Old (2021)

 Score: 3.5 / 5

A nuclear family is en route to their exclusive beachside vacation. Rolling into the high-class resort is about as perfect as you can imagine it, even with two young children Maddox and Trent. Specialty cocktails are presented to parents Guy and Prisca (Gael Garcia Bernal and Vicky Krieps), based apparently on their previously established food and nutrient preferences. The clientele are remarkably diverse, but all are living their best life between lounging at the spa and dining in full view of the tropical ocean bay. The resort manager -- who we briefly see acting hostile to a little brown boy -- tells the main family of a secluded beach, impossible to stumble across, they might especially like to explore. The drive there is chauffeured by M. Night Shyamalan, the mildly creepy director almost winking at us with an "I'm baaack" kind of delivery, literally reminding us that he's in control of assembling everything we're about to see.

That's just about the only metafictional element in Old, Shyamalan's latest directorial project, but it's effective for those of us who are generally willing to let him take us for a weird ride. The title is odd, and I wondered briefly if this would be some uncomfortable ageist horror, akin to what he gave us in The Visit in 2015. Although even that was more aesthetically and intellectually satisfying that some of his recent forays into more standard science fiction, but let's hope he's back on track now. His oeuvre certainly seems to be back here, namely in his thematic concern for the people he leaves on the secret beach, if not so much in plot or development.

Other people come to the beach, too, and I was initially worried about having to remember all the names. Once I realized the names don't matter, my anxiety waned: there's a doctor (Rufus Sewell) and his wife (Abbey Lee), his mother (Kathleen Chalfant) and young daughter. There's a third couple without children (Ken Leung and Nikki Amuka-Bird), and a quiet man with a bleeding nose already on the beach (Aaron Pierre). An ensemble cast is not unfamiliar territory for Shyamalan, but for arguably the first time in his career, he balances all of them well, often allowing his cinematographer and editor to isolate the characters in extreme close-ups with a blurry handheld camera, forcing us into one character's experience at a time. This is important to allow us access to the characters, but also to establish the rules of the film: everyone is on their own on this beach, despite the appearance that they're all in it together.

In what? In hell, perhaps. The relatively calm water grows more foamy and wavy as the day progresses, the sun climbs higher in a clear sky to bake the sand, and the cliff walls surrounding the secret beach seem to grow taller. The only way out is a cave-like crevice in the cliff face, but each time someone tries to pass through, they pass out and reawaken on the beach. As their flirtation with madness becomes concerning, a more pressing issue manifests: time is fleeting, and with each passing hour, they age roughly two years. By what we imagine is lunchtime, the young children have become young adults (played wonderfully by Alex Wolff, Thomasin McKenzie, and Eliza Scanlen) and the older ones begin to exhibit their own problems, from cancerous tumors to hearing and vision loss and even dementia. By the time a day will pass, half their lives will be gone; this means, too, that half of them will die by old age, if not by anything more insidious.

The screenplay, ambitious as it is with a truly terrifying conceit, never quite manages to do more than act like a kid in a sandbox, pushing people around to interact with each other for forced dramatic purpose. Most of the dialogue is heavily expository, filled with "what do we do now" and "this can't be happening" and even "remember when" stories about each other's medical or developmental history. Of course, it might be easy to read this all as thick or even lazy writing, but I think Shyamalan is dangerously close to realism here. After all, most of these folks are strangers, and it's not like they have a lot of time to discover, learn, test, fail, attempt again, and finally escape the accursed beach; they need to communicate bluntly and with lots of information, much as a group trying to solve an escape room. And with time relentlessly ticking, the consequences will be fatal.

Old is at its most chilling when exploring these consequences. It's not so much about solving the mystery of the beach -- which is why the final sequence (so often Shyamalan's most-debated scenes) is a bit of a letdown -- as it is about dealing with the reality of the beach's mystery. For this reason, the existential horror of the film should have been taken as its aesthetic. We get plenty of gruesome scares, from dead bodies washing up on the beach and young women falling from cliff faces to aging bones splintering and a madman slashing away at survivors with a knife. But for each moment of earned, unadulterated horror, the film slickly looks away, cutting out just as the violence occurs; some audiences will like this, as it focuses our attention on what we don't see and on the inner lives of the characters. I would argue that this technique undermines the thrilling and troubling elements of the story, minimizing our experience of the pain and agony that these characters are suffering. I want to see this same movie again, but with the potential body horror fully realized by a director willing to go all the way.

