Synchronic (2020)

 Score: 3.5 / 5

First responders see the weirdest things. Philandering Steve and domesticated Dennis are two paramedics working the late shift, and they are called to the scene of what appears to be attempted murder. That is to say, it appears someone was impaled on a sword, but the sword in question is stuck in the wall and...rotting? The other person at the scene is incoherent, clearly under the influence of something strong. Over the course of the next few nights, more strange and violent scenes crop up, and other than horrific circumstances, the only link is the presence of a mysterious new drug called Synchronic.

Of course, as a new feature from filmmaking duo Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead, this movie aims to mess with your mind. I don't want to spoil too much of the plot or themes, but then this review would have to end now. Their previous movies (Resolution, The Endless, and Spring) work best, in my opinion, when you know nothing going in, letting their wild rollercoaster take you on a totally surprising ride. They tend to play fast and loose with genre, and Synchronic is no exception. And while I'd say this latest science fiction venture clearly has a bigger budget to work with, it still feels small and intimate. Much like last year's Antebellum, this one has a lot on its mind and works hard to stay grounded and tactile, despite its thrillingly complex concepts.

The movie takes quite a while to set itself up; we don't even hear the word "Synchronic" for a long time. Much like the elusive meaning of the title-- which doubles in referring to the mysterious drug (by using the slang) as well as time theory -- the movie shifts between genre tropes and references to other movies. Is it an arthouse character study, despite its limited scope in terms of probing the two main characters' minds, or is it a time-bending thriller a la Tenet? Does its tendency toward horror reflect its aesthetic or its political-historical interests? Even its basic concept, once explained in a rather beautiful way around a vinyl record player, becomes the tool by which our main characters can be less understood: as Steve uses the drug to try and find Dennis's missing daughter (who also used the drug), their motivations and fates and traumas begin to swirl together around a gaping empty space where we are asked to do the hard work of understanding the characters' internal lives.

This is where the editing and cinematography come into play. While watching the movie, I became increasingly annoyed at what I assumed to be unnecessary and distracting shots of starscapes, upside-down pans and bird's eye views, and even things moving backward like an ambulance early in the film. But, as the movie progressed, I sensed that these interjected shots were meant to destabilize our understanding of time; it is still linear, unlike recent big-budget sci-fi pictures would have us think, but our characters' experience of it has been broken. We see, to some extent, what they see, and becoming "unstuck in time" alters their sense of reality and of self. Thankfully, the film keeps a sense of mystery and wonder by utilizing a few quirks of the drug's capabilities, so this does not become a sort of camp Alice in Wonderland pill that says "EAT ME." It also approaches the mystery through real science, in scenes of Steve testing its effects and limiting variables; most of the film is purely visual, and the filmmakers are asking us to participate in observing and deducing, rather than lecturing to us.

It helps to have two strong leading men who are fairly stoic. Jamie Dornan plays the deceptively complex Dennis while Anthony Mackie shoulders the dramatic burden as Steve. Despite his frequent flings, he seems to be a bit of a burnout; when he visits the doctor, things only get worse. But it seemingly makes him an ideal candidate to go searching for Dennis's missing daughter via experimental and experiential drugs. It also strengthens the strongest theme of the film, which is the alienating effect of being in a place out of time. Though the film consistently stops short of making overtly political references -- in fact, it's frustratingly absent of clear themes in this vein -- it is telling that Mackie plays a Black man in the deep U.S. south who resents hegemonic domesticity. As he travels to various times (all in the past) it becomes evident to us that nothing in the past is welcoming. He is attacked time and again, and it is not always clear if it is because of his futurism or his skin color.

Actually, now that I've said that, I think it's fair to say it's always because of his skin color. Though a longer movie or series might explore both sides of this, it's fitting that it was released this year, as America decided not to go back in time yet again to reclaim a lost, fictional "greatness."

Ultimately, the film flirts with burning itself out, and its final takeaway seems to be little more than a vague sense of alienation. Initially a strong theme, the finale indicates that trauma has a way of changing our lives (in a bad way, if these two men's experiences are to be taken seriously), and that fate isn't escapable, no matter how we try to manipulate or change it. For such a promising premise, I can't help but feel this concept was a little wasted in this movie. Then again, it's a beautifully minimalist approach to a genuinely intriguing and novel idea, and that's, in this viewer's opinion, the very best the genre can offer.

One Night in Miami (2020)

 Score: 5 / 5

Four Black men meet in a motel room to celebrate, sympathize, antagonize, and realize their potential over the course of one night. That's the premise of the first feature debut of director Regina King, adapted by Kemp Powers from his 90-minute one-act play, One Night in Miami. It could be an August Wilson play, for its strict enclosure in a tight space, forcing its language and actors to be brilliant. But Powers populates his drama with four iconic men who were, in fact, friends in real life, though the events here are fictitious. Who are these men? What are they all doing together? Where do they go from here? Not easy to answer, as we learn along with them, but these three questions loosely structure the proceedings of the night.

