Shirley (2024)

Score: 2.5 / 5

Little is more disappointing than a group of amazing artists getting together to tell a story -- one far too long in coming -- and having it fall devastatingly flat. The story of Shirley Chisholm should have been represented cinematically ages ago; while I confess most of what I know about her comes from my U.S. history and civics classes in high school, the first Black woman to be elected to Congress and to campaign as a major party presidential candidate deserves more popular awareness than that. As such, I entered this film with more a mind to learn about the historical figure and her historic campaign than I did to appreciate it as a film. And while it suitably held my interest in that regard, this film -- annoying titled simply Shirley, which does it absolutely no favors -- is as dry as those textbook pages I pored over back when I was learning to drive.

John Ridley, writer and director of this Netflix biopic, is no stranger to relentlessly engaging material. Most famous for his Oscar-winning screenplay for 12 Years a Slave, Ridley also created, produced, penned, and directed much of American Crime, one of the best shows ever aired on network television, in my loud and proud opinion. So what struck me as most unforgivable, from him, in this latest project is how sanitized, simple, and stoic his approach is to such a groundbreaking, galvanizing person. 

Thankfully, Regina King is the primary reason for this film's watchability; she might be the only reason, unless you, like me, wanted a history lesson in two hours. Opening the film with Chisholm's victorious entrance in Congress, her Black womanhood stands out in a large group picture of the new congressional class, and she proudly holds her own in a sea of mostly white men, deflecting microaggressions (and straight-up aggressions) with confident, proud respect and nary a moment of hesitation or worry. At one point, she even says that humility is its own form of arrogance, and that's a profound insight from a character largely stripped of actual dramatic heft in context of this film. She's earned her position, she knows it, and she's going to continue breaking barriers. Not in spite of her sex or race, but emphatically because of them. I like the ideas here, but it looks terrible from a cinematic perspective. The greenscreen is obvious and garish, and the cinematography feels like something out of the period after a low-budget remastering, everything fuzzy and faded.

Unfortunately, we skip the intrigue of any of this time in her life, jumping ahead from 1968 to her presidential campaign in 1972. Clearly this is the point of the film, and more than once I had to wonder why; wouldn't it be more dramatically satisfying to see the story of her success rather than of her failure? Or, more ambitiously, a miniseries that actually charts the course of her entire political career? As it is, we're made to endure a subpar mishmash of political-business speak and largely writ characterizations that offers far more flavor of the period depicted than any substantial meat regarding history or the real people here dramatized. Perhaps my disdain stems partly from Netflix's other recent biopics that were rolled out in the height of awards season, notably Rustin (to which this will inevitably be compared), and how "too little too late" this one feels. 

Shirley features no real concept of the political process, and no shared understanding of how campaigns operate financially, politically, or socially. Characters make bizarre and repeated use of "delegates" as an idea more like trading cards or cryptocurrency, where neither we nor the characters seem to grasp what actually happens with them other than vague claiming and taking and giving. The film rolls on without caring for its characters (other than Chisholm), moving from scene to scene in what feels like check marks on a bulleted list of key points to hit, sacrificing at every turn character development for exposition dumping, interpersonal nuance for forced "big picture" moments, and real historical or political insight for all the details a kid's school report could offer. Even moments that should be showstoppers, like the assassination attempt on her, are glided over with all the grace of a ball rolling across the court; the closest we get to real intrigue in the whole film is when Shirley finally meets the leader of the Black Panthers on "neutral ground" in the home of actress Diahann Carroll (Amirah Vann, who is delicious), a meeting brokered by Barbara Lee (who appears in the film only to parrot Chisholm's ideas in the background, despite that she is currently -- I think -- the longest-serving Black woman in Congress), and the scene is really uniquely terrible, even from a storytelling standpoint. "She looks like an angel, but she fights like the devil for civil rights." I mean, really? John Ridley, what are you doing?

Even more damagingly for us: it's never made clear exactly what Chisholm could or would do with her power if elected; her actual platform, glaringly ignored by this film, and even her personal goals in pursuing elected office are treated as immaterial. In fact, one of the only points I distinctly recall her making in this film is her interest in inner city politics, but even that is about the scope and breadth of it as presented to us by the screenplay. In this way, and forgive me for overstepping but I don't forgive the film for ignoring, Shirley oddly seems to posit that Chisholm's identity alone is her reason, goal, drive, and endgame for seeking the presidency. In an era (meaning 2024, not 1972) when talk of identity politics is somewhat dying down as the American political system is actively morphing into something new and unknown, why on earth would A-list filmmakers want to make a movie about someone with real, tangible political history (whose known catchphrase "unbought and unbossed" indicated her lack of major donors or corporate backings to influence her, something which would be amazing to be reminded of and see directly right now, meaning 2024) and sanitize all of that out of it, choosing instead to lionize her otherwise artistically barren legacy as one of identity politics above all?

