Leave the World Behind (2023)

Score: 4.5 / 5

A relentlessly intriguing, engaging, and frustrating experience, Leave the World Behind is one of the most purely entertaining and provocative films of the past year, and I can't get it out of my head. Soon I intend to read the novel on which it is based and re-watch the film in the hopes of giving my brain some closure, but in the meantime, this will have to suffice. Unceremoniously debuting on Netflix in December, this thriller boasts some breakneck plot shifts, blockbuster visuals, and effectively gut-punching acting in ways that had me repeatedly gobsmacked during its two hours and twenty minutes.

To start with: plot and tone. I'll try not to spoil too much, but no promises; you've been warned. The story is essentially about a family in NYC who visit a Long Island mansion for a weekend away from their busy lives, only to have a series of strange and terrifying events occur that cut off their ability to return home or communicate with the outside world, indicating the onset of some apocalyptic event. Not "apocalypse" as in the literal end of the world, but in the sense of the revelation that certain unknown powers are taking over by force and the foreboding threat that everyone's lives are about to change, if they survive. The plot moves along swiftly, from credible threats to believable incidents, including the knockout of satellites and transit comms to the failure of ship and plane navigation systems, even to the spread of (likely) misinformation and scapegoating of possible terrorists or shadow uprisings. It's all a little too familiar a fear for us these days, and the film plays on the mystery to inform our suspense.

But the film is not always -- is, in fact, rarely -- focused on the macro picture. Rather, everything is filtered for us through the eyes and ears of the family we follow. Amanda Sanford, her husband Clay, and their children Rose and Archie are excited for their time away until, once at the mansion, the house's owners show up at night. Issues of class and race bleed into their confrontation: the Sanfords (Julia Roberts and Ethan Hawke, white) do not trust the strangers G.H. Scott and much younger Ruth (Mahershala Ali and Myha'la, not white), who claim to own the house but their story for why they needed to return doesn't quite add up. A power outage and some chaos in the city could perhaps be the cause, but their demeanor is prickly and sly; Amanda's latent racism peeks through in her suspicion and in her indignation at having booked the mansion for her own family's use. I was reminded more than once of the social anxiety milked to dramatic tension in the first act of Barbarian.

Writer and director Sam Esmail (Mr. Robot, Gaslit) knows about the cinematic language of post-apocalytpic movies and exploits it in what is essentially something just shy of it: a conspiracy apocalypse. This isn't the energy of A Quiet Place: Day One (to be released this year) in literalizing the likely end of humanity. This is something more like what we saw in Gareth Edwards's Godzilla, in The Purge films, and I suspect in Alex Garland's upcoming Civil War. It's something, indeed, that M. Night Shyamalan has handled multiple times, in The Happening and most particularly in Knock at the Cabin, which shares a lot of DNA with this film. Enough weird, threatening things happen that the characters are led to believe that NYC is being overtaken by terrorists in some kind of coup. But the film is less concerned with how that seems on a massive scale than in how those events affect the family and their newfound friends, their socializing and their hope, their ability to communicate and rationalize and cooperate.

Apart from the more horrifying elements of crashing freighters and planes and EVs, the film ratchets up its almost unbearable tension on the domestic level, and most of the film's middle comprises the interactions between the house owners, the Black father and daughter (and missing mother) who want to be home, and the house guests, the white family who lie to their children about what's happening and feel entitled to the house and its resources (because they paid for it, dammit). While I don't recall accusations of racism being verbalized in the dialogue, it is exactly this racial tension that electrifies each scene, often squaring Roberts off against Ali in riveting scene after scene. For an "end of the world" film to focus on home invasion and racism is an unusual gamble, and I found it a profoundly successful one.

Add to it some amazing cinematography from Tod Campbell, which would have worked better in cinemas due to his sweeping visual scope and his attention to endless production design details. Add to it Kevin Bacon in a bit part of an off-the-grid doomsday stockpiler who serves as the film's harbinger. Add to it a curiously detached feeling about death -- mass deaths are okay, but the deaths of the characters we know apparently are not -- and this movie shies away from what could be disturbing horror, settling for a much more standard, palatable stock thriller that is nevertheless very effective at what it attempts to do. It's a really extraordinary surprise of a film, not one I expected at all, even while watching! This wonderfully realized puzzle box deserves a watch, and then some. 

