The Running Man (2025)

Score: 3.5 / 5

Richard Bachman is having a hell of a year. Stephen King's pseudonym, mostly used in his earlier years as a publishing strategy to avoid saturating the market -- hilarious, in retrospect of the prolific author's career -- published a handful of edgy horror-thrillers in the '80s. Bachman's first four titles have been collected into a single work, The Bachman Books, including Rage, The Long Walk, Roadwork, and The Running Man. The linked title was adapted as a wonderful film earlier in 2025, and now we get the second cinematic adaptation of The Running Man, after the 1987 film. I've admittedly not read the source material nor seen the previous film of this title, so my thoughts here are only of Edgar Wright's new film.

Edgar Wright (Shaun of the Dead, Baby Driver, Last Night in Soho), known for fast pacing, action, and metafictional and/or satirical genre films -- in addition to his easily recognizable musical and editing styles -- is a pretty solid fit for this material, in terms of big-budget filmmaking. And, oddly enough, this title fits well with The Long Walk in thematic conceit: in each, a dystopian governmental regime rules the United States, offering the possibility of success and wealth to individuals who compete in a dangerous, violent activity meant to be broadcast to an oppressed nation. The Running Man is the name of a televised show, not unlike The Hunger Games, in which the authoritarian Network attempts to placate suffering viewers with how much worse life could be. Offering its entrants $1 billion if they survive one month, the Network sends its private assassins out to kill the competitors; by televising the chase, the Network also encourages casual citizens to attempt murder.

Its bizarre mashup of competition and reality television notwithstanding, it would seem the show is a certain lose-lose situation. But Ben Richards (Glen Powell), a blue collar worker living in abject poverty with his wife (Jayme Lawson, of The Batman and Sinners) and infant daughter, needs money. Their daughter is sick, and even with Sheila working, they can't afford her necessary medicine. Ben auditions for the Network, hoping to earn money on one of its other shows, only to find himself forced into competition for the most brutal of all. He's promised his family will be moved to a safe house and given an advance on winnings to help his daughter. What else can he do?

There might be a time and place to pick apart the internal logic of this story, but this isn't it. Mostly because Wright won't let us think too critically about anything. Relentlessly paced, the film feels like a race even as we're watching it, jolting us from chase to fight sequences with only action in-between. What differentiates this from, say, a John Wick film is Wright's signature style: brightly lit scenes, charming wit from our lead actor, and a certain musical flair that keeps things bouncy and moving. That's not to say this isn't bleak, so don't get your hopes up. It's about as nasty and gritty as you could imagine in visual presentation, to say nothing of its disturbingly timely messaging about the cruelty of modern American life under oligarchic systems. And it doesn't help that, in the world of the story, no one has ever won "The Running Man."

Powell himself delivers an admirable performance, injecting a viciousness to his character that I can't recall seeing in him before. Ben isn't just angry, he's determined to live out a life that says little more than "fuck you" to the regime he toils under. And we're meant to fully agree with him. It's not for nothing that we don't know exactly what line of work his wife does, though it's strongly hinted that she's a sex worker and neither of them really want her to be. I can easily imagine this as a highly successful early 2000s film, with its grimy punk style, but I'm glad this film pushes things into a recognizable future. It's telling, I might add, that the public face of the Network (the role played deliciously by Stanley Tucci in the Hunger Games series) is Colman Domingo acting his chops off as a diabolically insane game show host in glorious costume. 

There is a lot to unpack in this film. Josh Brolin plays an executive producer of the Network, who eyeballs Ben and railroads him into the game; the Network's use of manipulative deepfakes to control televised output is as upsetting (and, curiously, unremarkable in the film itself) as the means by which producers get their desired outcome. On his run from potential killers, Ben meets William H. Macy, Daniel Ezra, and Michael Cera, who help him in various ways and pay the price for their aid. We don't get to know these characters, and while it might be disheartening to see such prominent character actors chewing on so little, the film isn't about building community in the face of authoritarian regimes; it's more or less a direct critique of the ways neoliberal methods are employed by empire to entertain and provide false hope to the populace. So it's really just about the main guy trying to overcome the odds stacked against him.

And what odds. I mean, Lee Pace plays his primary hunter, wearing a mask and a lot of leather, and his abilities with physical performance are excellently featured here.

As Powell's vehicle, I can't speak highly enough of this film's efforts to showcase him. His physique is highlighted as much as his caustic wit; he's not totally likable, but he fully owns our attention and sympathies. Despite occasionally making foolish decisions, he's understandable and we desperately want him to succeed. Perhaps this is because we, too, in 2025 (okay, 2026 now; I'm trying to catch up, so sue me) are constantly concerned about making a living wage that allows us healthcare and housing, accountability in government, transparency and ethics in business. My lasting impression of the film is one of annoyance -- how can all these characters, who are universally aware of the falseness of what they're being fed on the tube, keep going along with the bullshit? -- but it's an annoyance I'm increasingly feeling towards our reality.

Annoyance, though, isn't always a bad thing when it's intentional. And this film succeeds in its intent. Like an adrenaline shot of moral outrage, this is a profoundly angry film that is thoroughly entertaining while stoking the same ire we should all be feeling.