It's February 25, 1964, and Cassius Clay just won a boxing match against Sonny Liston. He's suddenly a star, winning the championship and on his way to becoming "The Greatest." His friend and mentor Malcolm X is there, and to celebrate, invites him and two other men to his motel room. When they arrive, there are no ladies and no party. Despite the disappointment, Malcolm wants them to reflect and strategize moving forward. The physically imposing Cassius, played by Eli Goree (Race, Riverdale), dances in the ring but just as quick-witted in dialogue, charming even as he commands the attention of whatever room holds him. Goree also hits each beat of the immediately recognizable accent, on par with Will Smith's portrayal of the same man, while he works overtime to keep the peace between the larger-than-life personalities. Kingsley Ben-Adir (The Comey Rule) probably has the hardest job of the cast in playing Malcolm X, who has been helping Cassius on his road to the Nation of Islam and his future name of Muhammad Ali, a conversion that makes up a major plot point during this night of intended celebration. Ben-Adir equally nails his character's iconic verbal cadence, seemingly easily, despite an abundance of recordings of the man himself in addition to Denzel Washington's masterful portrayal for Spike Lee. I can't wait to see what this relatively fresh actor does next.

The other two men join up, these two most excited for a party. Football star Jim Brown, played by a quietly devastating and thickly muscular Aldis Hodge (Straight Outta Compton, Hidden Figures, Clemency, The Invisible Man), was a commentator on the boxing match. Jim has recently become aware -- during an excellent introduction sequence probably not in the play -- that despite his fame among sports fans, he is still a Black man in a society that puts his achievements below even the weakest white link. Singer Sam Cooke is perhaps most out of place, and Leslie Odom Jr. (Hamilton, Harriet, Murder on the Orient Express) imbues the fabulously famous character with surprising gravitas even while beautifully singing the famed verses. Probably the only true celebrity of the group yet -- possibly eclipsed tonight by Cassius -- Sam is nevertheless harangued by the activist Malcolm who sees great potential in his use of his mainstream recognition to further Black rights causes. He feels justified in his abilities and his career, and denies that he is pandering to white audiences for success. In a rare flashback scene, we witness Sam's uncanny musical talents creating powerful community, and it is this harmony that Malcolm wishes for a nation of oppressed Black folk.

All four men work overtime to fulfill the needs of their enormous roles, and all are utterly brilliant in their performances. It's hard to separate the award-worthy performances from the beautifully written characters, and it is occasionally difficult to separate Powers's words from history. The dialogue is all emotionally and ideologically accurate, even if this particular meeting never actually took place. This is the sort of chamber piece that resonates best when you have one viewing that lets it wash over you, then revisit it at least once to dig deep into the heady, weighted ideas battled out. Battled, I say, but not violently; these men occasionally have bones to pick, but they continue the conversation out of passion, respect, admiration, and love for each other. Their nascent identities are about to bloom into timeless cultural touchstones, and in this purely Black space, they engage with each other honestly and freely, as friends looking toward a bright future, which we don't often see in movies about Black people in the '60s.

I don't really want to get into the specifics of their conversation during this one fateful night. Frankly, it all starts to blur together, and they are really just meditating on the current and future culture of Black people in a changing America. But their dialogue itself is anything but vague and often so grounded you forget this is a masterclass in writing, acting, and directing. It's just four grown men talking. As conflict arises and dissipates, we feel a transcendent sense of pleasure as wallflowers, listening in to conversations beyond any expectation or assumption we might have going in. King has perfect control over the proceedings, even beyond establishing what was surely an extraordinarily safe space for these guys to flesh out their craft. It's an absolute joy to witness and behold, and I cannot wait to watch it again.

Come Away (2020)

 Score: 2 / 5

In an idyllic British forest, a beautifully multiracial family live their best lives. Children David, Peter, and Alice romp through the greenery playing fantastic games with tea parties and pirates. We experience much of it through their eyes, such as when a washed-up boat on a secluded river suddenly unloads its piratic passengers, and when the children's twigs become rapiers to defend them. It's all sweet and charming, the sort of fantasy we've seen in Finding Neverland and others of its sickly sentimental ilk, but warm for two main reasons: an immediately likable cast and references to common cultural fantasies. Here, the references are overtly to Peter Pan and Alice in Wonderland. It's very cute.

And then, in a tragic accident (that I didn't even realize was happening until later, no doubt a result of a pathetically PG rating), David suddenly dies. Alice and Peter, while trying to make sense of the tragedy themselves, see their parents struggling with addictive and destructive behaviors as a result. The brother and sister work together to help their family as the metaphorical wolves close in, launching on an adventure to improve their circumstances. I confess to being utterly unclear about exactly what the children are up to, and they come and go from the house with some regularity, indicating that they are not far away. While their parents stew in a miasma of sorrow and perhaps guilt -- their father's gambling addiction and increased debts bring violent men seeking payment, while their mother drinks dubious liquids from little bottles around the house -- the children run to seedy city dens where shadowy, threatening figures leer from the darkness and other children gang up in dank alleyways.