Rustin (2023)

Score: 4 / 5

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

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

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

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

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

The Killer (2023)

Score: 3.5 / 5

A new David Fincher film? On Netflix? With Michael Fassbender? It didn't take much to put The Killer on my awards season watchlist, so I never really knew what to expect. And, now having seen it, I don't really know how to feel. It is at once exactly what I imagined and a bizarre surprise that didn't quite earn my favor. Make no mistake: Fincher is as precise and commanding as he's ever been, and the film is a blessing to behold. It's just a strange story with unexpected tone, and its release exclusively on streaming does it no favors in that regard.

A Fincher thriller about a hitman whose most recent job got botched? Yeah, okay, that tracks. The story of a cold-blooded, calculated assassin who has to reckon with suddenly losing control of his craft? Sounds suspicioiusly personal for Fincher, notoriously exacting in his obsessive creativity. Starring a man accomplished in playing heartless monsters and scary killers? Michael Fassbender has it down to a science. The dramatized perfectionism exceeds the story, adapted by Andrew Kevin Walker (8mm, Sleepy Hollow, The Wolfman, and Se7en), and feels quite at home with both cast and crew, blurring the lines between art and artists. Even when Tilda Swinton shows up, it's less a shock and more a natural bit of casting inclusion; of course she'd be there too, whether you see this as an exercise in coldly precise artists working together or because you see this film as an updated, zhuzhed-up Michael Clayton (which crossed my mind more than once). 

But it's also not what you'd expect because of its odd sense of humor. Granted, part of this may stem from its source material, a French graphic novel series I don't know anything about. The opening sequence is of the nameless protagonist -- Fassbender as the titular professional assassin -- staking out a hotel room and waiting for his target to arrive, and as chilling as it is to watch someone watching for someone, his "method," if you will, involves listening to The Smiths on repeat and justifying his murderous job to us in listless voiceover. The deadpan presentation is helped by the ironic music, to be sure, but also in an almost Ebenezer Scrooge-like means of self-defense via monologue; the killer often keys us into his own justification for being creepy and violent by noting that his actions are infinitesimal compared to the number of people are born and die any given day.

Things become less drily funny when his stakeout ends in disaster. Faced with running and hiding as his only reasonable option, he returns home to find his girlfriend in a bad way, and then he makes a shattering decision. Everything we've learned about him has been planned and calculated, emphasized in his repeated rule to never improvise or get emotionally involved. Suddenly he chooses to make this personal and seek revenge. He embarks on a bloody journey that, while mostly predictable in conventional narrative, remains endlessly watchable due to the cinematic craftsmanship on display by a team working in perfect harmony, harnessing the perfectionist streak of its protagonist and owning that same perfectionism in each aspect of bringing the film's world to life.

Fascinating and beautiful as it all is, it's also hard to connect with emotionally. Maybe we're not supposed to. I'm glad that the film never makes its leading man sympathetic -- I kept expecting some revelation meant to endear us to him -- but his detached approach to murder also saps the film of some of its prurient intrigue. Sometimes you want someone to love or hate more than just vaguely fear. Then again, this isn't a story of feelings. It's a story of someone who so carefully constructs their lives around being perfect and precise who then makes a mistake and has to messily deal with that to protect himself. Again, doesn't it sound a little personal for Fincher? That might also be why its strange tone leans so far into comedy. I was reminded more than once of Steven Soderbergh's filmography, vacillating between riveting dramatic thrillers and crime comedies. This is Fincher's version of the latter, including a running gimmick about the killer's aliases and countless references to name brands (some would say product placement), a curiously bitter commentary on our commodified, consumer culture that keeps us all connected while distracting us from very real threats walking among us.

Maestro (2023)

 Score: 4.5 / 5

A standard biopic is only boring if the filmmakers make it boring. And: “A work of art does not answer questions, it provokes them; and its essential meaning is in the tension between the contradictory answers.” With the overwhelmingly big team of Bradley Cooper, Steven Spielberg, and Martin Scorsese, there is nothing remotely boring about Maestro, a searing portrait of legendary composer Leonard Bernstein. Their goal, along with cowriter Josh Singer, is to dramatize the man behind the baton, as the film is far less interested in the music and career of its protagonist than it is in his private life. Which is what many will say of this film, likely with some disdain or scorn. But what they won't tell you is that this is the rare film that finds its fascination in the connection between Bernstein's music and his life, taking us from era to era and immersing us in his singular mind so that we can better understand his music through his life, and vice versa.

