Pieces of a Woman (2020)

 Score: 4 / 5

The first thirty minutes of this movie are astounding. We begin with Sean (Shia LaBeouf), working as a bridge builder, as he leaves work to be with his very pregnant partner. Martha (Vanessa Kirby) is expecting her baby any minute and is determined to make this home birth work. They've planned, they've practiced, and they are ready. But their midwife is busy and sends a substitute. Martha battles waves of nausea and excruciating pain. Sean has to call for an ambulance. As the birth teeters dangerously close to disaster, the tension unbearable, I realized that the continuous single take was at least twenty minutes long. This technique forces us into the scene much like in live theatre, but it also works as a sort of cinéma vérité for later in the movie, when the events of this home birth come under scrutiny. Tragedy indeed strikes, in a gut-punch of a title card one-quarter of the way into the film.

Kirby does tough work in this movie to fill painful silence with the agony of her loss. LaBeouf does too, although to a lesser degree; his role just isn't as potent or interesting. More than once, I was reminded of John Cameron Mitchell and David Lindsay-Abaire's brilliant movie Rabbit Hole. As their relationship deteriorates under the burden of bereavement, Sean spirals out, checking the standard boxes of his condition. He relapses with cocaine, has an affair with Martha's cousin, and seems eager for revenge on the midwife, who he blames for his daughter's death. This last is what informs the actual plot of the second half of the film, as midwife Eva (Molly Parker) is put on trial. We don't see much of the trial, though, and the feeble attempt at courtroom drama lies limp in comparison with the brutal psychological tragedy of Martha.

There is a particular scene, though, that really bothered me in this movie. Not because it wasn't honest or truthful, but because it was a little too truthful. A depressed Sean initiates sex with an equally depressed Martha, who clearly doesn't want to although she doesn't explicitly say as much. When she finally seems to consent (once they're awkwardly on the bed and partially clothed), Sean immediately loses interest and leaves the house. It's an uncomfortable scene by design, effectively setting up his affair and fall from whatever grace he might have had, but because it's LaBeouf, it's hard not to remember the sexual assault lawsuit brought against him in real life. I'm all for separating artists from their work, but this was especially hard to swallow. It was actually nice seeing him do real acting again -- he's quite skilled -- but this scene took me out of the movie in the worst way.

Neither Sean nor Eva add much to this movie, and I wish their parts were more fleshy. They're important, I suppose, but they aren't interesting at all and mostly distracted me from the real juicy stuff between Martha and her family. Actually, then again, as I attempt to recall details, only scenes with Martha and her mother come to mind. The siblings aren't really important either. Thankfully, Ellen Burstyn (who is currently 88 and still blowing me away) graces the movie as Elizabeth, the strong-willed mother who blames Martha for insisting on a home birth, Sean (whom she says she's never liked) for his toxicity and being below her standards, and Eva, whose trial she forces Martha to attend. Indeed, between Burstyn and Kirby there is more chemistry than anywhere else in this movie, leading to a dramatic climax where the two women erupt into conflict, each launching their aggrieved laundry lists while coming to the realization they simply don't know how best to move on.

So, where does that leave us? Come for The Scene (I think it was about 25 minutes and had me laughing, gasping, and weeping). Stay for Kirby and Burstyn. Some heavy-handed themes -- the bridge-building is a little too pointed -- and the abundance of apple imagery aside, this is an artful, sensitive, thoughtful, and haunting look at motherhoods we don't often see on film.

Possessor (2020)

 Score: 4.5 / 5

David Cronenberg hasn't directed any new films in a distressingly long time, but thank goodness his son Brandon is diving into it. His second feature, Possessor, proves that this apple has not fallen far from its tree in the best possible way. He effortlessly combines sleek, sophisticated science fiction with graphic horror of both body and mind. Outrageous and disturbing, this new movie had me gritting my teeth and flinching so often that, had I been in a cinema, someone may have thought I had taken ill. Like father like son, what makes the name Cronenberg so enticing is not only its unabashed willingness -- even glee -- to "go there" with its horror, but also its ingenious pacing, plotting, and novelty of concept. One of the first shots is of a long needle piercing someone's own cranium, and as horrific as it is, it becomes more so when we begin to learn why and how this has happened. Horror that grows long after the shock? That's hard to do.

Andrea Riseborough (consistently performing as the most surprising and versatile actress of her generation) plays an assassin in a cool, slightly futuristic city I'm guessing is Toronto. She works in a top-secret organization run by Jennifer Jason Leigh, and yes, I got Annihilation vibes at first, too. The characters all had names, but frankly I don't remember them, and I'm not sure they are important. Why? Because to stay secret in a world of surveillance and paranoia, the assassins abduct innocent people close to their target, body-snatch them by transferring their consciousness, and then carrying out the hit like characters in James Cameron's Avatar. 