Director Brenda Chapman is no stranger to fantasy filmmaking, as she was a writer on animated Disney classics like Beauty and the Beast, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and The Lion King, in addition to directing Disney/Pixar's Brave and DreamWorks's The Prince of Egypt. But this, her first live-action feature, tries to combine fantasy with drama in forced yet vague ways. Generally, I'd say this movie is a coming-of-age story about children who use fantasy to cope with their troubles. In the best examples of the genre, it's not unlike Pan's Labyrinth or A Monster Calls. Harsh reality provides room for magic and horror that creeps into our awareness of the world around us, teaching us about ourselves through the prism of the impossible. That's what the storytelling tradition began as; Homer used it for history and the Brothers Grimm had their morality tales.

But Come Away is certainly not the most polished of its ilk. I'd liken it closer to Bridge to Terabithia in its awkward handling of the boundaries between realism and fantasy. Both works feature starry casts; here, Angelina Jolie and David Oyelowo lead, supported by Gugu Mbatha-Raw, Michael Caine, and Derek Jacobi. Both work to understand the death of a young person, but ultimately don't come to much of a conclusion. Perhaps there ultimately isn't one that could fit in a family-friendly movie, if there is ever a way to understand or rationalize the death of a young person. Also in both, the fantasy elements are less logical and more emotionally felt. Come Away, however, has the particular problem that its references are to such popular and often-retold stories. Barrie and Carroll are too recognizable to be toyed with in this thin, inconsequential manner. Even when "Captain James" or a spookily unbalanced "Hatter" show up, we're not sure what's real and what's in the children's minds, and we often can't figure out exactly what the reference is meant to mean for the unfolding drama.

By the end, which seems to marry the stories of both Peter Pan and Alice, I even wondered if this strange mixture of the two was meant to be a first step into another, larger thing. As a grown-up Alice reflects on her life and coming to terms with maturity (pointedly noting that her imagination is the only thing she carries with her now), I couldn't help but feel that, had this movie been successful, it might have led to other ill-imagined mash-ups of classic characters in undercooked origin stories. But let's hope that doesn't happen for multiple reasons. First, I don't want to see Hansel and Gretel and Cinderella teaming up to fight off abusive parents or Dorothy and Pinocchio ganging up against their bullies (if it's not Into the Woods or Once Upon a Time, it can sod right off). Second, this movie comes dangerously close to abusing the children it purports to support; when little Alice takes a big ol' swig from her mother's "Drink Me" bottle of booze, which is totally in-line with the trippy source material, I couldn't help but worry about any children actually watching this movie. I cringed like I did in Radio Flyer, and that's just not a good thing.

The Comey Rule (2020)

 Score: 4 / 5

However any of us feels about him, James Comey will ultimately be remembered for his public announcement, only days before the 2016 presidential election, of an investigation into Hillary Clinton's use of private e-mails. It was unprecedented, improper, and undeniably ruined her chance at the presidency that year; it was also ethical to a disastrous fault. Read what you will into his book A Higher Loyalty, which may be little more than his "please don't hate me" attempt at mea culpa while pointing fingers at practically everyone else, but he's a fiercely intelligent and eloquent man with integrity. And, for that, he was also fired by the president he helped usher into power.

Between the title of this Showtime "miniseries", which is really just a two-part movie, and the casting of Jeff Daniels as Comey, I was sure The Comey Rule would lionize the man framed as its hero. And, much like the memoir that inspired it, a simple viewing gives that impression. The eminently likable Daniels imbues the character with all the quiet dignity and staunch righteousness that lives in our public perception of the former director of the FBI. And then when the screenplay daubs on thick scenes reminding us -- by beating us over the head -- that Comey is a firm, faithful family man and deeply devoted to the people who work for him, it's hard to find any chinks to exploit. He's the all-around good guy, prone to waxing philosophical about upholding the law and having integrity while carrying out his duties. It's inspiring in the way that Independence Day can be inspiring to a nation that needs reminding what patriotism really means.

But, I'd argue, despite its heavy-handed attempts to iconize its subject, the movie reveals some hard-to-swallow truths about the supposedly apolitical ex-director. After all, the problems inspired by the 2016 campaign season -- led by two candidates who could not be more at odds and, yet, so oddly similar in some respects -- manifested in serious problems of national and international security, apart from both credible and dubious claims of illegality from both parties. How could Comey have led these investigations when his professional experience of prosecuting mobsters in no way prepared him? Moreover, could he have even properly appreciated the political fallout of his actions when his actions were so apparently absent of political self-awareness? It's hard to think of the familiar procedures of his life, a routine gamut of clearly categorized situations and priorities, and imagine that he could even recognize threats to his ideals of respecting authority and exhibiting excellent leadership. And to have such blatant disregard for these things then use his good intentions to destroy democratic processes? It's a miracle he didn't crumble under the pressure; but maybe that would have been better.