Your mileage on emotionally connecting to this film will vary, and to some extent that may be intentional. It's a brilliantly crafted screenplay, but hews close to tried-and-true patterns of biopic narrative, meaning its vast survey of Bernstein's life feels shallow more often than not, reliant more on plot than on our understanding of his character to push the story along. A useful comparison point here might be Tár, which very much uses character and theme to drive plot. If you like more or less standard stories in that regard, then, you might do fine with this film; if you want more heft, don't go into this one seeking deep insight into Bernstein's fascinating life.

On the other hand, the performances bring these characters to life beyond what the time-hopping vignettes and dialogue can provide. Bradley Cooper transforms into the beloved musical genius with the help of award-worthy prosthetics and makeup, and his characterization of the composer and conductor is never less than riveting. His electrifying delivery of Bernstein conducting the London Symphony Orchestra in Mahler's "Resurrection" Symphony No. 2 in 1973 will be studied by acting and music students alike and arrives at the climax of the film, partly due to his movement work, partly the fluid cinematography and subtly effective sound editing, and partly the final realization or apocalypse of Bernstein's life purpose writ large for us to relish. Opposite the maestro is his wife Felicia Montealegre, played by consistently fascinating Carey Mulligan, who seems determined not to let the character slip into a "woman behind the great man" character mold. Her delivery supersedes the screenplay, providing insight where the dialogue frustratingly fails: we never really hear her thoughts on her husband's numerous affairs with younger men, only see her guarded reactions on occasion and the rare icy rebuke when he gets "sloppy" with indiscretions.

Many scenes between husband and wife play a balancing act of bubbly passion and effortless chemistry -- including the scenes of their courtship, early in the film -- and much weightier joys and sorrows as they come to terms with the life they have and the other lives they sometimes want. Part of what makes their dynamic so absorbing is the stilted way they have to navigate their desires, based on the time period. Cooper's somewhat impregnable performance reads true to anyone who has lived closeted, though it does little to endear the character to audiences in 2024; thankfully we get some headway into the lighter side of Bernstein while he's with various men, especially Matt Bomer as a virtuoso clarinetist. A closer study of the film's editing might reveal -- I'm not sure, but it was my impression after a single viewing -- that the more intimate we are with Bernstein and the more intimate he is with someone, the editing slows down. I noticed this most clearly during some of his conflicts with Felicia, which seemed to boast more long takes.

Which leads us to my final point: despite the discourse about screenplay and acting, the best parts of Maestro are its technical aspects. Matthew Libatique's transcendent cinematography and Michelle Tesoro's editing brings the world to life in a metafictional way, performatively evoking the various time periods of this narrative with each decade that passes. The black-and-white boxy ratio of the '40s, the vivid Technicolor of the '60s, even the staging of certain scenes seems to mirror the eras visually. Some of the year's most authentic-looking costume and production design, too, makes this an eminently watchable experience of beauty. "Immersive" gets tossed around a lot these days, but Cooper does want to bring us into his world, something I realized early on during a feverish fever dream/dream ballet sequence of On the Town, which was the moment Cooper won me over.

Nyad (2023)

Score: 3 / 5

It's rare that I find a film most compelling due to a single element, and perhaps even more when that element is acting, but Nyad fit that bill last year. Diana Nyad, in case you don't remember, is the legendary long-distance swimmer who tried multiple times to swim the Straits of Florida, from the Keys to Cuba, in the early 2010s. Raw material seemingly made for film, her story is one of stubborn perseverance almost to the point of martyrdom, as the over fifty hours of constant swimming in open ocean could have easily killed her, even while supervised. Some will note the various skeptics who doubt certain aspects of her achievements, but technicalities aside, it is clear that Nyad is one of the most determined and accomplished aqua-athletes in America, and this dramatization reminds us of the human story behind the headlines.

