Origin (2024)

Score: 4.5 / 5

Ava DuVernay is at her best with real life stories grappling with social structures and widespread injustices, and she tends to make provocative statements for the present rooted in careful consideration of history. Her most recent film, Origin, was released with little fanfare over a year ago, but I'm so glad to have finally seen it, ambitious and unusual a narrative as it is. Essentially, it's a biopic depicting the life and theories developed by Isabel Wilkerson, the Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and author of The Warmth of Other Suns and Caste. How do you turn an academic scholar's life and ideas into a narrative? It's a tough question, and I can scarcely think of many that would take on such a task, but DuVernay's screenplay and direction make the case for a brilliant, daring new biographical film subgenre.

Aunjanue Ellis-Taylor plays Wilkerson enduring a series of personal crises while attempting to fulfill her editor's demands. She needs to get another book out, especially one that could deal with ongoing, increasing crises in the United States. The murder of Trayvon Martin spurs her editor (Blair Underwood) to pressure her to write about the hot topic as he sees her as uniquely capable to speak to a hurting nation. Wilkerson has her trepidations, and she explicitly describes her method as needing to "be inside the story" which will require time. Much like our experience of reading Wilkerson's real life writings or even approaching this dense, multifaceted film will take time and perseverance.

Though it's nominally an "adaptation" of Wilkerson's work Caste, Origin is more accurately a biographical snapshot of Wilkerson's personal life and professional interest in her subject matter at the time of composition than it is a dramatization of her thesis and research itself. Family trials beset her, including tragedies involving her mother (Emily Yancy) and husband (Jon Bernthal) that compel her to rely ever more on herself, her work, and the voice she needs to put to words regarding pain in the world around her. Her tribulations provide valuable insight into her ideas, allowing her to see Martin's murder not as the result of racism on its own, but rather in fact as a much broader, more invisible system at work in the US and around the globe.

Anyone familiar with Wilkerson's work knows what I'm talking about, and if you haven't, I'm not going to summarize it here. Suffice it to say that racism in fact is more a symptom than a problem, and resorting to racism to explain something as phenomenologically pervasive as the murdering of innocent young Black men is in fact a restrictive lens. But, as we all learned back in the day from Reading Rainbow, you shouldn't just take my word for it. Read her material and watch the film. DuVernay's adept screenplay masterfully weaves its way through Wilkerson's main theoretical pillars with aplomb even as it invites and encourages us to learn more on our own. Tying the violent aftermath of American slavery to Nazi war crimes against humanity and the degrading brutality of India's caste system, Wilkerson discovers and presents compelling evidence that ideologically link systemic systems of oppression, despite the naysayers (dramatized in a notable dinner scene, as Connie Nielsen attempts to challenge Ellis-Taylor on her intended scholarship). 

Formally, the film offers as much to compel viewers as it does to instruct and dramatize Wilkerson's work. DuVernay's cinematographer views everything in 16mm film which sidesteps the common pitfall of historical films using contrived lenses or color schemes to indicate alternate settings in time and place. Jumping between examples could make the film lurch uncomfortably, but the filmmakers keep the form consistent, helping us connect the daring thesis on visual terms as well as cerebral. Aurally hushed, the film feels intimate and tactile, like we're poring over historical records in a library alongside our protagonist, providing the scholarly insight room to strike us with awe and the actors room to nail us with pitch-perfect melodrama to help move the story along. Bernthal and Ellis-Taylor are exellent, and Niecy Nash even pops in for a few surprisingly intense and tender scenes as Wilkerson's cousin. One scene stuck out to me as both annoying and dispiritingly obvious -- if you know, you know, but it's when Wilkerson calls a plumber (Nick Offerman) to stop her basement from leaking and he arrives with a MAGA hat proudly on his head -- and I wish the filmmakers had made a more nuanced attempt to feel urgent or relevant. But as a dramatic account of astonishing journalism and the fraught process of crafting contemporary social theory, Origin is as poetic, contemplative, and emotionally and intellectually devastating as any award-bait films in recent memory. Weird, sure, and not always entertaining, but staunchly accessible, brave, and important.