The first part dramatizes the time before Election Night, as Comey and his staff engage in endless meetings to discuss the investigation into Clinton's e-mails. Despite lengthy and exhausting research, they could find no wrongdoing. Even when more information was revealed that, fatefully, pushed Comey to launch yet another investigation, they could find no evidence of criminality on her behalf. This is a point that must be made abundantly clear to understand what follows: by avoiding several key discussions I'd have liked to see dramatized, that despite all the hullabaloo about Clinton's e-mails, the FBI -- and, pointedly, Comey himself -- did not make public most of the crucial and ongoing information about Russian election interference. Similarly, but later (in the second part), Comey doesn't reveal that the president asked him to obstruct justice by dropping his investigation into Michael Flynn. Of course, we know that he did that after he was fired, which he should have known would raise questions of credulity. For a man obsessed with ethics, he wasn't very consistent.

In a totally thankless role, Daniels gives us his best fatherly impression of the utterly un-dramatic Comey, a character who, for the first 90 minutes at least, is about as dynamic as an office cubicle. But at the close of part one, as Clinton calls her opponent to concede the election, we recognize a dawning of uncertainty on his otherwise calm and controlled face. It helps that his family can't believe he acted the way he did. Even most of his staff has trouble reconciling his decision with its predictable outcome. But as the second part kicks into gear, his face morphs into something far more telling and far more frustrating: a sort of passive, blank look that indicates his awareness that he is in way over his head with the new president.

And what a performance from Brendan Gleeson as Donald Trump. Kept hidden for the first part, the second part dramatizes the new president from Comey's perspective in iconic and surprising ways. To the best of my knowledge, this is the first real movie about the 45th presidency, and it will earn its place in political thrillers even if the events it recreates have been overshadowed by so many other, darker events during the last four years. What's fascinating here is that, for those four years, we've been subjected to an onslaught of caricatures and satires of the man to the extent that we have become conditioned to think of him as funny. Dangerous and toxic, sure, but ultimately a sour joke or bad dream that can be mocked and discarded. But Gleeson injects open malice into the president, revealing his skills at intimidation and simplicity. Though it's not a new character entirely -- the script still gives him all Trump's gaffes and circular logic and mindlessly vain fixations -- this is a vision of the man behind closed doors and away from the cameras. He's terrifying. When he invites Comey for a private dinner in the White House, we are as uncomfortable as the stony-faced director, and we know this won't end well.

Ultimately, The Comey Rule will not live on as anything more than a fascinating, if minor, episode of the torturous circus act we've experienced under that administration. Ambitious writer/director Billy Ray (Secret in Their Eyes, Overlord, Flightplan, The Hunger Games, Captain Phillips) has done some really interesting work before (thinking of Shattered Glass and Breach, both about liars in Washington getting their comeuppance), but here his usually big-scale view feels unusually focused, despite its use of network coverage and media footage to contextualize his drama. This is almost certainly because the Comey episode was so brief -- roughly five months -- and has since been overshadowed by so many other scandals, not least of which was Trump's first impeachment. This makes it almost trite to revisit the beginning, and to spend prime time of this movie on two FBI agents sleeping together and exchanging intel, or Comey himself getting to know his underlings in the cafeteria line. Then again, the onscreen text that closes this film is deeply disturbing, as it updates viewers on the status of the FBI and DOJ members we've come to know. In case you've forgotten since the scandal(s), they've all been ousted.

Come for the history lesson -- which is to say, the reminder of the sad state of recent/current events -- but stay for masterful performances from a great cast. Daniels and Gleeson are the obvious stars, but Holly Hunter, Jennifer Ehle, and Michael Kelly support nicely. Then there's the fabulous cameo near the beginning of the amazing Kingsley Ben-Adir as President Obama interviewing the clear-cut "Bush guy" Comey for the FBI Director position. That's a far cry, we learn, from the pettiness and bullying of his successor, who ends up firing Comey via the news and trying to strand his perceived opponent in California. Now we just have to wait for Oliver Stone or Jay Roach or Adam McKay to make the next major movie about 45's tenure in the White House.

Sound of Metal (2020)

 Score: 4.5 / 5

Ruben is a heavy metal drummer, in a touring band with his girlfriend/singer Lou, when his hearing starts to fail. We're hardly introduced to him before we witness his realization of this failure, in a devastating scene at the specialist's office, when he fails a test by 80-90% and is told the rest of his auditory sense will soon be gone. This isn't a gradual problem, it's a crisis. Will they have to cancel the tour? How will they survive without the income, living in an RV? Can he continue to play drums without hearing? Will a surgery fix the problem, or can he get aids to help? How will he ever be able to afford it? Ruben's fear manifests not as anger, at first, but as denial. On to the next show, he says. I can still hear enough.