As if that wasn't enough for a fascinating movie already, Cronenberg centers his story on Riseborough's professional growth. Leigh, as her boss, seems determined to groom her for a promotion, seeing the assassin as potentially her best asset. Unfortunately, Riseborough's family, her estranged husband and son, has all but disintegrated (no doubt due to her macabre line of work) and she begins acting oddly while on the job. After coming out of her possession state, she is questioned by Leigh, apparently to ground her in reality; as she answers, Riseborough reveals her desire to reconnect with her family and expresses guilt over once killing a butterfly. The best killer would never have such personal connections or sentimentality.

It's the next job, as it always is in the movies, that screws things up. When hired by an ambitious client to kill his own family members so as to assume leadership in their company, Riseborough body snatches Christopher Abbott (handsome and talented, most recently seen in Hulu's excellent Catch-22), who is engaged to the daughter of the CEO. The problem is that Abbott (I think his name was Colin?) is feeling as alienated as she is. Though his circumstances are poorer -- a data grunt worker, he spies on people through their laptop cameras (!!!) -- he too feels disconnected and discontented with his life and intended family, fueled by consuming consumer lifestyles, no doubt. Both are predatory in different ways, and both are unhappy. Once Riseborough takes over Abbott's body, it's not clear that either of them are truly in control, and that both consciousnesses are in communication.

I don't want to say much more, because the entire second half of this movie is turn after fascinating turn, with plenty of violence to keep the horror fans happy and some uniquely engaging sci-fi thrills for everyone else. By the end, I was tempted more than once to think of this movie as a black comedy about corporate management and ambition, or even a satire about the age of information and consumerism, and maybe that is all valid. But this movie is bleak. I felt unwell after watching it -- its subdued colors and sleek, almost clinical aesthetic feels as disaffected as the characters -- perhaps even more than while I was flinching between stabs. Buckle up, y'all. This movie isn't playing around.

After Midnight (2020)

 Score: 2 / 5

Ten years into their relationship, Hank's girlfriend Abby disappears. She left a note with a sort of "I'm sorry" vague explanation, but no forwarding address or number. Hank is left alone in a rural house, slipping into drunken melancholy. His weird friend Wade is less than helpful in supporting him, and Abby's cop brother checks in on him, but even they have trouble taking the pathetic Hank seriously. Because Hank is convinced a monster has been visiting his house at night since Amy left. That's why he's sleeping on a sofa barricading the front door with a shot gun in his hand. That's why he's blown holes through the walls, door, and windows. He seems more upset about Abby's departure than about the monster, so what's really going on here?

We never really know, for what it's worth. The movie, written and directed by Jeremy Gardner (who also plays Hank), is so proud of its blatant central metaphor that it never really explores it. Anxiety over failed relationships -- and the haunting recognition of toxic relationship behaviors -- manifests in an almost unseen monster. The monster becomes more visible to us, the audience, as the film takes us through Hank's recollections of his romance and where it went wrong. Beginning with brighter memories, he recalls Abby as loving and sweet, the two of them comfortable and humorous in their early scenes together. Other than learning about their past and establishing the main theme, the first half of the movie is almost unbearably dull.

But then (spoiler alert!) Abby materializes again, out of nowhere, and Hank doesn't quite know what to do with her. Or himself. The movie's best scene comes shortly thereafter, as the two of them sit in the hallway, awkwardly spaced apart, drinking and waiting for the monster to appear. She's clearly uneasy (Hank is drinking heavily and wielding a shotgun), but as it's her birthday she seems intent on having a tough discussion. In the 13-ish-minute scene, filmed as a single take, the two people dialogue their way through the rough stuff in their past; his microaggressions and control, her uncommunicated longing for more. In many ways, the brilliant writing and effective performances in this riveting scene feel like a short film that better dramatizes and explains everything up to this point and could exist fully on its own without the hullabaloo that comes after. 

It's a cruel sort of some-to-Jesus scene that encapsulates their character, their emotional baggage, their exposition, their conflict, and their aim toward resolution. Sort of. Hank still has trouble looking Abby in the eye, but it's hard to feel pity so much as disdain for him as he swigs his drink and manhandles his gun. In my opinion, this scene is the only reality of these characters we can trust. It is unedited, unscored, and unembellished by effects; it is not memory, nor is it the possible insanity of an isolated, aggrieved man. But it's also left unresolved at the end of the scene, which moved forward to act two with renewed interest from this viewer.