Wicked: Part Two (2025)

Score: 4 / 5

The grandeur of Jon M. Chu's vision of Oz has only improved with the finale of his cinematic adaptation of Wicked, that much is true. His singular auteur streak made quite a claim for itself with In the Heights and Crazy Rich Asians, and frankly I hope he makes big, bold musicals for the rest of his career, much like how I hope Mike Flanagan handles whatever horror he wants. Chu shares a unique awareness of genre and adaptation, making his works honor not only the letter of the source but its metafictional spirit. You can almost sense his desperation in this film, though, or at least the pressure from studio execs. As things get more frenzied and unbalanced on screen, I frequently found my mind drifting into curiosity about the writing process, rather than the effect of those choices on what I was experiencing. 

This is the potential danger of fandom: the more you know about and love and invest in something, the more ownership you feel you have over it. Your own imagination takes a place of privilege in your mind, and incoming information is filtered through that bias and preference. Earning this bias through years of exposure and study of the material can also feed one's ego, of course, but the expertise in the matter is not undermined. You musical theatre millennials out there know where I'm going with this.

Going to see Wicked: Part Two (and no, I will not be calling it that ridiculous title only used for marketing purposes, bite me) was exactly the closure we all needed after the miserable interim year. And we'll get to the film itself presently. But many of us went (and went again) with people cut of a different cloth than ourselves. We came of age with this show. We had the soundtrack memorized and sang snippets to each other in high school hallways. We were rabid for tickets to the national tour. We had merch from a show we'd only seen shitty bootlegs of on YouTube computer screens (with dial-up internet, y'all). And we knew splitting this show into two parts was never going to work.

So when going with fans who hadn't been in a chokehold from this show since 2003, many of us had trouble holding our tongues at inevitable accusations at the film's tone, music, story, etc. No matter how many times you said "It's not meant to be a separate film," the average viewer only sees this as a sequel. And who can really blame them? You wouldn't go see one act of a play or musical in a theatre, then wait a year, and go see the second act. You'd have forgotten much of the material, atmosphere, and sensations, for starters. Stories told onstage with all the restrictions that entails (time, space, resources, imagination, community) are simply structured differently as narratives and as experiences. To split it so egregiously means utter disaster, especially for the second act, which is almost universally drier, heavier, darker, and quieter than the first. It's just the nature of the craft.

All that to say: the only reasonable way to watch this film is as a direct continuation of the first, so I'll be writing about it as such. It is not, and should never have been, considered on its own terms.

Tone is where we'll start, I think, because whereas the first act of Wicked is essentially a coming of age comedy (in the classical sense; a narrative climbing upward to liberation, self-actualization, love, health, etc.) the second act is functionally an antihero's tragedy (a narrative climbing downward to ruination, damnation, loss, grief, etc.). Overlapping with the events of The Wizard of Oz as it does, from the perspectives of characters not seen in the 1939 classic, how can it be anything else for the titular wicked witch of the west? Her demise by Dorothy proves to be no less than a state-sanctioned execution carried out by an "innocent," a perspective emphasized in this production, which heavily ramps up the political themes in this material. It's both timely and appropriate, and one of the writerly choices I love best in this film: whereas onstage, the second act almost entirely forgets the animals and their plight, this film adds multiple scenes of the horrors enacted on them that appropriately and necessarily intensify the proceedings. Think about how the US felt after 9/11 and you'll begin to appreciate why us finally being able to see what we've only imagined is so satisfying to fans.

So it makes sense, in terms of tone, that Stephen Schwartz's inevitable new music for part two wasn't upbeat, rambunctious silliness like in part one. These aren't sapphic schoolgirls growing into their shoes (er...hats?) and learning that the world isn't quite what it seems. These are adult women with influence and powers they're still learning to handle: magic, yes, but more importantly public image and voice and impact. They're mere years out of college, with seemingly minimal professional training, yet already spokespeople for entire political movements! And, at least in Elphaba's case, coordinating and enacting (often solo) guerrilla-style attacks on the soldiers of Oz, which significantly endangers her life. These new songs -- one for each of our lead women -- are melancholic and slow, with Erivo's being a sort of bland, repetitive march (that feels almost like a dirge; think "Anatevka") and Grande's a lilting, frothy aria. Neither feel organically like part of the film's soundscape, nor do they show off the considerable talents of these singers, though Schwartz clearly wrote for their particular voices. They're nice enough tunes, but feel like scrapped material from his less-accomplished works. Actually, that's a curious thought: to know what melodies Schwartz scrapped before or during workshops for the show back in those early aughts.

*Also in terms of music, while we're on the topic: the opening sequence of this film. Of course I hated it; what's to like? It's a medley of truncated tunes from the first act with reworked lyrics meant to put us back in the aural headspace of Schwartz's Oz. It feels like, "And that's what you missed on Glee." And it adds some really heavyhanded visuals, like Elphaba's conspiracy murderboard reminding herself that the Wizard is bad and that she needs to overthrow him. Because, you know, it might be something she'd forget. It also gives Glinda a moment of enjoying her newfound cult of personality (gifted to her by associating with the Wizard) while the Oz guards dance and salute her.