Shyamalan has certainly managed to make a career out of being unexpected, and often suggesting surrealism in otherwise realistic settings. But this movie is the first time I wanted so much more from him in execution: the evocative beach and dramatically fecund observations on aging would have paired well with full-on body horror as the characters broke down psychologically as well as physiologically. The closest we get to it, apart from the explicitly violent moments, are the terrifying moments when the camera hovers around one of the children's heads, hands, or feet. We see the reactions of people beholding the child that has suddenly aged, but we're kept in eerie suspense as we await the new makeup -- or new actor -- that will signify the child's new age. Effective as these moments are at highlighting the devastation of age, they feel unfulfilled as the film struggles to catch up with all the characters going through their own reckonings.

It's a wonderful reminder of the brilliance of this director, and I think Old will be remembered fondly alongside some of his earlier movies like The Village and Lady in the Water. As with those, its devotion to specifics is its downfall. When Shyamalan embraces ambiguity, his movies shine. With this one, he seems to know this, and taps into the meat of things just enough to keep the whole affair entertaining, provocative, and emotional. But then he pulls out, leaving those of us attuned to the genre feeling that a little bit more would have gone a long damn way. Then again, he always leaves us wanting more, and that's not a bad thing either.

Coco (2017)

Score: 5 / 5

The first thing you need to know before seeing this movie: The typical Disney "short" that plays prior to the feature is actually about 20 minutes long. Called "Olaf's Frozen Adventure", it plays like a television special about Elsa and Anna & Co. celebrating Yule festivities. While I felt it was a little long for a pre-show show, it's a heartwarming and thoroughly entertaining fantasy that features some really excellent music and laugh-out-loud comedy. And while it may be questionable to put a short about white people before a movie about Mexican culture, there is a connecting theme of traditions and family that serves each story well. And, I have to admit, I was bawling by the end of the short, and it just didn't stop.

Coco follows young Miguel as he chases his dream of music, despite his large family's hatred of it. On the Day of the Dead, Miguel is accidentally transported to the land of the dead, where he will remain until he can get his ancestors' blessing. They, however, won't bless him unless he becomes a shoemaker like the rest of the family, and so Miguel flees, searching for his great-great-(maybe more?)-grandfather, a famous musician. Along the way, he learns the pain of family secrets, the dangers of trust, and ultimately the love only a family can give.

Dazzling special effects make this film fly off the screen in a colorful kaleidoscope, while some fabulous music (scored by Michael Giacchino) keeps your toes tapping all along. But what really makes Coco work is its infectiously warm heart. Honoring the traditions of Mexican culture -- as far as I understand -- the film centers on the concept that remembering family ancestors is what keeps their essence alive. Understanding where we come from is key to understanding where we're going, though it can come with the danger, as Miguel quickly learns, of being false history and of limiting our perspective on different lifestyles. And far from being morbid or overly macabre, the film displays an amazingly tasteful way to engage with children about the processes of death and aging, one that remains endlessly entertaining as well as thoughtful and sensitive.

Richly detailed filmmaking here does not distract from pure storytelling -- complex and dynamic characterizations and plotting -- but it does help the film worm its way to your heart. I can't spoil the ending, but I related a little too much to the dynamics of a family whose matriarch's memory is all but lost. There are so many things we don't know about our own families, our histories, and it is so easy to think it doesn't matter. But it can, and -- as Coco suggests -- probably should matter. And if the holidays aren't the best times to reconnect with family, I don't know when is. Oh, and in case you were wondering, there is a certain theme of rebellion that resonates powerfully in our current political climate. Shots fired, Disney. Bravo.

IMDb: Coco

Desierto (2016)

Score: 3 / 5

A group of Mexican immigrants looking for a better life cross the US border illegally, hiding in the back of a truck. When the vehicle breaks down in the desert, the driver points the migrant workers to their destination, though they split into two groups soon after. It's an important image to see, especially in our current political climate, and I'm struck by how little we see this in movies and shows. American Crime presented some really great immigration and forced labor stories in its third season -- on network television, no less! -- but by and large, we don't see much of this dramatized. Why? Too timely? Too disturbing? Too ugly? Maybe these, and maybe more. Give it a bit more time, and an Oscar winner within the next few years will feature a story on the Syrian refugee crisis. Maybe they'll get Julia Roberts to star, he said knowingly.

Almost immediately we're introduced to Sam, a good ol' boy shooting rabbits in the wasteland with his big ol' rifle and big ol' dog, aptly named Tracker. Sam is a pragmatic man. Apart from naming his dog with the most utilitarian name possible, he doesn't put on airs with his camouflage pants, a machete on his side, a pale yellow shirt that blends perfectly into the sand, and a scarf to cover his lower face. He's a vigilante in the extreme, a violent man who may believe in anything but only practices violence. If you've seen the most recent Walking Dead season (which I haven't yet), you've probably already seen the ways Jeffrey Dean Morgan can be terrifying. This was my first experience, and it doesn't quite disappoint.