King is incredible, of course, and I liked most Chisholm's private scenes with her husband (Michael Cherrie) and advisors, played by Terrence Howard, Brian Stokes Mitchell, and the late Lance Reddick (who appears here in what I think is finally his final filmed role). The way she navigates their support and occasional challenges is fascinating and inspiring, though her dominance over her husband is more telling than even I expected in a film this watered down. There's even multiple hints of her resentful sister, who is never elaborated upon, beyond a vague accusation that their father loved Shirley best and left her more money. Oh, and Lucas Hedges joins the team as its optimistic and energetic white young man whose studies in law are helping keep the campaign in touch with new voters. I also found the scenes of Chisholm with citizens to be interesting and I'd have liked more exploration of that; it's clear she knows people and how to engage with them, and that she fully believes in a real democratic government for and by the average polity, whom she treats like real people with real needs. This film would have done better to treat her like a real person, too. 

As an addendum, and because I feel bad for so many criticisms here, I'd like to share what I think would have made a better story. Make it a miniseries (even four episodes would suffice) that charts Chisholm's political career, allows us more insight into her as a person, and most importantly engages with the political processes of the time. Give us the knowledge of how delegates are handled by campaigners. Give us actual, substantial scenes of infighting at the Black caucuses and with members of Congress. Give us more about the people who join the process, fall off, compete, and offer support again. Give us more about her suing the network for air time and more of her interview. Give a reference to the fact that Chisholm was not the first Black woman to run for president (that was the Communist, Charlene Mitchell, in '68, where the film started anyway!). Give us reasons to care for these characters and the history they represent so that we want to know more, not just feel like we learned enough to pass the next pop quiz.

French Exit (2021)

Score: 3 / 5

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

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

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

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

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

Let Them All Talk (2020)

 Score: 4.5 / 5

Let Them All Talk is an oddly prescient film in several ways. Filmed over two weeks with an impossibly skimpy budget -- Meryl Streep has gone on the record saying she was paid twenty-five cents for her performance -- its production is an act of sheer rebellion, really more an experimental performance art piece than a proper movie. Its cast of, what, seven or eight people performed with key moments scripted, but most of their dialogue was, supposedly, improvised. Director Steven Soderbergh himself served also as cinematographer and editor. There is no costumer or makeup artist, as the actors dressed themselves, no special effects, no set or production design. The film was shot aboard the RMS Queen Mary 2 using totally natural (or, at least, natural to the ocean liner) light. Other than his camera, Soderbergh reportedly only used sound equipment. 

Apart from it taking place on an ocean liner (thankfully not a cruise ship), the movie's tiny crew, cast, and budget might suggest a way forward for studios and indie filmmakers hurting after a year with COVID.

There's a lot to unpack here, but we should start with what story there is. Plot, in this product, seems to have been inspired by Deborah Eisenberg at the outset, forgotten about during filming, and then revisited during the editing stage. Alice Hughes (Streep) is a Pultizer-winning novelist working on a new book, which many people suspect might be a follow up to her most famous book published decades earlier. Upon learning she is receiving a prestigious award in the UK, she books tickets on the QM2 for herself, her nephew Tyler (Lucas Hedges), and her two university friends Roberta (Candice Bergen) and Susan (Dianne Wiest). Alice and her old chums have fallen out of touch, and their invitation comes as a mild surprise to all. But Alice's success as a writer has in fact damaged her relationships, and as her motives are unknown to all, the characters meet for a trip that will change their lives. Or, rather, that might. We don't really know. Rather unlike most of Soderbergh's plot-heavy projects, here he truly does "let them all talk", apparently hoping to make something of it. And, because he's him, he does.