Much will be made of actor Riz Ahmed (Nightcrawler, The Night Of) in this movie, and rightfully so. His stunning performance combines impossible restraint and nuance with some of the most emotionally brutal realism I've seen on screen in the last year. Given that his character could easily have been violent, melodramatic, and explosive, Ahmed often goes for the less obvious and more effective responses. Subtly eking out the ravages of his soul, he allows Ruben to breathe when we expect him to scream, keeping his anger and sorrow dangerously bottled up; when he does lash out, it's earned and believable in a heartbreaking way, surprising us not with its grotesque performativity but with tragic authenticity that is never once exploited by the filmmakers.

The movie collects and grounds itself before moving forward when Lou (a quietly strong supporting performance from Olivia Cooke of Bates Motel and Thoroughbreds) gets Ruben checked into a compound for Deaf people run by Joe (Paul Raci). Knowing that Ruben, a recovering addict, is close to letting this new trauma push him over the edge, Lou is determined to help her boyfriend. He is terrified that she will continue with her life and leave him behind; without her love and their music, what is he to do? We don't suspect for a moment that he has any healthy ties with family or other friends, and he has no work experience or skills to halt his free fall. As much as this will be known as a movie about Deafness, it's also a movie about addiction; some of the most powerful scenes include AA-type meetings with the compound members, who discuss the ways they've coped with isolation and disability.

Joe tells Ruben immediately that he cannot be fixed. This compound is a sort of halfway house, a bootcamp for Deaf people to learn skills, language, compassion, and joy before going back to the hearing world. He will need to learn how to live with deafness, or he will never move on from his current bitter, angry rut. Most of the movie stems from this, as Ruben watches children learning sign language or journaling his thoughts to purge his demons and embrace the silence. Speaking of silence, the sound design of this movie often pushes us into Ruben's audio-awareness, and we often feel suffocated by the Charlie-Brownish muffled sounds of dialogue. It's not consistent, and I think another viewing would be required simply to analyze why and how the soundscape shifts into and out of Ruben's perspective. It helps, too, that director Darius Marder avoids a score of music, allowing the silence to deafen us as well as Ruben, forcing us and the character to deal with the raw reality of his circumstances without musical manipulation. 

This movie is all about empathy, and it's an incredible disservice to it that it's only available streaming through Amazon Prime. This movie should be seen on a big screen in a dark room with surround sound. So when you watch it -- not if but when -- do yourself a favor and get rid of all distractions. Put on good headphones if you must, and put your phone down. This is meant to be immersive in order to work, and if you let it work its magic, it'll stick with you for a long time.

I'm Your Woman (2020)

 Score: 4.5 / 5

The gritty crime dramas of the '70s -- and since -- are almost always about men. White-dominated mob brotherhood violence is manifest in our minds without much provocation, and while I don't want to disparage movies that dramatize organized crime, they tend to succeed by drawing attention to toxic masculinity, obsessive materialism, and cruelty to immigrants, women, and queer folk in a way more glamorous than condemnatory. Which is why Julia Hart's latest film is gobsmackingly brilliant in its subversive, progressive, and thoroughly entertaining twist on the genre.

Jean (Rachel Brosnahan) introduces herself in third person, much like a fairytale beginning, but her tone clearly indicates this is no love story. She has a nice life, lounging at her husband Eddie's (Bill Heck) home while he is away at work. They are apparently unable to procreate or even adopt children, and Jean seems to be dealing with that well; we first see her in fairly glamorous style at home alone, waiting for Eddie to return, stretched on a chaise in vibrant pink and sipping though it is certainly not cocktail hour. What does the hubby do? Well, we don't really know, but when he suddenly and mysteriously shows up with a baby, gifting it to Jean with no warning, we suspect foul play. Tellingly, she does not question it; if anything, she seems irritated that her carefully upkept appearance might suffer as a result of this sudden imposition.

She's not much of a housewife, beyond her good looks, as she can't even fry an egg, and she either doesn't care (or has learned not to inquire) where her husband frequently goes. But she accepts the burden of her new child, Harry, with apparent grace. Until, that is, she is brusquely awoken in the middle of the night by her husband's associate, who gives her money and directions to go on the run. Passed off to Cal (Arinze Kene, whose performance is terrific), she finally learns Eddie is missing and "everyone" (meaning very dangerous people) is looking for him, Jean gets placed in a suburban house with explicit instructions to stay in isolation and talk to no one. As anyone living during the last year could tell you, this isn't easy, and Jean quickly connects with the kindly widowed neighbor.