A changed narrative genre notwithstanding, the tone of act two becomes by necessity more political and more angry. To better serve this, the writers here do some really admirable work in trying to flesh out thematic points of interest, namely in clearly delineating the rise of fascism. And it's not just a Madame Morrible-and-the-Wizard thing. I was always annoyed and sad that the original cast recording does not include "The Wicked Witch of the East," a curious little number that dramatizes Nessarose's fall from grace as she expresses her increasing desperation through agency and ownership over Munchkinland and especially Boq (Ethan Slater, really pushing for serious appreciation here), her unrequited love. That scene is really compellingly rendered here, with an interesting alteration to the glittery shoes' effect of making Nessa fly rather than walk, seemingly an attempt to sidestep the troubling ableism of that moment. The writers also add new dialogue and context, showing Nessa legally restricting animal movement in Munchkinland in accordance with propaganda from the Emerald City; then, due to her fears of abandonment, she restricts all Munchkins from moving as well. We're treated to an upsetting scene at a train station that, in case you had spaced out, reminds us that the rise of fascism is not unfamiliar to us. And, even on a simple narrative level, showing how deep personal pain can spur someone on to evils like fascism (um, Darth Vader, anyone?) is one of the main takeaways from this film that we simply don't get onstage: all this context is delivered in a single line by Boq, something to the effect of "she's stripping the rights of Munchkins" and she says "to keep you here." It's really nice to have more material around this so we can savor it.

That said, I would add that, even with its cleverly rewritten intro music, I think it's performed in a lower key in the film than onstage, which may not be a dealbreaker for most people, but definitely decreased its sheer emotional intensity. At least to my ears.

I also don't mean to give the impression that there is no humor or joy in this film. Of course we still get cutesy little Oz-isms in speech, though the "clock-tick" gag is laughably overused; to that point, I will never understand why there is no Time Dragon in either film, and it infuriates me, and I will be making no further comment about that. Several of Glinda's quips are rearranged and moved earlier in the film; presumably, this allows her arc to take more of a center focus than Elphaba's, which was featured in the first act. Glinda's sobriety here doesn't mean she's not a little silly at times, but Grande is working overtime to complicate even plaintive stares, shading each gaze with emotional fragility barely masking near-constant heartache. It helps that we get added scenes of her own childhood, revealing that she's always been a bit of a fraud with lots of gumption, all welcome additions. Her performance here devastated me in ways I was actively resisting, and while she could have given even more to it, she makes it almost look easy and understated in a way that emphasizes Glinda's balletic fantasy vibes. Actually, to that point, the way the plot was reworked to include her wedding to Fiyero (Jonathan Bailey, we'll get to him) and to have its ruins be her setting for the "I'm Not That Girl" reprise hurt my soul in ways I've still not healed.

Joy comes in this film, too, from a deeper, more abiding satisfaction in the character of Elphaba, who does indeed have an arc here as well. Hers is of becoming villainous, and while she can't really achieve the same levels as Margaret Hamilton by restrictions in the role itself, Elphaba does indeed go from hiding her "weird quirk"-iness to asserting herself in all ways. Indeed, she opens the film freeing some animals from their enslavement. This also includes the way of love, which brings to fruition her moments of connection with Fiyero (Jonathan Bailey, but let's not get distracted just now) from the first act. A personal favorite song of the show, "As Long as You're Mine" brings them together before disaster strikes, and she follows it up with the powerhouse "No Good Deed" in a sequence of scenes that Erivo chews up nicely. While her dynamism is necessarily featured in the first act, here Erivo wields a quiet power, a performance of gravitas that feels earned and burdensome. Heavy lies the witch's cap and all that. 

An added note for Elphaba's character: the original production had Elphaba almost betraying her convictions in "Wonderful" with the Wizard, singing "It does sound wonderful" in a strange moment that's long irked some fans. It never bothered me too much, because she's clearly not infallible and the Wizard is meant to be oozing with charm. If we saw right through his sham all the time, he wouldn't have ever been enthroned as the Wizard in the first place. So I rather liked the inclusion of Glinda in the number -- with its bizarrely reworked intro music -- as it allowed the characters to connect again and to reinforce the subtle familial relationships between them. Additionally, I think this theming could and should have been added to Elphaba's original song. Think of it: what if, even with the same thematic ideas of the new "No Place Like Home," the song was written as a harmonic duet between Elphaba and Dulcibear, to mirror her song with Dr. Dillamond from the first act? Ooh, I have goosebumps just thinking of its counterpoint to the "Something Bad" happening at home messaging. And then maybe it would sound more like Wicked and less like Aida. If you know, you know.

Okay, let's talk Fiyero. Bailey is still doing his excellent work, and it's nice to see his darker side in this outing. He's captain of the Gale Force, a cleverly named cadre of soldiers that tips its hat to Morrible's magical predilections as well as to L. Frank Baum's surname for his young protagonist. It should also be said that this is used in Maguire's novel, which I will otherwise not be mentioning here. Bailey gets some nice moments here, especially in his romantic duet, which is staged in a really nice way that is unfortunately more family-friendly than some of us might have preferred. But when he appears for the last time, his nightmarish makeup triggered my trypophobia. To be fair, Boq's makeup makes Slater almost unrecognizable, but in a way that feels intentionally similar to Jack Haley's appearance as the character. So why the designers chose to make Bailey's Scarecrow look like Ryan Reynolds's Deadpool doing the Scarecrow as a Halloween costume is a mystery that took me completely out of the film's denouement. Is it too much to ask for a bit more of Ray Bolger's look? It's less gag-inducing. And then for Elphaba to have dialogue about him being "beautiful anyway" or whatever, literally highlighting the misstep, was too much for me. 

The plot holes of the original are generally still problems in the film, and ones that I'm a little curious about. Surely, for all the additions of action and animals, the creative team could have provided some answer for odd discrepancies between Wicked and The Wizard of Oz. It's not all wholly necessary onstage, because the production has thus far been visualized in a steampunk Gothic style; the film, however, is meant to look like the Oz we've always seen on screen, so the relationship between the two plots is ripe for scrutiny. So how and why certain characters, like the Scarecrow and the Tin Man, don't seem to have shared history anymore still doesn't make sense; nor does Morrible's inexplicable ignorance of all their identities -- including the Cowardly Lion, voiced by Colman Domingo for all of a handful of lines in, what, two scenes? Lines that, it should be said, do little more than make him a race traitor, functionally -- despite them all having been at Shiz together at the same time.