Leisurely and soporific, this movie will not please everyone. Despite amazing performances from all cast members -- even a strange role for Gemma Chan as Alice's agent, who is secretly tailing Alice for news on her new manuscript -- the real star of this movie could be said to be the ship itself. Each scene takes place somewhere new on the boat, showcasing it for its glory and beauty even as we start to feel, like the characters, more and more constrained and trapped. It's not a claustrophobic sensation, but one in which the artifice offers only limited comfort, and the sweeping vistas of tranquil blue sea and sky belie the frustrating interpersonal cat-and-mouse games amidships. For all the calming colors and first-class elegance, Alice is having trouble overcoming her writer's block. Susan, a Seattle lawyer for domestic abuse cases, is happy to be on vacation; Roberta, a Dallas retail worker selling lingerie in a department store, is desperate to meet a wealthy, handsome stranger. The central dynamic here, though, is the slowly revealed resentment between the women: Roberta feels that Alice pirated her life story, turning it into fame and fortune for her own uses before leaving her friends in the dust. Could this voyage be a place to right that wrong, or a way for Alice to collect material for her sequel?

My favorite scene takes place during a public talk Alice gives on the ship. In a darkened theatre, Alice discusses her work in heightened language, describing quality literature (arguably discussing her own by proxy) as a sort of spiritual realm where writers and readers can commune; the camera cuts suddenly from a glowing view of an "iconic" Alice to her trio of guests in the dark, who are clearly aware that she in fact betrayed Roberta's trust and preyed on her for professional sustenance. They've already discussed amongst themselves that Alice sounds different and talks differently than she did in university; of course, we all change over time, but they mean that she thinks more highly of herself, and is putting on an artistic act, perhaps to feel worthy of her fame. Her act is shown for what it is when another passenger on the ship appears: a prolific, famous, rich writer of genre books named Kelvin Kranz introduces himself to Alice and the others. The ladies very much admire him, but Alice considers his work to be "Styrofoam" and akin to "jigsaw puzzles" in structure. It's all about the creation of stories, and Soderbergh himself is a third counterpoint to Alice and Kelvin.

This distinction is easy to grasp, and the ironies start to multiply; Soderbergh works hard to literalize the paradoxes, though, and his own multiple names on the crew list may be justified by this thematic concern, as we've discussed in his visual approach here. What plot he assembled in the cutting room may be understated to a fault, it is also as psychologically complex as a slow-burning puzzle and only really works because we fully understand each character in play. We don't fully understand Alice, and in fact we cannot help but judge her multiple times and ways over the course of the film. While she is arguably the protagonist, we are only within her perspective briefly near the end, and it is frankly a baffling sequence the movie would have done well to cut. We never really understand the motives of anyone, their goals, their reservations, their resentments. We never know the subject of Alice's new book. We never learn the full history of these women, or really anything about Tyler. In fact, one might say the characters only exist in any "real" way inasmuch as they interact with each other. Their relationships are the edges of puzzle pieces, and the movie traces those as it puts them together.

And isn't that just how a cruise goes? In any conference center or theatre or ocean liner (or Downton Abbey, for that matter), the "backstage" is meant to be invisible. The interior, the secret mechanism, the truth of functionality is that which is hidden, that which once seen disturbs the fantasy. I thought of this during the one scene when someone -- Alice, of all people -- wanders into a service corridor, where she is promptly escorted out by a staff member. She has wandered into a rare space that is not her own, and its coolly professional workaround stands in stark contrast to the messy relationship she created with her friends. Unfortunately, there's not much to be done about it by her or by us. Soderbergh seems content to just let them all talk, even if it's not anything you can really talk about.

Ben is Back (2018)

Score: 4 / 5

Much like Beautiful Boy this film deals with the brutal effects of drug addiction on family life. The former reveals itself lyrically, moving me to tears almost instantly and unrelenting throughout its duration, crafting a warm and emotional tapestry of pain and love that transcends its senses of place and time. It's the kind of film that is so necessary and timely -- and thoughtfully constructed -- that it becomes important, which is far more powerful than any discussion of "good" or even entertaining. Ben is Back is no less stunning, beautiful, moving, or important, but it differs in some really interesting ways.

Rolling up her driveway on Christmas Eve, Holly sees her son Ben waiting for them in the cold. Though she tells her younger children to stay put with fear in her voice, we clearly see the joy as she approaches him and embraces her son. We quickly learn the context: Ben has been in rehab for drug addiction (and, it seems, several crimes that are unmentioned) for some time and should not have been released yet. He tries to assure his mother and stepfather that his sponsor encouraged him to be home for Christmas. After all, family always brings out the best in us during the holidays. Right?