As Jean learns to navigate this half-world of crime and violence, she slowly comes into her own. I say slowly because the movie is almost unbearably slow-burning. But I suppose, in context, she actually starts standing up for herself quicker than you'd expect. More importantly -- and big kudos to Hart and co-writer Jordan Horowitz -- she learns a lot about her own privilege as a wealthy white woman. Through her relationship with Cal, her protector, and his own family of Teri (a dazzling Stephanie Blake), their son, and Cal's father (Frankie Faison), Jean's eyes are opened beyond the violence of organized crime to the violent nature of America. Her friendly neighbor might even be in on a scheme to get Jean and her baby, and the sequence that resolves that conflict is what kicks the movie from slick domestic mystery to full-blown suburban thriller.

Hart's eye shifts coolly, in this scene, from focusing on her own production design of fabulous seventies fashion to a noir aesthetic. Candy-colored clothes and furniture are slowly toned down to earthier hues, and the amber-tinted lightscape becomes heavily shrouded in encroaching shadow. And yet, as her world descends to paranoia and brutality, Jean comes into her own; with gumption and verve, she muscles her way through unlikely scenarios into a subgenre we've not yet seen on screen. Brosnahan is nothing short of amazing in this movie, supported as she is by her equally arresting co-stars, but the screenplay gives her a lot of great material to work with. Jean's initially weak, waiting character forges ahead into a strange and violent new world with rousing fortitude, all while raising a baby and building community with unlikely outsiders. Entertainment that deals honestly and encouragingly with motherhood, feminism, and race? Yes, please! This is no Godfather redone with a woman and Black folk as the main characters; this is a subversive approach to staunchly feminist possibilities of a new genre (more than once I thought of Widows while watching this movie), built on the dying framework of a genre best laid to rest.

Blackbird (2020)

 Score: 4 / 5

If you know me, you know "dinner party gone wrong" is my favorite genre, after horror. The acting has to be top-notch to pull it off. The script has to be brutal and beautiful. The filmmaking or theatrical staging, whichever the case, has to be kinetic in such a confined space. Of course, often such dinner parties only comprise a single scene or sequence, either as inciting incident, climactic turn, or devastating conclusion. Sometimes they pan the full work, but that is rare. Blackbird features one such dinner, during the climax, but the movie constructed around this scene is so intimate, isolated, and insightful, that the whole thing feels very much like my favorite brand of family tragicomedy.

Lily awakens in her gorgeous Connecticut home overlooking a picturesque beach. Her husband Paul is already up-and-at-em, watering the plants and feeding the chickens, while Lily labors to put on her slippers and get downstairs to the kitchen. Her hand is clenched and she has trouble walking. Something is wrong, indicated partly by the somber music and by the idyllic, almost ethereal lighting streaming through the wall-to-wall windows. But she is not to be pitied; preparing for breakfast, she quickly switches the classical radio to jarring pop dance music and the two laugh as they get into the beat. It's sweet and charming, and it wouldn't work without two consummate, brilliant actors with stirring chemistry in Susan Sarandon and Sam Neill.

Lily has invited her family for the weekend, and they slowly begin to arrive. Her best friend of many decades Elizabeth (Lindsay Duncan) materializes, clearly comfortable with her life companions. Her well-to-do daughter Jennifer (Kate Winslet) arrives promptly on time, her husband and son (Rainn Wilson and Anson Boom) in tow. Late, and pleasantly buzzed on grass, Lily's younger daughter Anna (Mia Wasikowska) shows up with her sometime semi-romantic girlfriend Chris (Bex Taylor-Klaus). Each is given an archetype clear from their introduction, but in the hands of such a stellar cast, each is fleshed out beyond the bounds of their script, imbued with more nuance than you could find in an ensemble masterclass. They turn what is, admittedly, sometimes unwieldy dialogue into something approaching high art, and eke out surprisingly brutal emotions from otherwise simple, even wordless, moments.

Why have they gathered? Here's the kicker: Lily is dying. No real shocker there, as everyone is well aware of her degenerative disease. But Lily has decided, with her husband and with some measure of understanding and support from the family, to end her own life after this weekend. As she intends it, she will be filled with the joy of celebrating a final Christmas with them (even though it is not, in fact, winter) before committing suicide, passing peacefully into sleep and avoiding the messy, painful, and torturous decline she will certainly otherwise face. What's amazing about her character -- and the way the film uses her as the family's anchor, with everyone else swirling around while dealing with grief and denial and anger -- is that she has no fear, no second thoughts, and only love to give. She tells her grandson at one point that she has no wisdom to give, despite her age, but she is wrong. She works on forgiveness and compassion with her daughters only to learn that she's already been an amazing mother.