Annette Bening plays the title role with especial attention to the name's mythic Greek roots. Her character repeatedly references her fate to live in the water and succeed where mere mortals cannot. Bening embodies Nyad with determined physicality, shocking and riveting as she takes to the water like a professionally seasoned swimmer. Even out of the water, she has a messy-haired, wild-eyed, almost animalistic ferocity in her directness and lack of social grace. Bening's steely gaze sees through the artifice of everyone around her, cutting them down while inflating herself, despite a lack of stylish habiliment. Much like Bening's shockingly muscular prowess in mastering this role, Jodie Foster nails a more emotional role than she's had in a while as Bonnie Stoll, Diana's longtime friend and trainer, she watches her best friend flirt with death time and again. She's more perceptive and warm than her counterpart, offering us a welcome perspective on what's really happening to and around Diana from a person we immediately trust. She's also the only person to call Diana out on her prickly behavior. Their relationship is the dynamic that pulses through Nyad, and it serves up a raw feast for your heart.

But it's not all your typical sporty biopic about a dedicated athlete overcoming the odds. She does, of course, but there are twists to it. First, the two women are also exes, which adds a melancholic but heartwarming flavor to their interactions, especially as Bonnie has to witness Diana's monomania and try to support and protect at the same time. Second, Diana is hardly a likable person; so single-minded is her obsession that she can scarcely interact with other people without limiting the conversation to her methods, her training, her goal. She's also remarkably conceited, constantly boasting and self-promoting to the point of off-putting most who enter her orbit. One wonders how much her motivation and her narcissism stem from misogyny she's endured and needed to overcome on her own terms. Third, this isn't a team sport and therefore the film doesn't engage much with the whole camaraderie/teamwork/acceptance trope that structures most inspirational sporty stories. Diana feels that she is alone, fighting powers that seek to keep her in her place, combatting forces of nature like King Lear in the ocean (she is in her mid-60s, after all), and even challenging her supporters for trying to control and influence her pure dreams.

The narrative itself, apart from these character elements, is routine at best. All five of Diana's attempts are dramatized to various extent, and each introduces new and increasingly dangerous elements of her crossing. Powerful ocean currents, drifting courses, and threats of sharks and jellyfish send them back to the drawing board each time, learning new ways to light her path, protect her face and body, even to feed and water her without touching. In between, we get glimpses of her spats with reporters, friends, and even her colleagues, including her somewhat surly ship captain (Rhys Ifans), whose understanding of the sea surpasses her own, much to Diana's chagrin. The film features a few effectively intense and memorable scenes -- a jellyfish attack in the middle of the night is particularly harrowing -- but it also wallows in a lot of "same ol', same ol'" shots of, well, open ocean and torturous swimming, only really discernible by virtue of the forced and obvious soundtrack (that is supported by the screenplay, as Diana mentions songs that run through her mind as she keeps time, but it's still overbearing in our experience of the film).

In summation, the two lead performances are more than award-worthy and more than make the film worth watching. I'd have liked, perhaps, a bit more consideration of Nyad's real character, rather than the somewhat mythic caricature presented by this film. There is always a time and place for inspirational, (wo)man-against-nature adventure or sports flicks, and this definitely fits the bill with an unusually keen focus on complex characters. But when the real Diana Nyad, who is still alive and proudly making rounds as a motivational speaker, etc., has come under such fire for exaggerating her own accomplishments, fabricating her numbers and methods, and even being denied a Guinness World Record for the task depicted in this same story, it feels disingenuous and purposely misleading not to include more of the shady side of her persona. Bonnie at one point teases Diana for embellishing one of her repeated tales, but no further reference is made to her untrustworthiness. Not that painting Diana as a liar should be the point -- heck, the writer could have included more about her need to be better than how the male-dominated sport and society view her, or her determination to be an older, queer woman role model to inspire younger generations and how that can impact someone's self-image.

Fair Play (2023)

Score: 3.5 / 5

Emily is a financial analyst in NYC, first seen with her back turned to a party as she smokes alone outside. Luke materializes and ushers her back inside to his brother's wedding, where she's ogled by other men (called "the prettiest girl in the room" by Luke's uncle with no respect to the bride) before she retires to a bathroom. Luke and Emily are coworkers. They are sometime competitors and friends with clear chemistry. They are also passionate covert lovers, and as they use their time in the bathroom for spontaneous carnal pleasure, her menstrual blood stains their fancy attire and Luke's face. When a ring falls out of his pocket, Luke immediately proposes. It's a devastating opening sequence, equally horny and foreboding, and we know there is no chance this will end well.