And, because I do this sometimes, here are a smattering of my incidental concluding thoughts that aren't as well categorizable as my dubiously well-organized previous paragraphs. Regarding the Wizard (Jeff Goldblum, still his delicious self), his lack of reprising "A Sentimental Man" is disappointing. Don't get me wrong: it's a weak song in the material, and only really exists to let the Wizard character sing, to justify Elphaba's "as someone told me lately" lyric in "Defying Gravity," and for its reprise, when he is given an emotional sendoff with his acknowledgment -- again, in the tradition of tragic antiquity -- that his longing "to be a father" has in fact been a reality all along. But for all else these writers added to and changed in the second act, I cannot comprehend why this was axed entirely. On the other hand, I liked how this film doubles down on his visual comparisons to Walt Disney; Goldblum is lost in a world of toys and ideas, with a miniature train and zoetrope symbolizing his clinging to fantasies. Additionally, Michelle Yeoh's Morrible was never the powder keg I wanted, but her performance -- singing voice and all -- was suitably sinister.

The setting change of "Thank Goodness" to be the construction of the yellow brick road was a brilliant choice, as was the visualization of Morrible's twister tearing up said road: authoritarian dictators don't just disregard their own citizens and/or resources, they actively destroy aspects of civilization that they themselves need in pursuit of their goals (namely power, often through removal of perceived enemies). Much like these tensions, cinematographer Alice Brooks literalizes the broken relationships between characters and characters, characters and society, and characters and self by using a lot of mirrors and glass, often passing through them to distort our perception of reality. It underscores how easy it is for us to lose ourselves to our manufactured image, to deceive ourselves of intentions and motives; this comes to a climax during "The Girl in the Bubble," where the camera constantly moves through windows and mirrors while framing Glinda in architectural bubbles, much as her character is coming to terms with this pseudo-self-imposed prison. Brooks's choices make less sense in the black and white snippets of Fiyero's torture, which I'm guessing was to maintain a PG rating (?) even though it's quite minimalist, and in the generally desaturated color palette, compared to the first film. I suppose it could be an indicator of how Elphaba sees her visions, but that's not at all consistent through this production.

And don't get me started with that final shot. What a lovely way to end the film.

We could go on for much longer, and frankly this is the kind of film I like getting really nitty-gritty with. As long as all discussion participants are willing to not judge this film as its own thing, we can have really cool conversations about narrative adaptations, about performance subtleties, about production design, about thematic conceits. And this seems a useful time to reiterate my mantra: when you resort to evaluating films as "good" or "bad," you lose not only intellectual opportunities but the possibility for discussion itself. How much more rewarding (and, ultimately, fruitful) to actually discuss the art, rather than our reactions to it! It's this approach -- simply looking closer and talking about movies and their complexities and tensions, a simple practice that provides greater meaning -- that has always motivated me to avoid evaluating a film in conversation.

Drive-Away Dolls (2024)

Score: 2.5 / 5

Drive-Away Dolls promised a lot of fun in its irreverent homage to road trips and screwball comedies, and while some will appreciate its kitschy femininity on display, one is left wondering what the point of all the fuss is, and why Ethan Coen thought he was the filmmaker to handle it.

Set in 1999, this crime caper starts in Philadelphia as two lesbians plan a road trip to Tallahassee. The time period and destination seem a wink and a nod to those of us who know these characters are on the brink of a conservative spiral in national politics. Note that these two lesbians are, truly, friends: Jamie (Margaret Qualley) has recently been kicked out of her ex's (Beanie Feldstein) apartment for her infidelity, and uptight Marian (Geraldine Viswanathan) just wants to get out of town and birdwatch in a more exotic locale. Jamie seems eager to get Marian to loosen up, and her infidelity seems a fact of life, as she increasingly flirts with Marian in the hopes of some casual sex on their road trip. Between the BBQ joints and lesbian bars along the way, of course.

Short on funds, they plan to drive a booked one-way car to Tallahassee, not knowing that their car has already been booked by someone else. Proprietor Curlie (Bill Camp) might make some shady deals, but he also makes a terrible mistake in this instance, as the car he lends the girls is already loaded with a suitcase carrying untold secrets between criminals. Thankfully, unlike in Pulp Fiction, we do get to know what's inside this one, and it is admittedly very funny, thanks in no small part to the ensemble presence of Pedro Pascal and Matt Damon and Colman Domingo in effective bit parts meant to showcase the desperation and inadequacies of men in the face of loud and proud young dykes.

There is plenty to enjoy in this film, especially if you like crude sexual humor and obvious aesthetic ploys for kitsch and irony. The brightly lit material and zany situations feel straight out of a John Waters flick, but rather than bask in its own mise en scène, the film keeps ramping up its own absurdities, adding pointless action and forced one-liners to guide the flow of each sequence. It jerks us back and forth between the two main lesbians and their pursuers, everybody bickering with each other. Thankfully the performances, especially of Qualley and Feldstein, are dedicated and inspired, proving Coen's steadfast ability to wrangle killer deliveries from his actors.