And this is where Lucas Hedges shines. As an actor, he's proven adept -- to a brilliant degree -- at playing the misunderstood lone wolf who hides his sensitivity beneath a veneer of earnest curiosity and mild-mannered strength. While his acting chops have not always risen to the occasion (Boy Erased), his personality on screen seems to be more effective than not in the roles he takes on. Here, he is pitch perfect as the guilt-ridden son who is maybe and probably still an addict. He gives us (helped by a damn rich screenplay) moments of doubt and fear and anger that made me constantly wonder if he was still using or not; his gift is that he never lets us not love him. We never want him to fail in his efforts, and by the end, Ben is our hero as much as he is his mother's.

And what a mother. Julia Roberts can do no wrong, and here she delves deep into troubled motherhood (she knew all about it in August: Osage County, but from the receiving end). Her haunted visage is forced not only to confront the horrors of knowing and not knowing her son, but also of navigating her strained family. Courtney B. Vance plays her new husband, skeptical of Ben's sincerity and overprotective of the family he's cultivated; Kathryn Newton plays Ben's sister, apparently fighting between reconnecting with her brother and maintaining the role of more-or-less perfect daughter. These fine folks are even more strained by the stress brought on by the holidays and their forced public appearances at church and the mall. It's a small town. Everyone knows everything, and the stares and whispers are only so tolerable.

What surprised me with this film, though, that sets it apart from others in its genre is that it becomes almost completely plot-driven in the second half. We almost don't care any more whether or not Ben has licked his addiction. Once their house is broken into and their dog abducted, Ben and Holly go on an adventure through the nighttime criminality of their Christmas-lit town. The camera is often a little too clear and flat; I wonder how much might have been filmed with a low-budget device or even smart devices, as the visuals often reminded me of Unsane. The seedy approach makes the film compelling if exploitative, and though the ending is arguably unrealistic -- exceeding the film's sense of stark reality -- Ben is Back boasts the rare ability to be at once entertaining and challenging.

Boy Erased (2018)

Score: 4.5 / 5

Joel Edgerton again flexes his directorial and writerly muscles with his latest drama, one seemed aimed at awards season and, slyly, the current vice president. Boy Erased, though by no means one of the best pictures this year, is something I never expected to see on screen and therefore earned my respect and a whole bucket of my tears.

When we first meet Jared (Lucas Hedges), he's on his way to Love in Action, one of the more notorious "ex-gay" conversion therapy programs. The son of a proud Baptist minister and car dealer (Russell Crowe), Jared is taken by his beautiful mother (Nicole Kidman) to the program, which immediately establishes all sorts of arbitrary and problematic rules while sucking money out of the hopeful parents. The leader of the program (Joel Edgerton) commands the group of misfit queers as if running a drill camp, and it doesn't take long before Jared has second thoughts about this program. Even his mother suspects something is wrong, but the will of God seems notably difficult to identify. The story escalates to an explosive climax that is all the more powerful because it is based on a biographical memoir.

I knew this would be a difficult movie to watch, as I also went through conversion therapy for several years, but it's a masterful insight into the minds of everyone involved. Though Edgerton's screenplay is skimpy on explaining itself or delving deep into the theology or psychology of the process, it's clear that he understands the whole scenario far better than I would have expected from someone who never lived the experience. He's sensitive and acutely attuned to the minutiae of complex emotions that riddle everyone in the conversion process, so much so that the film becomes a master class in cinematic subtext and theme.

In my opinion, the film works best to understand the intentions behind someone who, like myself, freely chose to enter the program. That's something people seem bewildered by when the topic is brought up in conversation. Further, the film becomes a sort of nearsighted experience that forces us to live in the world of conversion therapy, albeit in episodic form. Everything is close, sensory, vivid,  and sentimental (in a good way), and though Lucas Hedges has performed much better before, here he masterfully accomplishes the thankless work of becoming a sort of every-man, a blank slate that we can immediately project ourselves onto. It's some really difficult filmmaking from both Hedges and Edgerton, and ultimately wildly successful.

While the film will unfortunately be known as the "conversion therapy" movie, it's important to actively try to squash that. It is by no means a sweeping exploration of the process or its various forms; neither is it a treatise on morality or faith or family. It is -- quite simply, and for better or worse -- a biographical story that happens to feature the conversion process. It features a very specific form of the therapy in a no less specific time and place. It also, and this is where the trouble sets in, fails in its final act because it can't decide what to do with itself. After starting with a bang into the plot, it dwindles once Jared (SPOILER ALERT) escapes the program with his mother. This emotional sequence is followed by several dragging denouement scenes including news of the death of another victim, Jared moving away, and then Jared returning to confront his parents.