Unfortunately, the film doesn't go much further into interesting areas. Abby, for her dubious integrity in returning, isn't treated like much of a dynamic character; indeed, the camera often views her as a subject of Hank's gaze (probably because the guy playing Hank is also the guy who wrote and directed everything). While we might hope she can encourage the sudden maturity of Hank, who is truly insufferable to witness as he mopes and whines and complains and indulges himself, we begin to realize that he is as monstrous as anything he faces. Almost. Wait for the end and decide for yourself.

Or don't, because it's really not that interesting.

Wendy (2020)

Score: 4.5 / 5

One of my favorite movies of 2012 was the indie smash Beasts of the Southern Wild, a brazen folklore coming-of-age odyssey through a Louisiana bayou community. Bound up with environmentalism were its central themes about age, race, gender, language, and community investment, and its sociocultural gumbo hit close to home for people far beyond its geographic specificity. But we haven't heard so much as a peep from its writer and director, Benh Zeitlin, since. Not, that is, until recently, when Wendy hit... a few cinemas? One of the greatest tragedies of early 2020, for me, was that Wendy was hard to find. At least where I live. It wasn't until it appeared, miraculously, on HBO Max that I was finally able to see it. And it quickly stole my heart all over again.

It's not really a surprise that Zeitlin decided on another story of children in the bayou, and while some will criticize his return to the same form so many years later, I will not. It's a gorgeous aesthetic, tied to timely and important messages, and nobody else is making movies like this. It's fresh and beautiful, endlessly inventive even as it reveals truths about hidden parts of our culture. Zeitlin effortlessly makes his bildungsroman about outcast children as much as it is about the planet we've used and abused to the brink of catastrophe. He structures his tales on the skeletons of myth, fleshing out the juicy bits while dressing the action in unfamiliar but effective trappings. More importantly, he proves yet again that budget does not -- and should not -- matter when it comes to real imagination. If anything, Wendy feels like an extension or companion piece to his earlier work.

And what a piece it is! Loosely inspired by J.M. Barrie's timeless classic Peter Pan, Wendy finds us centering our story, yes, on a young girl faced with the realities of a rough adult life in the rural U.S. south. We're placed seamlessly into her mind as her thoughtful, calm voiceover narrates the more abstract parts of the story. In many ways, it's a more palatable version of the Terrence Malick style, and here it works all the better due to our already-bursting knowledge of the source material. Who hasn't wondered what the harsh realities of children running away from home might look like from a child's perspective, or an island run by children and crawling with pirates? This time Peter Pan doesn't necessarily fly, but he flies on the top of a freight train, and I was more than willing to take that leap of faith after him.

I'd argue that this movie is, ironically, a bit more grounded than Zeitlin's earlier film, but that only serves to deepen my appreciation for what he's doing to the story and themes at work. Sure, we have the familiar moments, including the famed Peter Pan, a small Black boy whose shadow leads Wendy out to the fateful train. Even when things tilt -- during the train ride, a wonderful transition to Neverland -- into more fantastic imagery, we're treated to more than enough sensory details to keep things realistic, as when Peter mischievously pushes his charges off the train and into the muddy swamp. Even when on the island, which reads frighteningly close to Lord of the Flies (mercifully sans wild pigs), there are touches of whimsy, as when Peter and his lost boys, who indeed do not grow older, seem to control the island's volcano telepathically.

Could the magic of Neverland be little more than that of a childhood fantasy destination? After all, there is a volcano there. But there is more to it than that, a fantasy element that takes full form once the children go swimming under the island. There are no fairies or mermaids in this version, only the whale-like luminescent creature Peter calls Mother, who swims peacefully through the subterranean caves under Neverland. She's about as heavy-handed as the aurochs in Beasts, but there's no denying the children's belief in her life-giving magic. At least, for a time. The tranquil beauty of this Caribbean island is shattered when the children realize that loss of faith in the magic will result in their sudden aging.

Shocker? Perhaps not to us jaded viewers, but this horrifying development in the children's psyche manifests more like Lord of the Flies than I previously suggested. And Zeitlin, much to his credit, reimagines Captain Hook in such a brilliant way that I was moved to tears more than once. Watching the children grapple viscerally with the reality of mortality is more than I ever expected from Peter Pan, though the subtext is certainly there for those willing to lean into it.