I could never quite shake the feeling, however, that this film was simply trying too hard to do something, and I still don't know what that something is. Coen and his spouse Tricia Cooke co-wrote the screenplay, and while I don't think artists shouldn't be imaginative and creative, this material feels uncomfortable under their pens. Perhaps it's their blasé attitude toward queerness and a strange entitlement to language that isn't theirs to own; perhaps it's their crude handling of material without any consideration of the realistic basis for their humor. It's equally odd that idiosyncratic, setting-specific crime comedies like this are what made the Coen name famous, yet this feels like a B-movie knockoff of their own earlier works. Its dirty irreverence and foul-mouthed fun feel indicative of the writers' "what the hell, why not" entitlement, and I'd have preferred even a little bit of earnestness in it, like there was in the similarly silly Burn After Reading or Hail, Caesar! Then I might have cared more, especially about the faux-camp to which this movie so desperately aspires.

Rustin (2023)

Score: 4 / 5

In case, this Black History Month, you are called to remember Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I Have a Dream" speech, you would do well to view the recent Netflix original film Rustin. A dramatization of grassroots efforts that led to the famous 1963 March on Washington, the film feels urgent and timely as we culturally reel over the last election while looking ahead to an imminent rematch no one really wants to happen. It's a strident reminder of what we the people are truly capable of accomplishing together. But more than a survey of history, this film is a character study of its eponymous activist, Bayard Rustin, one of the great minds behind the march whose life and work in proximity to King were troubled once his queerness came out. This film, an ode to Rustin and intersectional politics, pulls no punches when it comes to confronting the tough stuff even as it earnestly teaches those of us not already in the know.

A heavy introduction to the film feels ripped from a documentary, reminding us of the boiling issues of segregation in the '50s and '60s with images of Ruby Bridges, Elizabeth Eckford, and Anne Moody enduring abuse as they worked toward integration. It's maybe a bit on the nose, and feels a bit gimmicky in so blatantly attention-grabbing, but it nonverbally reminds us that racism is more a social issue than a legal one before throwing us into Rustin's story, which is sort of emblematic of that very tension. Obviously he was targeted by anyone against racial equality, but the revelation of his homosexuality turned many of his fellow Black activists against him as well. 

Having now seen the film, I can say it provided a suitable introduction to the man whose name was the only thing I had previously known about him. It also whet my whistle in wanting to learn more about this queer man behind the man. In a similar way to the successes of Judas and the Black Messiah and The Trial of the Chicago 7, teaching and entertaining at once, Rustin works hard to be as pleasant to watch as it is informative. Despite surely learning about it in grade school, I was surprised to see the over 200,000 Black people descend on the Lincoln Memorial for one of the largest nonviolent protests America has ever seen. It effectively dramatized the various differing approaches to seeking justice, even within Black communities, and the conflicts that often arose between factions; for example, did you know that the NAACP initially discouraged the whole idea of the march?

It helps the drama of this story -- so concerned as it is, rightfully, with history -- to have an accomplished, nuanced, and authentically gay actor assuming the titular role. Colman Domingo, whose recent work has included such heavy hitters as Ma Rainey's Black Bottom (also with director George C. Wolfe), Candyman, and The Color Purple, hits yet another milestone here with a charismatic and rhetorically brilliant performance that highlights the wit and scope of the screenplay (penned by Dustin Lance Black and Julian Breece). The zingers and humor buttress -- and sometimes soften -- the more dangerous aspects of this story, which might not ring historically accurate but do help provide an "in" for us even as it helps differentiate what could otherwise be a dry sociopolitical rehashing of history.

Aml Ameen plays King very well; it's a thankless role sure to be forgotten in favor of, for example, David Oyelowo's performance in Selma, but Ameen plays wonderfully off Domingo, and the two share an electrifying chemistry. I'd have liked a bit more depth to their relationship through the dialogue, but the actors know how to share a lot of dynamics with only their faces and bodies. The two male characters with whom Rustin shares romance similarly share instantly believable and consistently interesting chemistry with Domingo, and I really appreciated the film's willingness to survey Rustin's somewhat needfully sordid private life in tandem with his rigorously organized social life. The character isn't reduced to an archetype or an icon on a timeline, but rather fully fleshed out in ways that enhance, rather than distract from, his legacy.

The Color Purple (2023)

Score: 5 / 5

It's perfect. I rarely say that about movies, but this one is just perfect, from start to finish. Seeing this with my parents on Christmas Day was a perfect way to relax in the middle of the holiday, despite lots -- and I mean lots -- of shed tears. If you haven't seen it yet, drop what you're doing, grab your nearest and dearest, and get to a cinema posthaste!

The 1982 source material is also perfect, to be fair, which is why it has been canonized as a classic already, in addition to Spielberg's awesome adaptation in 1985. When I first heard the soundtrack of the 2005 Broadway musical, I knew it would be great on stage, though never got to see it. Thankfully, director Blitz Bazawule is at the top of his game after The Burial of Kojo and of course Black is King, and his musical sensibilities and unique visual artistry coalesce here into a transcendent work of consummate art. The music informs setting, the characters inform costume, the design informs choreography, theme informs performance, and all elements speak to each other endlessly in what appears to be a harmonious collaboration of artists working toward a single glorious goal. Bazawule knowingly stages each scene like a stage show, films it like a music video, and combines it into a singular vision of rapturous beauty. Movies like this don't happen often. More impressive because this is an epic, a meticulously detailed but vast canvas of life from heaven to hell and back.