It doesn't quite work, this ending, because it intensifies the disconnect Edgerton clearly struggles with between biopic and drama. While the story may be true -- that the real-life protagonist escaped, moved to the Big City and had a Big Gay Life -- it's a story that died out in the 2000s and needs to stop being propagated. The queer destiny is not urbania, and phrases like "it gets better" and "wait til you leave this town" are infinitely damaging to queers who hear them. Keep your empty well-wishes to yourself, y'all.

Further, much like one of my complaints about Love, Simon (and I have a lot), the ending of this film loses its steam when it succumbs to a narrative that loses its stakes. When Jared returns, his mother welcomes him, and we see the change his struggles has effected in her. She no longer attends her husband's toxic church, and pointedly tells her son, "I love God, God loves me. And I love my son." While this may be true, it fails to add a few key elements -- "God loves my son" I whispered in the theater before realizing she had recited her entire line -- that might make a significant difference in hegemonic 2018 mindset. Later, when Jared does confront his father, the scene laboriously drowns in its own subtext, and I found myself completely bewildered by both characters, their dialogue, and the pacing. It's needlessly slow, hopelessly sentimental (in a bad way), and limits the scope of impact from the rest of the film.

Finally, the film skates cleanly over the lasting effects of conversion therapy -- and believe me, it's not pretty -- by effectively saying that Jared got out, he's fine now. But that's a matter of personal preference far more than anything else. Go see this movie. Go see this movie. Go see this movie.

Oh, and Nicole Kidman is just brilliant. As always.

IMDb: Boy Erased

Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri (2017)

Score: 5 / 5

Martin McDonagh's newest film might also be his best, a razor-sharp black comedy that delves deep into the hearts of people in pain. While never quite as absurdly funny as Seven Psychopaths, and not as fabulously [insert descriptor here] as In Bruges, this movie is surprising in its heart, its depth, and its timeliness. And here I thought Coco would be the timeliest movie this Thanksgiving weekend.

Mildred (Frances McDormand in one of the best screen performances this year), grieving after the unsolved rape and murder of her daughter seven months prior, rents three rundown billboards near her home in rural Missouri. Infuriated with the apparent apathy of the local police force, she uses the billboards to openly criticize their incompetence and presumably spur them to action, though that is never explicit. The town quickly turns on her, largely because Chief Willoughby (Woody Harrelson) is dying of cancer, and Mildred and her son (Lucas Hedges) are harassed and threatened with arson and violence.

Mildred remains firm in her convictions, despite everyone else's hatred. Her righteous anger is not always sympathetic, however, which is where McDonagh hammers home this little morality play. While it is exciting, funny, and somewhat empowering to see a strong, unapologetic woman in her position, her sense of justice is decidedly skewed; though we might applaud, for example, when she attacks her sadistic dentist, we cannot help but cringe because we see her as a cannon starting to come loose. Mirroring this anti-hero is her foil, a racist and homophobic officer named Dixon who takes immense pleasure in "allegedly" torturing suspects. His psychotic anger breaks the surface early on, and only intensifies in his hatred of Mildred and her disrespect for authority, as he sees it. His stupid, evil anger is an exact opposite of Mildred's -- he brutalizes the young man who leased the billboards to Mildred as well as his girlfriend -- until, that is, it isn't. Dixon undergoes a radical dramatic shift that suddenly aims for vigilantism.

Three Billboards, in addition to being an idiosyncratic satire of rural law and prejudices, is also a riveting drama about the morality of anger. Of course we start sympathizing with Mildred, but as the other characters slowly show their cards, we begin to suspect we've been playing the wrong hand. Anger begets violence, bigotry begets violence, and it's all funny until the violence begets worse violence. McDonagh, in an incredibly risky move to play it safe (figure out that paradox), ultimately reveals no sense of justice. By the end, no one is humbled or gracious. No justice has been served, though it may be argued that some of the characters have reached a better understanding of each other. And there is no real resolution. There is only the suggestion that violence may come again, at the whim of whoever is angriest for the best reason. 

These themes feel like a clarion call for America's heartland at a time when such righteous anger burns in many of our hearts. The film is even titled after a textual phenomenon that so many of us hate, but so many of us re-enact via posts on social media for our own corporate brands. It's speaking to us about the absurdity we reveal in ourselves and the violence we can do with our words, about our choice to ignore other people's stories and feelings, and about the dissolution of both legality and morality in an age when vigilantism is lionized.

And it's entertaining as hell.