It's not certain, yet, whether this will be a tragic drama or erotic thriller, the tension between which propels the first third of Fair Play, an oddly titled but eminently watchable Netflix original release. Their lives continue on in remarkably compatible fashion (from what we see), as they can scarcely keep their bodies off each other and also flawlessly dance as they go about their lives and work. As their romantic relationship transgresses company policy, they keep it a secret while angling for promotions at the firm. It helps endear them to us -- we know precious little about these characters -- that they are played by Phoebe Dynevor and Alden Ehrenreich, both beautiful and skilled performers who make the most of their nonverbal screen presence and interpersonal chemistry.

In a riveting inciting incident, a portfolio manager quits in a rage and rumors run about who will be promoted next. Emily hears it will be Luke and shares this detail with him; almost immediately, they both learn Emily is to win the position. It's a chilling scene as both performers flip their script, so to speak, and the characters wrestle with their new power dynamic. Jealousy and entitlement ooze from both would-be partners, but there's a nasty edge to Luke's emasculation, and I was reminded more than once of the dark satire in American Psycho, though this film features almost no humor at all. Ambition is here tragically Shakespearean, and the business rearrangement bleeds -- like their indiscretion at the wedding -- into their private life. Director and writer Chloe Domont calculatedly visualizes the literal rift growing between their bodies in shots of them in bed and passing in the office; Domont includes this in the screenplay as well, injecting venom into otherwise standard professional-speak.

It's not too spoiler-y to share with you that this is ultimately an erotic thriller like we rarely see anymore (the last decent ones I can recall are Deep Water and Careful What You Wish For), and it feels like something Adrian Lyne would have been proud of. But Domont is playing a much more riveting game here, one specific to her interests, which makes sense as this is her directorial debut. Frankly, lots of it was lost on me, but her astonishingly detailed business jargon-as-dialogue feels a character unto itself: this isn't the verbose world of Mad Men so much as the rapid-fire loaded language of The West Wing. I'd like to read the screenplay for better comprehension, but hints of much more than we see are dropped verbally, such as indications of their differing socioeconomic backgrounds. 

While the early bloodbath (sorry, not sorry) might indicate a turn a la Fatal Attraction, the film stops well before it approaches violent thriller territory. Instead, Domont dives headfirst into passive aggression, especially when it comes to Luke staying with Emily but denying sex, and further undermining her in the workplace and as a businesswoman with misogynistic comments. In fact, I was reminded more than once of Gaslight, especially when the climax forces a reckoning between the ex-lovers, though the hot topic term is not actually uttered in the film. We're never sure if they were truly equals in terms of work ethic or acumen, but it is clear eventually that Emily has worked and is working much harder to achieve her goals while Luke stews in his own bitterness and laments not having her successes despite doing less to earn it. In this way, Domont cleverly shows -- and Ehrenreich masterfully demonstrates -- that the violence at the heart of white masculinity is born of weakness, not strength. I'd have liked a bit more of this to be dramatized, if only because the financial lingo disinterests me, but this is entirely Domont's pet project, and her icy command of the material makes for a nasty good time.

They Cloned Tyrone (2023)

Score: 4 / 5

Having debuted on Netflix with almost no notice, They Cloned Tyrone might be the most original and technically accomplished movie released last summer on any streaming service. A fascinating blend of genres, the film uses mystery, comedy, and science fiction to approach a pseudo-Blaxploitation crime caper. As we follow the three immensely likable leads on a convoluted plot that keeps us guessing, we become complicit in their antics until we become as eager as they to stop the madness and escape. It's the sort of aggressively topical material that could easily have felt angry or scary (like Get Out, to which this surely compares) but is entertained by itself enough that we don't feel the brunt of its message without also feeling the pleasure of its originality. In fact, tonally and generically, I'd compare this film to Sorry to Bother You, which I now need to rewatch in tandem.