Longlegs (2024)

Score: 3.5 / 5

Oz Perkins, like his style or not, only makes fascinating films. His latest, Longlegs, is an effectively disturbing and entertaining example of both what works best in his movies and what never quite lands with his stories. The Blackcoat's Daughter featured a puzzle box of a screenplay that never quite pays off but embraces its own stabs at time and place; I Am the Pretty Thing that Lives in the House is indeed pretty and haunting to behold but feels generally inert; Gretel & Hansel fabulously attempts folk fantasy horror while gradually forgetting its own source material in favor of original, half-baked ideas. Perkins seems to get lost in his own head a lot as a writer, cleverly tinkering with his own ideas until they become difficult to absorb as the audience. Not that films should always explain themselves; it does help to have a few firm handles for us to grasp, though, so our discussions aren't solely attempts at interpreting basic symbols, characters, and themes.

I won't spoil the plot, but it's not what you think. Its most basic setup is not dissimilar to The Silence of the Lambs, but a young female FBI agent investigating a serial killer while using a possibly insane scary man in white as her informant is where the structural similarities stop. Visually and aurally, the film ramps itself up almost to the level of camp, with violent color shifts and bold, uncompromising choices of costume, makeup, cinematography, and scoring. Its exaggerated sensory experience feels matched by its performances, particularly its two leads in Maika Monroe and Nicolas Cage: Monroe is unbearably stilted and forced (for a reason), while Cage is utterly transformed into a new creature (in which his typical overacting is somewhat muted and spectacularly stylized). There's a surrealist streak in Perkins's work, and this is as ripe as it's ever been.

A mildly exaggerated '90s setting -- refreshing in our era of endless fantasizing about the '80s -- belies the rich colors and stoic cinematography that provide our view into this strange and uncomfortable world. And even from the film's opening scene, Perkins and his editor craft a perverse dream logic that pervades our experience of the film, yes, but also of the story. This helps us understand Monroe's protagonist, Lee, a bit better, as she manages to correctly intuit and interpret clues from crime scenes, several of which reminded me of the real-life Zodiac killer, though her suggested pre- or extra-cognition is a bizarrely underdeveloped subplot. 

Which brings me to my issues with Longlegs: I just don't understand it. SPOILER ALERT. This is going to be a fairly random series of questions and thoughts on particular points of the film, and please feel free to comment your own ideas, because that's all we're going to get from a discussion of this weird movie.

- Lee's partner (Blair Underwood) near the beginning makes a reference to the Manson family right near the beginning that, fittingly, ties in to the reveal of Lee's mother's complicity near the end, but I didn't think the film would fully go that direction. In addition to the Zodiac killer and the Buffalo Bill/Hannibal Lecter references, Longlegs himself seems to have some Ted Bundy or Dracula or even the singer Tiny Tim in his performative DNA. The smorgasbord of serial killers seems to have been circulating in the filmmakers' minds to an unusually emphasized degree. 

- Lee's mother Ruth (Alicia Witt) always asks her if Lee has said her prayers; her ultra-religious identity isn't satisfyingly mined until the climax. It's unfortunate, because it seemed at first to be aiming for something akin to Carrie White's mother Margaret. Her revelation as the villain's assistant is shocking, maybe, but more emotionally sound than logically; the visual of her in a brown habit delivering enormous dolls feels ripped from another movie entirely. Perkins has gone on the record saying that this is his most personal film yet; one wonders the extent to which he feels his own mother was complicit in family secrets and generational trauma regarding his own father, Anthony Perkins, whose queerness was certainly kept hush-hush at home. It's telling, then, that Ruth suffers so much at the hands of Longlegs. (Also note that our introduction to Ruth is as she comes up the stairs, after taking too long to answer the phone, suggesting she spends time with Longlegs in the basement often.)