And while I dearly loved the movie and look forward to another viewing, I can't rightly say I understood all of it. Especially in the middle, when various strands of plot and theme complicate themselves perhaps needlessly, I found myself daydreaming about the film's possibilities more than its presentation. That's not a great sign, and no doubt this is why many will surely decry it for cultural and racial appropriation, poverty porn, and exploitation of the same kind aimed at Beasts. While we can discuss these concerns, I'm not sure they're entirely valid as the movie has nothing, really, to say on the class or race of any of its characters (except that Peter is a Black boy while Wendy and her brothers are white, I'm not sure there's any other concrete example of racial dynamics at work at all). The island's population is more diverse than we are fully aware of, and they seem united by their alienation from the "real world." Age and gender, though, seem to be more of a concern, but only in thematic terms.

By the riveting climax, I hope you'll be as invested as I was. I wept openly multiple times, especially as the fight between Hook and Pan began, as they all sang for their dying source of magic, and of course as Wendy returned home. The famous final scene hits hard, as a grown-up Wendy... well, you know. I don't have to tell you. Just close your eyes and think of happy, wonderful thoughts. 

She Dies Tomorrow (2020)

 Score: 4.5 / 5

Amy just bought a house. Amy is young. Amy is cute. Amy has a life to live. Amy should be excited. But our first shot of Amy is actually an extreme close-up of her eye, a vibrant hue of blue amidst black, smudgy mascara and bedewed with tears. She wanders slowly around her new house, drinks a lot, and has Mozart's "Lacrimosa" on repeat. Is she in quarantine like the rest of us? Well, yes. But not because of a viral pandemic in the film. This is apparently self-imposed, though there are suggestions otherwise. First, unlikely colored lights attract her to one room in particular. Second, as she approaches, staring out of the screen and into our eyes, we cannot tell what she's thinking. And, of course, there's her confession -- prediction? assertion? affirmation? intention? declaration? -- that she is going to die tomorrow. Amy is not well.

When Jane calls to congratulate Amy on her new house, Amy is dismissive and absent. Despite needing to go to a birthday party for her sister-in-law, Jane hurries over to check on her friend. Amy's morbidity has led her to search for urns online; it has also led to her looking at leather jackets. After she dies tomorrow, Amy tells Jane, she wants to be turned into a leather jacket, so she can be useful. Disturbed, Jane returns home and then goes to the party, carrying something of Amy's state of mind with her. It's not sorrow, exactly, or fear, or any other distinct emotion. It's more like a cold assertion, a harsh reality with which the subject is attempting to make peace or at least to accept. But it's catching.

Writer and director Amy Seimetz -- whose protagonist's name might suggest a frighteningly personal basis for this movie -- has crafted a movie about life that consistently rejects liveliness. Or at least any conventions of cinematic life. Almost inert, the film feels fragmented, stitched together like a Frankenstein monster with large episodes and oddball shots of microscopic cells, sunsets, and more abstract color-heavy images. There is no exposition, except in shorthand as scenes unravel and we see Amy (and, eventually, others) reveal their symptoms to others. Nobody likes to hear their friend, family member, patient, co-worker, passenger, client, or lover is going to die tomorrow, as if that was something any of us could even say. In that awkward conversation, which repeats uncomfortably in this movie, they laugh it off, sweetly deny it, get angry or afraid, express concern about sanity, and generally fail to comprehend until it is too late for themselves.

She Dies Tomorrow is not even typical arthouse fare. Don't let its starry cast fool you; this is a difficult watch, both due to its content and its delivery. Seimetz exerts incredible control over the film, keeping our attention on what plot exists while forcing our minds to metaphoric "what if" considerations. She shifts her storytelling between time and place, keeping us unsure even as we slowly realize what exactly is happening. It helps that cinematographer Jay Keitel's shots are often unexpected, moving to alarming perspectives that highlight disorientation in the screenplay and in the characters' lives. Deaths. Whatever.

In this way, it's a nearly perfect movie for isolating during a pandemic. Which is to say, it's a terrible movie to watch right now. An overpowering sense of doom compels the film, and it only gets worse as the contagious awareness of death spreads. Of course, there is also real death, which satisfies the horror fiend wanting entertainment even as it increases viewing anxiety in general; this contagion may be less visceral than COVID-19, but it is far more insidious as a disease of the mind. Though we know precious little about these characters, we are them in more ways than one. As they, one by one, gaze into the brightly colored lights like Amy did, they respond in as various ways to their own death as they did to news of hers. Is it fear spreading, or is it something far worse?

While watching, I thought of everything from The Happening to The Neon Demon, but ultimately this movie feels, to me, like the love child of It Follows and Melancholia. An unbearable, looming comprehension of death elicits strange responses from people. But, as we've learned over the past year, collectivity isn't the experience we ultimately undergo. We'll face death on our own, in the end.