Set in a gritty but average suburban neighborhood named The Glen, the story concerns Fontaine (John Boyega), a drug dealer with shiny gold grills, who is shot and killed while collecting from local pimp Slick Charles (Jamie Foxx). When he awakens, totally fine, the next day, sex worker Yo-Yo (Teyonah Parris) hops on the case like Nancy Drew -- whose stories shaped her childhood -- and the three embark on an investigation into the demimonde of their hometown. There is indeed a conspiracy afoot, one partly spoiled by the film's odd title, but I won't share more details here because it's just too fun and interesting to experience firsthand. Suffice it to say that, in addition to the films I've already referenced, this one metafictionalizes Blaxploitation and "urban crime dramas" in a similar way to what Scream and Cabin in the Woods, among others, did for slashers and supernatural horror.

More importantly -- and, honestly, the primary reason I caught onto this approach -- given the recent release of American Fiction, it feels like another significant point in the tapestry of mainstream art by Black artists for Black audiences. There are so many inside jokes, culturally-specific jargon, and storied references that I probably only caught a small fraction of them. But, given the star power of the three leads (who are all utterly magnificent here), I recognized almost immediately their dedicated work in crafting knowingly stereotypical characters, perhaps because I was so bewildered in the film's first act. It's all very grainy, shot beautifully but often (I think intentionally) unclearly by cinematographer Ken Seng, riddled with tactile grime and grit that made me think of Uncut Gems among other films; as I detest that film, I was put off early in this screening. But once the trio discovers an elevator to unknown lower levels of a drug house, things get radically more interesting for a viewer like me.

Which is probably the point, right? Much like in American Fiction, it seems likely that writer and director Juel Taylor wants us to think of his characters as criminals and thugs at first. They're so broadly written and performed with thick accents and sometimes indiscernible dialogue that a white person might think they're foreign or "less than." Our perspective is mostly limited to that of Fontaine, who is immediately painted in pathological terms, with the memory of his deceased brother haunting him and his distant/absent mother only heard through a closed door before he goes to collect drug money from his customers. Boyega's more stoic character is balanced by a high-energy Parris and a funny but never obnoxious Foxx; the three mesh perfectly and carry the film as a dream team, helped by a screenplay that honors the trio's chemistry.

Its rushed conclusion, while more than a bit shocking and funny, felt forced to me, especially once the big bad guy reveals himself and the story rushes to conclude itself. I would have liked more time spent on the respective places of our trio in their community, the same community they spend the film working so hard to protect and save (liberate?). Given the subject matter -- cloning is the only hint you'll get from me -- I'd have also liked more discussion or imagery regarding the roles they've all chosen to play (or been forced to play) in their community, as manipulative powers at hand are conspiring to indeed predetermine the lives of Black people in The Glen. At least for a time. At least until a deeply insidious form of assimilation becomes the standard for their 'hood.

Anatomy of a Fall (2023)

Score: 1.5 / 5

Courtroom dramas should be some of the best kind, if only in terms of screenplay, because it is the dialogue and only the dialogue that matters in reconstructing the plot that came before, organizing our impressions of characters and motivation, and dealing out justice or injustice for us to then rationalize. Anatomy of a Fall dramatizes the case of Sandra, a famous writer living in a remote house in mountainous France with her husband, son, and dog, who is suddenly suspected of murder when her husband mysteriously dies. As the title indicates, he falls from an upper level window but his body bears marks of aggravated assault; did he fall, was he pushed, was he injured or attacked before he fell? We don't know, but it's usually the spouse in situations like this, no? Especially when she has no alibi and their marriage was -- as we learn over the next two hours -- fraught with conflict.

Indeed, the titular fall also refers to the fall from grace of Sandra and her husband Samuel, and when not in the courtroom, we're treated to countless vignettes meant to examine their relationship from every conceivable angle. We see them through the eyes, so to speak, of their visually impaired son Daniel and through the brief interactions they share with the court-appointed guardian for Daniel. We become aware of infidelities, of previous queer relationships and dalliances, of latent hostilities due to the way Sandra as a writer pirated and repurposed some of her late husband's material. Resentments and betrayals pile up quickly, it seems, and the prosecution would have the court believe they finally boiled over into murder. SPOILER ALERT: while we never learn what exactly happened to Samuel, the court acquits her and we're made to believe that Daniel at least is sure she is innocent and that Samuel's death was likely suicidal.