- Longlegs (Nicolas Cage) as a character would be fascinating to read. I suspect his dialogue has significance beyond what sounds like mostly random ramblings. A rewatch with subtitles will help, as I am sure all his dialogue in itself would reveal more about his character or motivations and probably clear up a lot of the confusion; it's just mostly hard to capture on a first viewing. The dialogue of the film in general is stilted and stylized, and I'd also love to see the strange monologue from Kiernan's Shipka's Carrie Anne (?) in her single scene, when she delivers super calm threats to Lee like a Pennywise on overdosed mood stabilizers: she'd be "as happy as peaches to watch your head go pop pop pop."

- What's with the intense use of red and white shots? What's with the almost subliminal shots of snakes in red light? What's with the unnecessary silhouette of a horned, robed Satanic shadow? What's with the metal balls in the doll heads, and what's with the black smoke that comes out of them? Other than the atmosphere of coloring, these elements don't add to the story as I understood it. The snakes might tie in to my next point, but a literalized devil takes away so much mystique of Longlegs's Satantic aspirations, and the dolls could have been possessed and evil without a sci-fi or fantasy element involved that used excessive effects to demonstrate something that should be merely implied at best.

- It seems Perkins, in addition to packing in references to other serial killers, imagined the nature of evil in this film to be a reverse trinity, a diabolic trio of Satan/dragon/red snakes/horned shadow man, Longlegs/Antichrist/Beast from the Sea (and the repeated verse about seeing him while standing on the sand of the sea), and Ruth/False Prophet/Beast from the Earth (she spreads Longlegs's message to others). Perhaps the dolls or metal orbs are the mark of the beast? Is this stretching too far? I'm not sure it is, given the references to the Book of Revelation, and of course the film's central themes (and, as Perkins indicated, his most personal theme) of a realization of hidden knowledge, with "apocalypse" and "revelation" both referring to that hidden knowledge being revealed or made known.

- Does the finale indicate that Lee herself will become the next Longlegs, as she does not (cannot?) destroy the doll? Remember that Longlegs -- who should be dead at this point in the story -- calls Lee to remind her of little Ruby's party. Longlegs is sort of Lee's director or mentor, having apparently orchestrated so much of Lee's life and manipulated her, even her psychic abilities. Lee has always wanted to be an actor, as she told Ruby early in the film. Longlegs later says he laughed when she became an FBI agent; perhaps because she was fulfilling his plan to investigate the killings and her own mother and have access to a gun to enact murders of her own (including Ruby's family -- Lee's partner and his wife -- as well as her own mother? Does she "become" him? Remember, too, that his final words to her before killing himself are "Well, I'll let you get started now."

- Other possible themes might include truth being hidden by corrupt faith, the nature of faith itself and the lengths to which we go to live it out, outing evil parents or how parents' actions will infect their children through life. There's also an interesting parallel between the film, Lee, and us. Perhaps we're meant to learn a lesson about getting too caught up in symbols and imagery and narrative and meaning while missing the big picture or emotional truth of art. 

A film like this will launch hours upon hours of social media rants and "ending explained" videos and TikToks of people puking their opinions and interpretations, and maybe that's fine and dandy for the studio and for the film's circulation. But shouldn't a film be worth that hype and interest? I'm not convinced this one deserves its buzz. Perkins is always worth watching, as his control over tone and mood and atmosphere is bleak, his violence is brutal, and his rich themes are complex and not at all obvious. This film is fabulously entertaining and hard to shake after viewing, but when any given detail requires footnotes and references and time stamps and mansplaining and obscure tie-ins and niche techniques and arthouse logic and video essays to even understand some possible interpretations, I can't help but feel the artists did a disservice to their own work by not being specific enough. Clearly there was intention in every aspect of bringing this story to the screen; too bad nobody can wholly access it.

Self Made (2020)

Score: 3.5 / 5

Okay, it's not a film, but this is my blog and I can review whatever I want.

Self Made is the fascinating story of Madam C.J. Walker. I didn't know it was fascinating because I didn't know who she was, and so this miniseries works best by opening the door to historical knowledge. Madam was the first woman who became a self-made millionaire in America. She was also Black. And this series relies on her vision, resourcefulness, determination, hard work, and gumption to inspire and educate. It's also eminently approachable by someone, like me, who admittedly doesn't know who Walker was, doesn't really understand business, and doesn't know much about hair care (especially for black people). That's what got Madam Walker to the top.