Uniformly brilliant performances grace the film, from the hatefully vile male characters like Colman Domingo's Mister and Corey Hawkins's Harpo to the radiant and longsuffering female characters like Danielle Brooks's Sofia and Taraji P. Henson's Shug Avery. Both these women pull no punches (literally), banging down the door and staking claims for best supporting actresses in any film this year. Brooks is the only Broadway alumna (from the acclaimed 2015 revival) to reprise her role apart from headliner Fantasia Barrino (who replaced the original, LaChanze), whose performance as Celie will earn similar accolades. She imbues Celie with everything that makes her such a compelling character, from her childlike innocence to her looks of pure horror as the worst things keep happening to her and she still takes it in stride. Everyone deserves awards here, though, even those who aren't top-billed, like Phylicia Pearl Mpasi and Halle Bailey as young Celie and Nettie, respectively; their heartfelt and harrowing first act of the film provides more than enough emotional and spiritual gravitas for an entire film on their own.

In a story that spans so much time -- an entire lifetime -- screenwriting and editing are crucial, and here they work seemingly effortlessly in tandem to keep the proceedings lively, engaging, and energized. I wasn't always convinced, when another musical number would begin, that it would mesh with the heavy drama that came in scenes before, and yet each time it astonished me by increasing the thematic weight, doubling down on either the comedy or the tragedy, and buttressing the characters and tone I already thought I knew. This is the kind of film that will only add to its boons upon further screenings. Look what God has done, indeed!

Candyman (2021)

Score: 5 / 5

As is now in vogue, we've been blessed with another remake that's actually a sequel but uses the same name and ignores previous sequels in its franchise. This time, it's Candyman, and it's bloody terrifying. Beginning twenty-seven years after the original 1992 film, we're introduced to Troy as he tells a spooky story. Bringing his audience -- including us -- up to speed on the lore, he recounts the events of the first film, when Helen Lyle (Virginia Madsen) lost her life in an evil night of blood and fire; in describing her as mentally ill and wicked, we see right away the power of folktales and urban legends. As Lyle studied the phenomenon of an urban legend, she herself has now become one. Interestingly, her story is entertainingly retold around an upper-class apartment in Chicago proper, giggled over by wealthy young black adults whose own upbringing in a gentrified district makes them skeptical of the horrors of what was once Cabrini-Green.

Troy is not the main character of this Candyman, though Nathan Stewart-Jarrett plays him very well; I worried for most of the movie that this lovely and flamboyant man or the man-candy on his arm would end up gutted. Horror doesn't usually allow the gays to be happy, and Candyman doesn't usually allow anyone else to be happy. The main character, rather, is Troy's sister's boyfriend: Anthony McCoy (Yahya Abdul-Mateen II from Aquaman, The Trial of the Chicago 7, and Watchmen), an artist whose mindfulness of the gentrification of his home neighborhood informs his art. Thankfully, his girlfriend Brianna (Teyonah Parris from If Beale Street Could Talk and WandaVision) is successful and mostly supportive of his work. As they hear the story from Brianna's brother, they discuss the central problems plaguing that particular historical context in the same way commentators and scholars have since Bernard Rose's original film came out. Brianna pointedly says, "White people built the ghetto and then erased it when they realized they built the ghetto."

Anthony wanders Cabrini-Green looking for inspiration for his next work. Once poked by his muse -- a bee, which of course is more than just a bee -- he creates violent works of the deaths of Black people in the neighborhood. Once put on display in a gallery run by a man named Clive (surely a nod to the short story source material by Clive Barker), things really get scary. Could the blatant capitalist commodification of Black lives and livelihoods have caused the bloody onslaught that takes two white people's lives in the gallery after hours? Or could it have been their flagrant disrespect of legends and a people group they know so little about? Either way, Candyman appears and blood is spilled.

Anthony learns a lot in a short amount of time, and it's in his scene with William (a deliciously sinister Colman Domingo), an older man who knows a little too much about the urban legend. But he's deeply endearing, and says lines that were surely penned directly by Jordan Peele, who serves here as writer and producer. Describing the perseverance of the myth, he notes that many men have died and been caught up in the Candyman story, as if a new horrific death of a Black man is needed to remind people about racism and police brutality. But, he says grimly, "one white woman dies and the story lives forever." William even provides Anthony his own origin story for Candyman, based on a run-in he had with a seedy figure as a child. My favorite line 

And herein dovetail the thematic elements, any of which are fascinating but, altogether, make the film an angry bonfire of an experience. This movie deepens and widens the monster's myth from the original film by carefully situating the intensifying violence on Black bodies by whiteness as its center point. Saying the name of Candyman -- literally the tool of his conjuring -- by the end of this movie becomes a sort of rallying cry for vengeance; it's also the rallying cry of current movements against abusive and deadly police tactics against Black people. Candyman becomes a sort of vindicator whose horrors might be a force for good if the endless cycle continues. In this way, Candyman radically makes use of the explicit fact that the real world is more horrifying than things dreamed up in supernatural fiction. There's a reason Lovecraft Country was recently popularized by HBO.

But that's not to discount the body horror here. The original was scary because of its gory content back when gore was becoming silly; this one fully embraces its skin-ripping, blood-gushing realism and more than once elicited groans and yelps from the auditorium in which I sat. Director Nia DaCosta (Little Woods and the upcoming MCU film The Marvels) harnesses a unique and deeply confident visual style that shook me to the core, one that knowingly and gleefully gooses the audience with morbid humor and jump scares before bulldozing us with existential dread. Her opening sequence, which features Sammy Davis Jr. singing "Candy Man" over reversed studio and distributor logos, leads into chilling shots of a foggy Chicago at twilight, shot upside-down and backwards from the street level. 