That's not to say there are no problems. As the family members break off to have difficult conversations privately -- and sometimes very much not privately -- the film teeters close to soap. But, given the strengths of the cast and their devotion to this difficult melodrama, each scene will elicit a dark chuckle, a knowing smile, or a painful tear from viewers who allow its sensitive beats to wash over them. By the halfway point, I was weeping, and by the end, sobbing uncontrollably. This is an unusual entry for director Roger Michell, but it also feels a natural direction for his oeuvre at this point. A beautiful parable about a life well-lived and the grace we must learn to afford for others, but also fiercely relevant in its grounded (albeit privileged) observations about what so many of us must eventually experience.

Black Box (2020)

 Score: 2.5 / 5

Nolan's amnesia stops him from functioning well. After a deadly car crash that rendered him a single parent with few reliable memories, he has tried his best to cope. Leaving sticky notes all around with little directions or helpful hints can only work so well, despite the best efforts of his precocious young daughter Ava, who has been forced to be far too mature for her age. Unfortunately, his forgetfulness often comes across as neglect, both as a father and as an employee, and when things come to a breaking point, he opts for an experimental procedure to reclaim his memories and his life. What kind of husband was he? What kind of father should he be?

Simple questions to some, but Nolan is desperate to live again. Enter Dr. Lilian Brooks (a delicious Phylicia Rashad), whose background in neurology seems to have borne fruit in new, relatively untested forms of hypnosis. Together, they use her "black box" tool -- a sort of virtual reality that Nolan can use to explore his hidden memories -- to middling effect. Nolan does begin to remember things, but he can only see figures, not faces. And then there's the monstrous entity stalking him each time he uses the therapeutic technology. Thankfully, the brilliant Mamoudou Athie (The Front Runner, Underwater) brings a lot of heart to the role, the kind of muscled sensitivity pioneered by Guy Pearce in Memento. As things shift from emotional and psychological into the thrilling and horrific,  Athie grounds it all in fierce realism that is never less than satisfying to behold.

Director Emmanuel Osei-Kuffour Jr. works hard to balance what appears to be high-concept science fiction with a self-discovery thriller, and his efforts mostly prove effective. He leans heavily on the unsettling specter of ghostly faces in shadowy half-worlds, and the creaking, cracking spidery movements of disjointed bodies following Nolan between memories. It's very scary, but the horrific effects never overwhelm the sensation of the film. Perhaps it would have been more memorable if they had, because the plot instead focuses on unstable sci-fi logic that never becomes totally clear to the viewer. By the incredibly twisty third act, I had very little understanding of what was actually happening, between body-snatching and hypnotic possession. Not because of its complexity, but because of its opacity.

For all its attempts at any big themes -- stolen identities and memories could have been major, especially in a 2020 movie about Black people -- this film seems satisfied to be little more than a one-off diversion. A deceptively simple genre pic with more thrills than it knows how to handle, and almost no relevance to its time, place, or method of distribution (Blumhouse released it through Amazon Prime as part of its new deal with that streaming service). Don't mistake me: it's entertaining as hell, if only to watch the two leads milk their scenes like an actors' workshop. But its relentless references to other, more important movies in a similar vein (Get Out, Memento, Upgrade, just the most recent) make Black Box frustratingly forgettable.

Radioactive (2020)

 Score: 4 / 5

For a biopic, it's not particularly grounded in reality. But that's precisely what I so enjoyed about Radioactive, Marjane Satrapi's high-concept investigation of the life of Marie Curie. This isn't meant to be terribly realistic in terms of historical accuracy, and it's not meant to be measured by traditional standards of biographical movies. Satrapi and screenwriter Jack Thorne (known for eschewing timelines and choosing magic over the mundane) here turn Curie's life into a fascinating, time-jumping adventure into the famed woman's psyche. More importantly, they seem to consider her own opinions of her legacy, neither the glory or horrors of which she could have possibly known.

The always brilliant Rosamund Pike continues her streak of surprising us with unexpected characters and brutal emotions as the famed physicist and chemist. Working through the time jumps in Curie's story -- from her early professional career in 1890s Paris to her death in 1934 -- Pike fires on all fronts, stealing every scene even as she carries the movie. While her dialogue often pronounces its themes and motivations with total disregard for subtlety or complexity, she delivers it with enough conviction and pride that it usually sticks the landing. Relishing the pragmatism and fiery spirit of her character, Pike often squares off with Sam Riley, who plays the Polish immigrant's scientific partner and husband Pierre Curie. Some of my favorite scenes feature the two interrogating their feelings for each other as if using the scientific method to test their own emotional journeys.