While hunting, he spots the immigrants and without hesitating takes aim. There is no deep characterization at work, no conscious motivation or moral dilemma. They are meat, wild animals to be slaughtered without blinking an eye. And slaughter them he does, with only the slightest hint of passion: "Gotcha you fucker" he mutters, as he kills a woman kneeling on the ground, mourning her already murdered husband. Leaving a mess of corpses on the valley floor below, he returns to his truck (which, you might notice, boasts a red Confederate flag) and begins giggling before shouting to no one in particular, "This Is My Home." Sound familiar?

Of course, he hasn't killed everybody. We've still got an hour of movie to go. The survivors, hiding amongst rocks and cacti, attempt to continue the journey. As in any horror film, though, and many cinema houses, they neglect to silence their gaddam phones, which betray their presence to Hunter Sam. He looses his Malinois upon them, which tracks them down and attacks with teeth that belong to Red Riding Hood's granny. One of the poor souls slips and falls, now broken and mangled on the canyon floor, bitten by the dog until Sam approaches, orders the dog to move, and shoots the man point-blank without so much as a word. Day turns to dusk, and Sam retires to camp at his truck. We wonder, Where is his home? Why doesn't he sleep there? I doubt it, but is all this land his property? Is he even more aimless and wandering than the immigrants? Regardless, his predatory existence is not without its own tragedy. He tells Tracker he knows he's "gotta get out of this hell; heat's messing with my brain." No shit, pal.

Nothing in the picture is particularly unexpected or unpredictable, but that doesn't stop it from being shocking. Is it exaggerated drama? Of course. Is it untrue? Not in the least. Claim racism, classism, nationalism, or just that old-fashioned American love of violence, but Desierto packs a hell of a punch. If the film is meant as a political manifesto or even a microcosm of immigration in the Southwest, it fails miserably. Its politics are nearly absent, apart from the caricature that is Jeffrey Dean Morgan's character, and the immigrants themselves are reduced to nameless targets for slaughter. If, on the other hand, it's only meant to be a white-knuckle thriller that feeds off contemporary anxieties, it's a stylish success. I suspect that's closer to the mark, not unlike the short story "The Most Dangerous Game" by Richard Connell, a work meant to delve into a hunter's mindset and the horror within.  Director Jonas Cuaron and cinematographer Damian Garcia throw us into the setting as an almost immersive experience (they might have cared a bit more for sound editing), and their vision is one of bleak horror. This desert is dry and harsh, a sort of limbo at the edge of the world, and as our villain obviously thinks, a good place to die.

SPOILER ALERT. In case you can't predict the things.
Speaking of dying, after the initial mass murder, there isn't much death until the end. One spectacular death takes place in a bramble patch of thorns and cacti, as our protagonist Moises (played by Gael Garcia Bernal) attempts to flee Tracker. At the last, he fires a flare gun directly into the dog's open maw, and the fiery explosive horrifically injures the dog, which Sam mercy-kills, though it again seems more out of pragmatism than mercy. Later, at the climax of the plot, the characters play cat-and-mouse atop a physical climax of rocky outcropping. After falling, Sam snaps his leg and cries and begs Moises. He begs for life, for forgiveness, even for water, and at first it's kind of nice because he's repenting, and he must not be a take-it-to-the-grave kinda guy, but then we realize he's not repenting, he's just desperate, and then we realize it's just sick. He's sick, his ideas are sick, and there's nothing even remotely moving about him. He's a monster, not even worth pity in his otherwise pathetic state, and as Moises ignores his pleas not to be left alone, we want to walk away too. Thankfully, apart from a somewhat happy ending for our protagonist, the movie is almost over.

The main problem with the movie is difficult to pinpoint. It possibly takes itself far too seriously. Its vain attempts at being affecting and emotional at the end are wasted on its audience, who by the end are outraged and horrified and don't want to be mollified by romance or hope. I think, though, that the film just doesn't work hard enough to be taken seriously. It only needed a little bit more characterization, a little bit of context and sympathy, a little bit wider scope or stronger narrative logic, and it could have been deeply moving. It could have been heartwrenching, and it could have been spectacular. Instead, it plays things safe, grounding itself in reality visually, which puts it at distinct odds with the vagaries and generalizations of its screenplay. Is it a parable, or is it reality? The filmmakers don't even know.

IMDb: Desierto