And then there's the story itself, which is so profoundly intelligent and unexpected that I gasped often out of sheer viewing pleasure. DaCosta's work is pitch-perfect, as is her direction of an excellent cast. The disgusting sound mixing and riveting cinematography clearly work toward DaCosta's intended vision. And the audacity of this screenplay in humanizing and communalizing the monster we've feared for three decades, while making him so much more horrifying through a wealth of real history that spans centuries, is nothing short of devastating. “Candyman isn’t a he,” William tells Anthony before warning him to stay away, “he’s the whole damn hive.” And if you had told me a sequel that we all thought was just a remake would be able to make the original make more sense rather than add a bunch of crazy new stuff, I'd have laughed at you. Five times. Maybe into a mirror.

Ma Rainey's Black Bottom (2020)

Score: 5 / 5

Any August Wilson production is more than worth its ticket cost. While the latest film adaptation premiered on Netflix instead of cinemas, it deserves a lot more viewing -- and uninterrupted, distraction-less viewing -- than I fear it will ultimately get. Apart from its glorious adaptation to film, helmed by the great stage director George C. Wolfe, it features two of the best performances on screen in 2020. The first is by the always brilliant Viola Davis, who is utterly transformed into the titular blues-singing diva, complete with feathers, beads, battle-ready makeup, and shining gold teeth. The second is by the late Chadwick Boseman, and it is, in this viewer's mind, the best performance he's given. We will never know if he knew this would be his swan song, but his powerhouse performance is a devastating and brutal reminder that he was taken far too soon.

It's a hot summer day in 1927, but the jazzy blues are hotter in one Chicago recording studio. Famed Ma Rainey, recently contracted by white producers and a white manager, is late for her session, although her band was punctual. As they try to rehearse, they are interrupted by their trumpeter, egotistical and ambitious Levee Green, who scoffs at their practicing and prefers to chitchat, hobnob, and dillydally his way to the performance, puffing himself up in front of the older band members by describing the new tunes he's written and gotten the producers to listen to. Levee wants to break away and make his own record; the band is happy enough to support Ma and be supported in return. You might say, "When you're good to Mama..." but that's another musical.

The band clearly has two divas, but only one is the real deal. Levee, played to revelatory perfection by Chadwick Boseman, aggressively charms even as he passively evades consequence. He knows he's a good horn player, and is old enough to know that is not enough to get where he wants to get. But he's young enough that his charm gets him in trouble, trouble he thinks he can sweet-talk his way through. In fact, his Cheshire grin, though genuine, is as manipulative and seductive as a magician's or even a killer's right before he reveals his trick. It's a dangerous game Levee plays, and Boseman, disguising his burning rage and (perhaps righteous) indignation at his status. He deserves better, and he aims to claim what he deserves. As he is told repeatedly by the other band members, Ma calls the numbers and the style, not Levee. But Levee thinks he has it in with the white manager and producer, so he's going to upset the applecart before launching to the stars.

When Ma finally arrives, she makes demands on the recording that were not agreed to by the band or the producer, and tempers quickly flare. A dazzling Viola Davis (ever an amazing actor, but here transformed almost beyond recognition) is here the openly queer and openly contemptuous icon of greasepaint and blues, dripping with beads, feathers, and furs. Hers is the sort of larger-than-life performance that will stand the test of time, but here it works both because of the heightened reality of this chamber piece and due to honoring the real-life blues singer. As the members come and go on errands, failing to record substantial takes, they soliloquize and philosophize, discussing work, religion, politics, race, and of course their own lives, slowly burning into a somewhat disillusioned but disoriented collective state of mind. But madness itself comes for only one person, and the violent finale comes when Levee's ambition and hopes and fears collide with his choices and his circumstance, forcing him into an impossible position.

A relative lack of plot allows for more time to deal with significant issues, and few writers are better to handle this than August Wilson, whose voice controls every ebb and flow of emotional weight. Though the film features music by Branford Marsalis, Wilson's dialogue is its own chamber piece, scoring itself in long-winded speeches and overlapping dialogue with dynamic rhythms and particular cadences that inform our feeling of the scene as much as the content of the language itself. Wilson's tendency for weaving metaphysical language and even fantastic or supernatural elements into his dialogue is most present here in Cutler (Colman Domingo), whose religious background informs several themes that pointedly inform the eventual climax. In fact, all the roles here have juicy moments, and the actors are altogether brilliant in fulfilling the needs of a demanding script and what was no doubt a demanding shoot.

Director George C. Wolfe, famed Broadway director, here delivers his best film yet; staged as it is, I would almost have preferred it to be actually shot on stage, if only to see what he would have done with it. Being locked in unbroken scenes with these actors in these roles would have felt intoxicating in their nightmarish design. And yet he surprises us with genius visual tricks, shifting our gaze to unexpected and often apparently insignificant elements that don't quite make sense if you're familiar with the play, but suddenly make themselves crucial to our understanding of the drama at work. Case in point: before the climax, during another character's revealing discussion, he closes our focus in on Levee, forcing us to watch Boseman's nonverbal facial reactions to his own mental breakdown, tying two separate symbolic stories at the same time as an unspoken theme becomes all too literal. And then, as Boseman goes in for his climax, Wolfe has the amazing good sense to just let him be, in what is unquestionably the best single scene on film this year. Boseman's fury is almost unwatchable, partly because the man knew he was dying as he filmed the iconic Wilson scene about mortality, legacy, and the pain of life. The illusion is so perfect that it is hard to even call it that; the reality of the art presented to us is, in fact, reality. It's a transcendent moment unlike any I've seen in years. Much will be made of him, and Davis, and not enough will be made of the excellence that is Ma Rainey's Black Bottom, but Boseman is, truly, the best actor in any dramatic performance this year.