Amulet (2020)

 Score: 5 / 5

A stunning work of Gothic horror, Amulet sees actor Romola Garai directing her first feature film. It is the voice of a brave and brilliant newcomer to the genre, much like Jennifer Kent with The Babadook or Natalie Erika James with Relic earlier this year. No doubt aided by her training as an actor, she elicits stunning and nuanced performances from her three principal cast members. But as a new director, she is in full control of this movie and manages to make it beautiful in its ugliness. And, most impressively, her incredible writing skills use this story to aggressively, angrily challenge the status quo of women in horror -- indeed, in the world -- while changing the game for feminist genre pictures.

She begins with Tomaz (the beautiful Alec Secareanu of God's Own Country, Ammonite), a man squatting in a London den by night and working hard labor by day. His difficult life is dramatized in effective shorthand, but we recognize that he's haunted by something more traumatizing. We learn through flashbacks that he is a former soldier of an unspecific conflict, but it is also clear that he was not a frontline warrior, as he is only shown as an isolated sentry in a quiet, foggy wood. We see, early, that he binds his hands with duct tape before he sleeps, as if afraid his own Mr. Hyde will do something terrible. This pairs, uncomfortably, with his flashbacks, in which a lone woman suddenly materializes and Tomaz (who, for an attractive man, is quite creepy) aggressively tries to make her feel safe with him. As these scenes progress, we sense him wrestling with certain urges through his body language and side-eye ogling.

The haunted Tomaz is forced to the streets when his squatter's den catches fire, and he is found and taken in by the kindly Sister Claire (Imelda Staunton of Harry Potter, Vera Drake, Maleficent, Pride). She takes him to a house wherein he can live for free, in exchange for his help as a repairman. The house, he quickly learns, is falling apart, and grimy plumbing problems plague his days. His companion in this house is the quiet Magda (Carla Juri, Blade Runner 2049), who cares for her ailing -- read: screaming -- mother locked in the attic. The house becomes a sort of character itself, helped by strong production design, and it quickly becomes clear that everything is not as it seems. Not just because all of Magda's meals for Tomaz are heavy on meat. There's the weird hints of who previously lived in the house and left their possessions. And, of course, there's the horrific batlike creature bathed in bloody sewage.

But while the mysteries unfold, Garai is most interested in the many references she can make. The rotting house with pools of moldy discoloration feel not unlike something from Japanese horror, along with the rarely seen but distinctly terrifying specter of Magda's mother crawling around the attic. Amber light in the hallways below seem to scream "yellow wallpaper" to us, and Magda's submissive behavior fits right in. Cinematographer Laura Bellingham transitions between drama and horror by interjecting shots of nature like raindrops on the eaves or snails gliding along moss. It swirls into a heady concoction of textile interest, a film about high-brow concepts that uses the physical senses -- don't even get me started on the sound mixing -- to keep you grounded and invested.

By the film's final act, the mysteries are revealed and the particularly graphic imagery all along suddenly makes sense. We understand why there have been so many yonic symbols: partly due to the ultimate theme of the film, sure, but also because we are meant to view the movie from Tomaz's perspective, and the imagery means something very specific for him, as we eventually learn. Magda slicing open a fish and pulling out its organs isn't just dinner preparation, and the bloody bed sheet isn't just her period. And then, as the film shifts our assumptions about a protector and the protected, it also inverts our understanding of the intentions of hospitality. After all, earlier Tomaz offers Magda a particularly creepy amulet he found in the dirt. It is this symbol, one intended apparently for comfort or protection, that informs Garai's Gothic aesthetic and her feminist themes, apart from supplying the film's title. It indicates a specific history and tradition that, to discuss here, would spoil too much of the film.

Amulet has a lot on its mind about superficial gender norms, about revenge and forgiveness, about internalized trauma and externalized guilt, and Garai handles it all with grace and a grim sense of fun. While most of the film could be called a slow-burner, it has its share of gruesome, bloody body horror moments to shock and excite. Despite the occasional dip into giallo territory, though, there is no mistaking Garai's sense of fun for her audience's sense of fun. This is an outspoken, angry film, determined to make us squirm with guilt as much as disgust. In fact, I'd liken this film to mother! and the remake of Suspiria more than to the recent films I referenced in my first paragraph, simply due to its righteous anger centered on gendered bodies and violent bodily violations.