The procedural elements of this film -- one-half of its format -- left a lot to be desired for me. Despite cinematic attempts (most technical, from cinematography and editing) to make the courtroom as cinéma vérité as possible, the aesthetic buckles under its own pretensions repeatedly. In what should be riveting moments of revelation and shock, the camera will shake or shift in an awkward handheld way, then zoom dramatically on someone's face. Frankly, it felt like something you'd see in The Office. More than once, this elicited snickering and even one resounding laugh in my screening, and at moments when that should absolutely not be our reaction. Similarly, the screenplay allows brief moments of insight into the forensic specifics of the case before inexplicably cutting to a point later in the same testimony or, sometimes, another testimony entirely, jarring us out of moments that could (and should) have been mined for more information and insight. A few times I found myself grinding my teeth simply because, due to the editing (and possibly the screenplay, who knows?), some courtroom scenes don't even follow from start to finish, disorienting us and making it frustrating to appreciate new information as we reel from the latest pronouncement.

The dramatic elements of this film -- the other half -- will be up to the viewer to appreciate or not. Sandra Huller gives a masterful performance of the character who also bears her name, and her greatest achievement is a feeling of sudden hollowness as she recognizes the truth that we can never fully understand another person, even a spouse or child. Her chilly delivery will feel relatable to some and deeply off-putting to others, so when it cracks and she desperately tries to hold the pieces of her life together, it will affect everyone watching in some way. It helps that while her private life is scrutinized by everyone around her -- including Samuel's therapist and Sandra's interviewer from the day of his death -- we're often made to stare at Sandra's face, reacting (or trying not to react) to everyone else's outside opinions.

But, and this is where the film falters for me, we've seen it all before, and better. Sandra's personality seems on trial far more than her actions, and that's a tale almost as old as cinema itself. Icily cold filmmaking in legal thrillers is nothing new, nor is the combination of family melodrama with courtroom procedurals. Director Justine Triet presents us with a juicy, compelling puzzle to solve, then does almost all the work solving it herself, sacrificing intrigue in a twisty mystery for soapy bilge between characters who are all horribly unlikable. At least Marriage Story, which I dislike for some similar reasons, gave the characters some realism and positive traits. But from the outset, Sandra and Samuel have to compromise on their shared language while Daniel's limited eyesight render them all fairly isolated from each other, and instead of these becoming areas of sensitivity, they become points of conflict and danger. In a movie far too long for its own good (an almost unendurable two and a half hours that I constantly wished I could escape), the crimes in the case of Anatomy of a Fall should render a hefty penalty.

Mean Girls (2024)

Score: 3 / 5

"My name is Regina George." The oft-repeated hook, in a sultry, jazzy tone, reminds us time and again that in the world of Mean Girls identity matters above all else. The original 2004 comedy used the parlance of its times -- racial and gendered stereotypes included -- to pack its punches in the hands of eminently likable young actors who made it the cultural touchpoint it has since become. Like most comedies from the last forty years, it was adapted as a Broadway musical in 2018; though I'm unfamiliar with the soundtrack and book of that musical, this film adapts that version of the material, though reports on its faithfulness are ambiguous (something like fourteen songs were cut from stage to screen). Notably for this viewer, it updates the material to include lots of social media and Zoomer slang, which will surely be a hit for mass audiences but left me more annoyed than humored.

Angourie Rice (Betty Brant in the MCU, The Beguiled, Mare of Easttown) plays protagonist Cady, and she's just not serving. Her capable voice and wide-eyed innocence are welcome for exactly her opening song and then get old real quickly; she's so disconnected and uninterested in the film that I frequently wished she'd just disappear and we could focus on the more interesting characters and performers. To be fair, Cady is a less dynamic part, but if Lindsay Lohan could pull it off with more panache, Rice certainly could have. Similarly, her love interest Aaron Samuels as played by Christopher Briney seems to snore his way through, mostly existing to adjust his own hair and look wistful at girls. Other performers in this film are wonderful, especially Auli'i Cravalho and Jaquel Spivey as Cady's art freak friends who narrate the story and occasionally break the fourth wall. Reneé Rapp will earn much praise as queen bee Regina George, who seems to stop time every time she approaches a scene. The camera loves her, her vocals enchant, and the star power between Rapp and Cravalho is thankfully more than enough to carry this film.