IMDb: Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri

Lady Bird (2017)

Score: 5 / 5

By now, you've probably heard that Lady Bird is one of the best movies of the year. And while I wouldn't say it's one of my favorites, I can't deny that I was totally enthralled from the first shot. It's an unspeakably quiet film, devoted to its pure and honest look into the life of its quirky and fun protagonist.

It's a fairly average coming-of-age story, though the remarkable thing here is that it focuses on a young woman. Taking place in 2002 California -- evoking a dirty sort of Bush-era nostalgia, the kind that we don't want to go back to now that we see where it has led us -- the film follows young "Lady Bird" Christine (Saoirse Ronan) as she navigates adolescence, school, family drama, work, and sex. I won't recount the plot because it is mostly immaterial and familiar.

What is not familiar, however, is the arresting approach of the filmmakers. Greta Gerwig's directorial debut is like a breath of fresh air in an age of sexual misconduct and gender and identity issues, violent politics and jaded cynicism. Her story and her film grow naturally, gracefully sidestepping gimmicks or conventions. There isn't a minute we don't believe these eccentric, broken, loving people or their ambitions and fears. An amazing cast -- including Lucas Hedges, Timothee Chalamet, Tracy Letts, and Lois Smith -- fit seamlessly into a film that is really only about its lead woman. Well, and her mother, played to masterful perfection by Laurie Metcalf, and if she doesn't make you cry you're doing it wrong.

Lady Bird is easily the funniest movie I've seen all year, standing apart from run-of-the-mill comedies by virtue of its heart of gold. Its quiet feminism is enchanting, its novelty inspired, and its power indisputable. She'll change you, if you let her.

IMDb: Lady Bird

Manchester by the Sea (2016)

Score: 5 / 5

Manchester by the Sea, easily one of the forerunners of this awards season, is also one of the most human movies of the last year. Writer and director Kenneth Lonergan has crafted a unique emotional adventure and executes his vision with profound compassion and integrity. It's an odyssey into the soul of one lone man, reserved and tortured, who finds himself the unwitting guardian of his nephew after tragedy strikes. It's a brooding picture of what happens when life dumps on you far more than your fair share, and yet it's anything but a dark journey. Rather, it's an uncommonly wise maze of love and anger and humor and anxiety, leading to our experience of intoxicating tenderness.

Seconded only by Moonlight -- and by no other film in recent memory -- this film's awareness of modern American masculinity is precise and absorbing, a mystery to delve into as the film progresses yet never fully solve. Trapped by the constraints of their culture, these men harbor intense desires and ideas they cannot always pursue or express. The film revolves around the incredible performance of Casey Affleck as protagonist Lee, quiet and withdrawn until he lashes out at the perceived injustices of his environment. Haunted by his past mistakes regarding his late children and ex-wife, Lee maneuvers through yet more tragedy with little grace and even less surety. Lonergan keeps us adrift for quite some time, in the same boat as our leading man, and as the impact of the film finally grips us, we realize that we aren't hungry for the usual recipe. This is an experience of life on screen we almost never see, and Affleck's performance is a reminder of what makes screen acting a great art form.

Consider, too, brother Joe, whose will entrusts his son Patrick to Lee, a decision apparently never brought before Lee himself. And Patrick himself, we see more as the film unfolds, battles his own demons, though his are largely the product of adolescence. The film shines most as Lee and Patrick live and learn together, bouncing off each other with better timing and emotional connection than you see between two men in just about anything since Abbott and Costello. Remarkably touching and sincere, fast and occasionally unbearably funny, the banter between the two is endearing and steals the show.

Showcased by these two men, but present in other exchanges as well, is Lonergan's delicious writing style, a chorus of awkward exchanges and lengthy silences that are at once infuriating and rapturous, far more honest and revealing than any amount of cohesive dialogue. This verbal style, when married to a similar visual style, makes the audience work almost as hard as the artists, keeping our minds reeling as we try to link motifs and hearts, filling in the blanks before the tide comes back in. The film's thematics, I suspect, might be found somewhere in that, but I was too infatuated with the painstaking observations of the film to climb its heightened reaches. The film has an astounding sense of place (not unlike, perhaps, a Coen brothers film, only less stylized), an awareness that keeps everything fiercely grounded. Even scene by scene, as Lonergan starts us in dramatically familiar territory and then launches us overboard into uncharted waters, we never feel unbalanced or bewildered, because we know exactly where we are, why, and how our heart is aching.

It's a beautiful movie. Do your soul a favor and go soak it in.

IMDb: Manchester by the Sea