I found myself, by the end, still questioning a lot, though, and that is why the movie will continue to fascinate me. Is there a distinction between evil behavior and evil that possesses or compels? Is it possible for someone to earn forgiveness without confronting themselves with their own actions? Does forgiveness require suffering, and if so, for which party? Is sacrifice always about love (as a burgeoning romantic scene between Tomaz and Magda suggests), or is it often more masochistic and selfish than we admit? And just what the hell is that half-bat, half-rat thing doing in the toilet anyway?

Alone (2020)

 Score: 2 / 5

You know those movies that are just unpleasant to watch? Ones that, even if the craft is indisputable, the content or tone make it anything but entertaining? They're different for everybody, but ones that come to mind for me right away are Deliverance and Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer. Something about the gritty violence and lack of redeeming filmmaking elements make for an unforgiving and unforgivable viewing experience.

Alone isn't quite there, but it certainly approaches my limit. It begins when Jessica packs up and leaves Portland for the rugged wilderness of, well, somewhere. She's fleeing something mysterious and traumatic, as final girls often do in these movies, but of course she must be tested yet again by our standards. Very early in the film, we notice that she's being stalked by a mysterious man in a black Jeep; after some road rage "chicken" games, he returns time and again in her periphery. When he finally approaches her, he's as creepy as you'd expect. His character's credited name is "Man," so that tells you pretty much what you need to know. He's never subtle. He's a caricature of monstrosity, decked out with predictably grotesque facial hair and thick glasses.

Then comes the inevitable -- but surprisingly early -- assault. After sabotaging her vehicle, he smashes in her window, drugs her, and takes her to his basement. Once she awakens, he materializes to taunt her and question her about her life, her trauma. Thankfully -- an unexpected grace note in this one-note flick -- we aren't forced to watch any torture or sexual assault. In fact, right around the time I was expecting it, Jessica overhears him talking to his wife and daughter on the phone, lying about his whereabouts and doings. He seems almost normal, except of course for that moustache. "Man" is just a serial killer, apparently, rather than also a rapist or terrorist or pedophile, which is almost uniquely refreshing in the genre. Almost.

The movie progresses much as we expect. She escapes and flees into the Pacific Northwest wilderness, followed by Man with a gun hunting the most dangerous game. Though she's not quite dangerous, and her foot is injured early. As the movie drags on, Man's taunts and weak attempts at psychological torment become less interesting. Some of his lines are downright laughable. Thankfully, Jules Willcox imbues Jessica with enough physical strength to keep viewers interested, even if her wide, weeping eyes becomes tiresome to behold. She is never much more than a damsel in distress, even during her climactic attempt to steal Man's phone and call -- well, not the police. And despite occassionally good depictions of survival instincts, she is no Woman Against Nature icon; hell, she's not even much of a Woman Against Man icon. Which begs the question, why did the filmmakers think this movie was a good idea?

It's not all "bad", and I found it a diverting hour and a half on a cold day in quarantine. The most interesting part to me, other than the first 20 minutes or so, was when the only other consequential character shows up. Anthony Heald pops in for a hot minute; he played Frederick Chilton in The Silence of the Lambs and Red Dragon, and he really should be in more movies. Unfortunately for his character Robert, an extra in a movie like this isn't long for the world, he is fairly stupid and panicky. What's interesting about him is that he has a gun. Though our national conversation hasn't discussed "good men with guns" in a while, the movie's most interesting scene suggests they are incapable of stopping evil intent.

Ammonite (2020)

 Score: 4 / 5

Loosely inspired by what little is known of British paleontologist Mary Anning's private life, Ammonite dramatizes a bleak existence scraping amongst the rocks and cliffs of the English Channel in Dorset. Anning wasn't seemingly as well-known as she may have deserved: as a Protestant separatist from Anglican society, and of course as a woman, her scientific discoveries were the result of backbreaking work. Denied funding from the male- and Church-dominated scientific communities, it's likely she did not receive much credit for the work she did produce, which included the first icthyosaur skeleton as well as the fact that what were commonly called bezoars were actually fossilized feces. These details, among others, are suggested in this film, and frankly I'd have been interested in more tidbits like this.

But unlike Radioactive, the only other major movie this year to explore the real life of a pioneering female scientist, Ammonite isn't a historical treatise. In fact, some might say it's more like fan fiction. It takes as its dramatic focus Mary Anning, a character more than an entry in the encyclopedia, the perpetually dirty hermit living with her mother Molly (Gemma Jones). Played to perfection by Kate Winslet, delivering her most impressive performance in several years, Mary toils along a solitary shoreline in silence to find rocks worth polishing and breaking open to find fossils. Even when the drama begins to pick up, she doesn't speak much. Winslet controls the flow of the entire film with simple twists of her brow, piercing gazes, and of course rigidly calculated body language.

