogwarts in energetic triumph, and Matthew Lewis leads Neville Longbottom to a rousing victory.

The slow, talky opening at Shell Cottage perfectly bridges from the previous film, and the Gringotts madness quickly picks up the pace. Alexandre Desplat continues his great score, and Steve Kloves (screenwriter for all previous films but Order of the Phoenix) gives us his best script and dialogue yet, considering a film so spread apart in terms of crucial and simultaneous plot points. We see familiar faces and walls -- like the Chamber of Secrets -- but we also see new ones in this final picture, such as the Gray Lady (Brave (2012) star Kelly Macdonald) and the Hogwarts boathouse. All are wonderfully realized and beautifully cinematic, with the possible exception of one: Ciarán Hinds, whom I love, plays a fine but brief Aberforth Dumbledore, whose part is woefully underwritten.

Snape's stylized denouement is brave and emotional; though it doesn't get as detailed as Rowling's description, Yates views it as how it feels, not necessarily what it says. Yates's eye for visuals commands ours in this epic ending, and every moment feels monumental and eternal because he understands the drama of the series so thoroughly. The entire battle of Hogwarts is great, but my favorite moment happens as Harry, Ron, and Hermione fight through the courtyard to get to the boathouse. It's one of the busiest sequences of the film, but it is also one of the most dramatic, as our heroes battle through hell to reach the devil.

Voldemort has more screen time in this film than the others, and Ralph Fiennes owns it. His icy facade degenerates into fiery cruelty as he is forced to face his own mortality. From his bloody massacre of the Gringotts employees to his death-disintegration, we see him painted as a corporeal body, paradoxically both increasingly human and decreasingly human. Keeping with this, Fiennes's movement work here rivals his own in Goblet of Fire. His dilemma makes this film, when we focus on his character, a horror film: Besides its tragic elements of blindness, oversight, and loss, we see his body breaking down, bleeding, and suffering much like ours. His desperate grasps at divinity also reveal themselves in his dialogue. My favorite line of his happens before he kills Snape, telling him, "You've been a good and faithful servant, Severus, but only I can live forever." In this cruel corruption of what all good Christians hope to someday hear (Matthew 25), Voldemort takes his servant's service, life, and hope while attempting to deify himself.

Harry, on the other hand, fulfills his obviously Christ-like role in the series by coming to terms with himself and understanding the sacrifice he must make. In one of (if not the) most emotional twist climaxes in film memory -- which doesn't even feel entirely novel -- Harry learns the secrets of his past and the secrets deep within him. Radcliffe controls the emotions of Harry incredibly well from this scene right through his death, his beautiful conversation with Dumbledore, and his victorious return to life. What else can we say about this film? Only that it may have deserved more awards, but probably couldn't have garnered much more praise.

IMDb: The Deathly Hallows: Part 2