Played by the inimitable Octavia Spencer, Madam C.J. Walker becomes iconic, the sort of larger-than-life historical figure you might see featured in an Oliver Stone movie. She begins in squalor as Sarah Breedlove, working hard as a washerwoman and having nothing to show for it, looking a bit of a mess as a way of life. Then she begins to lose her hair. After getting treatment -- in what feels a bit like a con but proves to be legit -- from a "magical" hair tonic, Sarah's life changes. The hope and joy in her wide eyes when she recognizes the opportunity to help other women in her shoes is infectious; Spencer's gifts as an actress stem from an uncanny ability to dominate the scene and reach out through the screen into your heart. Sarah determines to change her world, and starts by seeking a partnership with the only woman she knows who works with black women's hair: Addie Malone, played by Carmen Ejogo.

This is where things get a bit tricky, both in terms of the protagonist's life and in terms of the story being told in Self Made. The episodes touch on issues of black people's hair without really meditating on the powerful symbolism and culture of it. Addie is notably light-skinned and could be described as a "tragic mulatto" in the story; she wants to defend the ground she has earned but is unwilling to share her efforts or wealth with the shorter, darker, older Sarah. A few snide jabs about selling to people who want to look like Addie and not Sarah is all it takes for the latter to take things into her own hands. She steals Addie's formula and improves it, expands it, and develops the start of an empire with her husband and daughter in tow. She changes her name and slowly transforms into the Madam of history.

Because it is a four-part miniseries, we can safely assume the producers and writers wanted some drama, and so the two middle episodes creak a bit under the weight of interpersonal drama. Walker's husband (Blair Underwood), feeling emasculated and forgotten by his entrepreneur wife, embarks on an affair. Her daughter, Lelia (a wonderful Tiffany Haddish), is quietly revealed to us (not to many others) to have a lesbian lover. These inclusions are mostly predictable and feel too melodramatic; even though I know precious little about business, I found myself increasingly curious about how, practically, Walker was building her empire. I wanted to learn more about her actual work and the real issues she faced as a black businesswoman.

And then there are the frequent run-ins with Addie that turn bitchy one-liners into emotionally brutal, if repetitive, suggestions of superiority based on their relationships to men (including a disturbing few scenes with Booker T. Washington), money, hair, and of course skin color. And while some may criticize this dramatization of colorism as central to this story, I can't help but think it's an important discussion to continue having, especially in the historical context of the early 1900s. As a result of these scenes, though, Addie comes across almost as a cartoon villain, following Walker around the country and waiting for her next opportunity to pounce; Ejogo is brilliant, though, and plays the role with electric energy.

And while it may not be the most historically accurate series, there is something powerful to be said about dramatizing important figures in history that many of us may not know about. After all, last year's Harriet was the first major movie about Harriet Tubman, a hero every single U.S. kid learns about in elementary or middle school. Kasi Lemmons, who directed that picture, directs the first two episodes of Self Made, and uses her wonderful flair for fantasy to let us inside the mind of Madam Walker. With an eccentric soundtrack of modern R&B, hop-hop, and also some oldies and even spirituals, Lemmons makes sure we know this is all meant to be accessible and fun. Some of my favorite scenes depicted showgirls dancing and displaying her products, a boxing match with bright lights, and similar daydreams that bring to vivid life the fantasy life of someone so driven to success that they occasionally lose touch with reality.

The series spends all its time focusing on Walker's rise -- appropriate for a story with a title that implies its focus -- and so could be said to perform a disservice to Walker's legacy. Why aren't her incredible social contributions, political messages, and extensive philanthropy mentioned until some text and photos at the end of the series? But this isn't a historical treatise, nor is it meant to be the be-all and end-all statement of a full life lived. This is perhaps best shown in the series finale, as fireworks launch overhead and the black women in the crowd look into the camera to describe their own amazing accomplishments. And I, for one, am really happy to see a damn good story about Black empowerment utterly absent of the influence of white helpers, authority, or intervention. This series is meant to be as inspiring as it is entertaining, and the little bit of education it provides is certainly not a bad thing.