When another paleontologist pops in to her shop, one who seems genuinely interested in her work, Mary seems immediately repelled by his professed indifference toward gender relations and inequity. He controls his wife with, if not outright cruelty, disdain and annoyance, telling people she suffers from "melancholia" and takes it upon himself to keep her subservient in all things. Charlotte Murchison (a brilliant Saoirse Ronan) becomes sick, and her husband (I think his name is Roderick? It never seemed to matter much) leaves her with Mary to get healthy in the seaside air and sun. Because of course an already working woman can just casually nurse his ill wife at his whim, right? But, despite a few rough bumps, the two women take to each other well, and there isn't much tension in terms of class, wealth, or lifestyle.

Charlotte even accompanies Mary to the shore and assists with her work. Their physical labor together gradually shifts into physical affection; after several beautifully emotional encounters they finally consummate their feelings. But this isn't quite the kind of explosive sex you might think; this is deeply emotional, about the importance of human relationships even when they aren't expected or wanted. There is no melodrama here and certainly no soap. The emotional climaxes are understated and deeply introverted; the nuances of Winslet and Ronan are masterclasses in acting, precisely because they are so precise and clear, even as they could easily be missed, if you watch with one eye on the screen and one eye on your phone. And then, of course, the sex scenes are actually quite passionate, sensitive, and tasteful. Apparently Winslet herself choreographed these scenes as well as controlling the atmosphere behind the camera; the record of this is remarkable, and champions both feminist filmmaking and feminist male directors.

Francis Lee was already a great director in my book for giving us the gift that is God's Own Country back in 2017. And here it just gets better with two amazing performances from even bigger names. While at times the film's silence is frustrating, I find myself haunted even now, days after viewing it. I've read several angry accounts of people saying Lee, who also wrote this screenplay, is rewriting history, because there is no evidence of Mary Anning's queerness. I reject that utterly, as this film is by no means a historical record. However, it is certainly possible that Anning and Murchison (or someone else) were romantically involved. How many stories have been told, about any number of historical figures whose intimacies were unknown, that explicitly showed people to be heterosexual? Why should a single, relatively unappreciated and even unknown, movie like this be subjected to such disdain and criticism? Lee deserves a damned award for simply being audacious enough to shift the status quo and allow for speculation like this in such a thoughtful, poignant way.

And, of course, it's an insightful and warm-hearted story about unexpected, transformative love, all the more powerful in a year when we ourselves have been so isolated.

The Secret Garden (2020)

 Score: 1.5 / 5

It's the same story we all know, adapted by a brilliant writer in a completely rote way, and I just cannot figure out why anyone thought this movie would be a good idea. There have been so many adaptations of Frances Hodgson Burnett's novel in the last century, most of which are indistinguishable from each other. Writer Jack Thorne's ability to craft something fresh and interesting out of the familiar (Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, The Aeronauts, Radioactive, Wonder, His Dark Materials) here manifests as something completely beyond the scope of the source material. That is to say, in a now-cliché story about overcoming grief by tending the garden of life, this ill-intentioned adaptation turns the titular garden into an actual magical place.

It's a Narnia -- or, perhaps, Terabithia -- for orphaned Mary Lennox and her new friends Dickon and Colin. As they enter its vine-covered walls, the light changes and colors enhance, and before we can say "CGI" they're running through the paths as impossibly large flowers burst into bloom around them. I half-expected the petals to have faces and burst into song, a la Wonderland, so strongly was the drug-induced aura of the scene. Why work on interpersonal skills, proper British etiquette in manicured lawns, or even dealing with grief when you can be so easily distracted by fae robins leading you away from your troubles. Even when the dog is injured, it's the garden that miraculously heals it, right before our eyes. Any sense of wonder or mystery is hamstringed by the film's indulgence of pretty but vapid animation. 

Even the reliable Colin Firth and Julie Walters are given next-to-nothing to do, as director Marc Munden obsessively follows the children around. If they aren't frolicking through yellow and green woodlands, they're sneaking through Archibald Craven's Gothic manor, so thickly atmospheric it feels ripped from a different movie altogether. Whereas other versions lean into the human tragedies of this story, allowing us to really understand the pain and torment these lonely adults suffer, this movie forces Firth to gaze out from sunken eyes in a pallid face, trying desperately to Act, giving us the impression of an old man in the throes of bereavement after his late wife's lengthy illness.