If Beale Street Could Talk (2018)

Score: 5 / 5

It's a nearly perfect film from the man who made last year's perfect film Moonlight. Barry Jenkins has done it again -- although, in my view, not quite as successfully -- with If Beale Street Could Talk, adapted from the James Baldwin novel.

Tish and Fonny are in trouble. Having been friends their whole lives, they eventually become lovers. Now she's pregnant with his child, but he's been framed for raping another woman. Tish must tell her truth to their families and plan how to support herself, her child, and Fonny's defense. Told in nonlinear episodes, the film weaves a mesmerizing tale of love through lovers, family, faith, and of course New York City.

Like his earlier film, Beale Street works best as a sensory exercise. Its impossibly beautiful score -- by composer Nicholas Britell -- sweeps your heart away while gorgeous photography of New York life -- by James Laxton -- steals your sight. Though the cinematography isn't as evocative as in Moonlight, here it does do well in focusing our attention on the human faces struggling for love. We're kept tight on various visages, daring us to investigate the souls of those whose lives we're intimately invading. It's exactly the kind of technique so alien to our culture of screens and speed and ironic distances; to be kept in often silent proximity with the windows to the soul of another human.

The screenplay here is a bit more articulate than in his earlier film, and while I didn't quite like it at first, it's hard to ignore the powerful voice of James Baldwin bleeding through. Further, while all the actors are uniformly doing excellent work -- they shine often when saying and doing nothing at all, only looking -- they manage to make the heightened dialogue sound not only normal but absolutely pure, wrapping their voices and our minds around weighty concepts and layers of meaning with each utterance.

The film's slow, melancholic visual and aural approach to storytelling may be too deliberate and cerebral for some, but it belies a surprisingly complex, detailed story. Timely and deeply disturbing, the romance set amidst contemporary race relations, gender dynamics, and grave injustice is also, at its core, a time-tested dramatic form in new trappings -- new color, if you will -- as a tale of pure hope in the face of evil society.

I personally didn't care for the intrusive use of stock photos depicting historical race relations, and I'm annoyed that Regina King didn't get more to work with in her role. Frankly the film didn't mean as much to me as the groundbreaking queer romance Moonlight did, but all these are just personal preferences. So while it's not my favorite example of the unbelievably beautiful craft of its director, Beale Street deserves all the praise in the world. Go see it. Go love it. Let the sounds and sights wash over you, and fall in love all over again. It's an amazing thing to experience.

The Birth of a Nation (2016)

Score: 4.5 / 5

Not quite familiar with the story of Nat Turner, I found this film to be one of the most engaging and revealing visions of slavery-era America ever made. Flirting in turns with horror and with beauty, The Birth of a Nation captures the evils of slavery while providing a timely parallel for the horrors the black community still faces in America today. More importantly, it is yet another fine example of a recent surge of black film in mainstream cinema: movies made by black people about black people for black people. Of course, it's accessible to all of us, but it presents the rare tale of justice and empowerment specifically for the black man, and that alone deserves some applause right now.

The film concerns Nat Turner, the slave who led a rebellion in Southampton County, Virginia, in 1831. It was one of -- if not the -- most violent (and, arguably, successful) uprising of any slave group in the South. The intriguing part is that Turner was literate and a preacher, depicted in the film as seeing divine visions, whose understanding of the Bible radically changed from one accepting and encouraging slavery to one of wrath and justice for his subjugated people. As such, he undermined the slaveowners' rhetorical claim on the Bible and was able to amass his soldiers into a force that murdered dozens before they were stopped and killed. After the insurrection had ended, white militia and mobs murdered hundreds of black people in retaliation, and state laws all over the South instituted prohibition of black education and black assembly, and required that white preacher be present at all religious services.

Nate Parker proves his acting mettle as Nat Turner, and more than once moved me to tears with his gutsy delivery. I could criticize his direction and writing, however: His film, formulaic and preachy, winds its unbalanced way to a climax that is anything but cathartic. The real joys of his film are in the smaller moments of the first two acts; by the time we reach the brutal third act, we know exactly what to expect, and it's nothing new. Parker does something interesting, too, in focusing so tightly to Nat Turner's figure; we see everything from Nat's perspective, which to my mind makes the film more a biography or character study than a universal story of empowerment and vengeance. We see horrors on screen, to be sure, but the story turns on the rape of Turner's wife (played by the amazing Aja Naomi King), an event we don't even see. Showing it might feel like exploitation, and frankly I'm good with showing less sexual violence on screen, but it's an intriguing directorial choice, and one that, again, focuses on the man's reaction to the event rather than the woman's experience of the event (consider, as counterpoint, The Accused's handling of the subject matter).

A rousing sense of conviction and a passion for black empowerment more than make up for Parker's directorial missteps here; whether if, as various scenes change their aesthetic, we view the film as biographical history, racial horror, action drama, or something else entirely, we are sure to leave the film changed, if only by the sheer urgency of the film's message. The Birth of a Nation is sure to provoke conversations about the morality of retaliatory violence and the religious motivations for bloodshed. It excellently provides examples of how the Bible can be used in defense of opposing ideologies, and opens the door wide for debate on biblical authority and rhetoric. Hopefully it will also spur empathetic conversations about the ongoing need for justice and equality in America.

IMDb: The Birth of a Nation