Most fascinating about this uncommonly straightforward feminist project, however, is Satrapi's direction. Some might call it heavy-handed and artificial, but I'd liken it to a Tennessee Williams memory play; after all, it begins with the collapse of our protagonist shortly before her death, and the entirety of the film comprises flashbacks (and flash-forwards) as she reviews her life, thankfully without voiceover narration. As such, it features a dreamlike aesthetic wherein feelings and themes become literal symbols. When Pierre and Marie kiss for the first time, a large open flame in the background literalizes their bright, burning passion. Indeed, the picture is never less than beautiful to be hold, with much credit due to cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle, whose body of major work with Lars von Trier and Danny Boyle, among others, is never less than dazzling. The many laboratory scenes, which could so easily have been cold and clinical, are rendered through gorgeously filtered light, reinforcing the dreamlike aura of memory. And then there are the impossibly beautiful moments of Marie in a dark void -- usually while in emotional turmoil -- lit by the light of radioactive, emerald stars.

Even as the dialogue sometimes lacks depth, the same cannot be said for Radioactive's dramatic structure, and it is in this that the film most succeeds as a biopic. Sure, the actual plot follows concrete points in her life like those you might read in a children's biography book about women of science or Nobel Prize winners. It's not deep, but a good refresher for those of us who don't know everything about famous physicists, if you take it with grains of dramatic salt. But interspersed with her victories and failures are the (perhaps inevitable?) consequences of her discoveries. Brief scenes show a doctor offering radiation therapy to the father of a little boy dying of cancer, x-rays saving lives and limbs on battlefields, an atomic bomb dropping towards the Hiroshima skyline, and a particularly brutal transition into the Chernobyl disaster. It is this unique, consistent attention to a very palpable legacy that sets Radioactive apart from so many others of its ilk.

Seberg (2020)

 Score: 3 / 5

The fascinating life of Jean Seberg would surely be difficult to dramatize, and this movie tries hard to make it deeply relevant to contemporary movie stars entering the political sphere. Rather than explore her early failures -- though it does reference her early scarring in Saint Joan -- and her profound fame in France, Seberg delves into her public persona, her romantic private life, and how the two were utterly impossible to maintain in the late '60s and early '70s. As such, the film struggles to find a balance between contemporary concerns and the accuracy of its subject's psychology.

The story of Seberg as dramatized here picks up as she is returning to Hollywood from Paris, where she lived in an apparently open marriage with her husband, raising her daughter. Acclaimed as one of the greatest actresses living in Europe, the Iowa-born young woman hopes to revitalize her American film career. Much to her agent's dismay, she reacts poorly to blatant racism shown to Black people on her trip back to the states, and even poses with Black Panthers in support of their cause. Suddenly the FBI takes notice of the French New Wave star, heating up as she works with and financially supports Hakim Jamal (an underused Anthony Mackie), a civil rights leader, with whom she develops a romantic affair.

Eventually, J. Edgar Hoover personally orders surveillance, phone tapping, invasive photographs, and a general smear campaign on Seberg. It is within this development that director Benedict Andrews and his writers seem most interested, and the bulk of the film's runtime is devoted to her paranoia and spiraling equilibrium as a result of the constant scrutiny and publicizing of her private life. You have to assume this focus comes from Seberg's second husband, who famously accused the FBI for contributing to her death, which is considered to be most likely suicide. It's interesting, because this is arguably already the primary reason anyone would remember the name of Jean Seberg -- in association with the cruel and unusual tactics of the FBI's COINTELPRO.

So it's an odd choice for cinematic adaptation because it's too obvious. Kristen Stewart -- whose 2020 was perhaps better than all ours combined, with three big titles between this, Underwater, and Happiest Season, that gave her more drama to explore than her entire career thus far -- performs with nuance and emotional intelligence here, though her quiet demeanor doesn't offer much opportunity for clear expression. It's a smart move while portraying someone fairly mysterious, despite all we know about her life. What's odd is the way Seberg's writers work so hard to make her a dynamic character; in reality, Jean was already active in civil rights causes while a teenager, but the film makes her out to be a spoiled celebrity searching for a deeper purpose in maturity. Further, the film seems determined to compare Seberg with Joan of Arc, her early famed role, especially as she descends to the brink of madness under the intense pressures of federal scrutiny.

Thankfully, the brilliant Rachel Morrison makes up for the screenplay's problems in cinematography that almost made me wish the film had been silent. Shifting from lightly-colored pastels in early scenes to increasingly darker hues, Morrison chromatically explores the encroaching shadows of what becomes a political thriller. As Jean grows paranoid and afraid of those shadows, Morrison drains color from the film to both sanitize its clinical view of her and to put us in her mind as the joys of life are stripped from her. And yet, I wonder about the efficacy of portraying Seberg's story as a sort of fame-induced tragedy. Surely in our age of information and international tampering with democratic processes, this film could have done so much better than to try and -- I might be going on a limb here -- defend the FBI through a conflicted agent (Jack O'Connell). He's contrasted with the other main FBI agent (Vince Vaughn), who is almost sociopathically uncaring in his intent to stalk and malign Seberg. This cartoonish caricature didn't sit well with me, considering the similarly conflicted role of the FBI in the last four years, and I don't think the filmmakers here are concerned about the bizarre messages they are coding.