Much as it does with the dog, the garden magically helps Colin, Craven's bedridden son, to walk. While this is perhaps a more ambiguous development, the precedent has already been set by the time Mary and Dickon spirit her cousin to the garden. Instead of allowing these characters real, dynamic growth, the movie denies both children and adults the ability to cultivate affection, putting them through alternating scenes of self-torment, indignation, and escape. And if you think I'm being too harsh, take a look at the almost camp quality of the climax, when -- spoiler alert -- Craven "accidentally" lights his own house on fire. In the (lack of) ensuing chaos, he tries to find his son, who is of course in the garden and not in the house; when Mary leads him to the garden to see Colin walking, the movie skips any articulate resolution or reconciliation between the two and assumes, through visual shorthand, that we understand their relationship is suddenly cured. Another magic trick of the garden? Who cares?

I do not understand why any studio would greenlight another production of The Secret Garden if it is not to finally adapt the musical to screen. Nobody wants yet another child-focused "drama" of the same story.

Barb & Star Go to Vista Del Mar (2021)

 Score: 5 / 5

What a start to 2021! If you're feeling blue from an isolated winter, fatigue from pandemic, or heavy from what we might still loosely call Oscar season, jump aboard this raucous romp through campy excess. Refreshingly silly, Barb and Star delight all the senses on their titular trip to sunny Florida where they get caught up in a terrorist plot. This is the kind of madcap nonsense that made Abbott & Costello so popular, or the delightful mess of old Elvis movies, where silliness and style smash together to create joy. It gets aggressively weird, but that's the point; you can sense the glee with which Kristen Wiig and Annie Mumolo, the stars and writers, developed their off-the-wall ideas. "You want to toss in a musical number?" Sure. "Do you think Reba will pop in as a mermaid?" Of course. "Will Jamie Dornan let us do this to him?" Obviously.

Two nice ladies, as they would surely like to be called, Star and Barb (Starbara and Barb, just Barb) decide to go on a little trip. It's apparently their first together, though they've lived together in the Midwest since their marriages ended. And what a trip -- sunny Vista Del Mar is their resort destination, where they can put some extra fluff in their curled hair, don their culottes, and ride a banana boat. Immediately upon their arrival -- to the wrong "resort", though they are welcomed by a fabulous musical number -- they meet hunky Edgar and fall in lust. It's especially satisfying to see Dornan do his first real comedy film, after being so scary, violent, and sexy in his other movies and shows; he's still sexy here, perhaps never more so than during his shirt-tearing song among the seagulls and palm trees on the beach. Their vacation is off to a great start.

It's a particularly tough achievement for Wiig and Mumolo; comedians often make the best character actors, though it's rare for them to do so in a full movie. The broad mannerisms and lack of subtlety require endurance as well as judicious choices, so they don't dazzle too much too early and coast their way to boredom. These women are never less than delightful and manage to keep their characters, thin as they are, distinctive and eccentric and even a little surprising until the very end. It helps, too, that the film rapturously embraces post-menopausal sexuality with taste and humor without really naming it; early on, their love triangle with Edgar leads directly from a disco version of "My Heart Will Go On" to their threesome, and there isn't shame associated with it. Indeed, though a rift between the two women starts to form much later in the film, they mend it quite easily and remain solid friends throughout the thinly plotted drama.

Plot, you ask? I suppose, if you count the bizarre plot to destroy Vista Del Mar by the film's mad scientist-ish villainess, the albino woman ostracized by sunbathers for her allergic reaction to sunlight. Captioned in the film as "Dr. Lady" and played by Wiig, I think she had a name, but I don't remember it. Dr. Lady is better anyway. With the help of Edgar, who unrequitedly loves her and hopes his efforts to wipe the beach resort off the tourist maps will finally allow them to consummate their relationship, she plans to unleash killer mosquitoes from an underwater submarine, to torment her former tormentors. Though this criminal plot is the only real plotline in the film, it feels unimportant most of the time, allowing the antics of the leading women to fully control the film's structure and pacing. Which is smart, because there is never a dull moment with those two.

I've still never seen the now decade-old Bridesmaids -- I know, I know, I'm dead to the gays -- but it's definitely on my list now. If it's anything like this movie, I'll love it. There's just something infectious about the irreverent absurdism of this kind of movie, a series of elongated SNL skits, that is never less than entertaining for me. And that's from someone who doesn't like a lot of comedy. Plus, we've got Jamie Dornan as a beach babe, so there's that. But perhaps I most loved this movie as an escapist, nonsensical balm that delivered much-needed kitsch to a year mostly void of it. A movie like this, in times like these, provides comfort and joy, reminding us that it's always okay to be silly.