Technically, the film is a mixed bag. In updating the time period, production design is fighting a two-sided battle: leaning into Gen Z style with costumes (and casting that embraces and celebrates larger body sizes) and colors that didn't always work for me but make sense in the film's context and straddling the line between a cinematic medium and honoring the stage version. Lengthy choreography scenes appear well-constructed and intricate but are frequently hamstrung by editing that doesn't allow us the chance to experience the dancers' energy. I just lambasted Rice's performance, but truly the film doesn't do her any favors in performing Cady's disintegrating ethics because most of these moments are carried out in montages of social media posts and reactions, acting like a Greek chorus and telling us what to think without letting us see Cady's evolution for ourselves.

The music is mostly forgettable -- another trait of many recent Broadway adaptations of famous movies -- but a few gems stand out. It should be noted that the music in this film seems to be in the tradition of older musicals, allowing characters to simply express their inner thoughts to us; none of the songs include plot points or help push the story forward, effectively rendering them useless in terms of storytelling. It's a valid and historic approach, just not one I personally appreciate. That said, Gretchen Wieners's song "What's Wrong with Me?" (and Bebe Wood's entire performance, along with Avantika as Karen) was the most timely and urgent bit of the film, along with Cravalho's stirring finale number "I'd Rather Be Me," which left me reeling from its lyrical poignancy, her devastating delivery, and the unbelievable one-take tracking shot.

Two sequences in particular stand out to me as the best in the film. The first is "I'd Rather Be Me," which I intend to watch on repeat someday soon. The second serves as what I expect is the Act One finale of the musical, from the Halloween party through fallout from what happens there. The party itself is wonderful, much more satisfyingly realized by the production design than in the original film. When Regina's dark solo "Someone Gets Hurt" starts, the action freezes again and is awash in a paralyzing blue light evocative of Euphoria aesthetics. The editing unfortunately fumbles our vision of inspired choreography and limits Regina's impact on us as well as the partygoers, but the scene is still wickedly powerful. Then, as decisions are made to wreak revenge on each other's lives, the school erupts into a delightfully campy "Revenge Party" which was the only song stuck in my head after viewing. So, while this iteration of the material was enjoyable for me -- again, mostly because of Cravalho and Rapp -- it felt like this production was reaching too far and grasping too tight to compare with the original, warts and all.

Peter Pan & Wendy (2023)

Score: 2 / 5

I've preached elsewhere about how it has become cool to complain and hate on large franchises, we'll not retread that territory here. A hot topic, perennially now, is the live-action remakes of Disney classics. Generally, the ones that seem to land best with audiences are either ones that faithfully recreate the original with a few notable moments to deepen or intensify the material for a contemporary audience or ones that radically shift the material into new territory. Think of Beauty and the Beast or The Little Mermaid for the former, which are largely copies of the original but include a few new songs and scenes to add weight to the characters and highlight secondary themes. For the latter, what better example than David Lowery's fabulously inventive reimagining of Pete's Dragon, which is almost entirely original material.

David Lowery's oeuvre tends toward mythmaking in a practical, grounded way, crafting folktales that are spiritual and tactile and as haunting as heroic. I was excited, then, to see what he'd do with a retelling of Disney's 1950 Peter Pan, interestingly titled this time with an inclusion of Wendy. The countless adaptations of J.M. Barrie's original play span far and wide, each attempting to find its own insightful or earnest purpose. It's a tricky venture, though, as we've seen from the catastrophic failure of Joe Wright's Pan and the lasting love of Steven Spielberg's Hook, which are only two notable examples. Do we focus more on Barrie's signature wordplay and wit, or do we focus on spectacle and magic? Do we examine childhood wonder using class or gender as a lens, or do we unleash rapid-fire action to awe the children in the audience? Every artist will do something different. I just wish Lowery made a choice to do something.

Mostly a retelling of Disney's animated feature, Lowery (also working as co-writer) here cuts the familiar songs and relegates that music to the score, which is mostly overbearing. Lowery also cuts familiar dialogue, replacing it with language that rarely feels inspired by Barrie and often trips over itself. The scene at Skull Rock is a prime example, when the pirates are at once a little too threatening and a little too stupid to have much impact either way. The screenplay works especially hard around the character of Captain Hook, who is given a dubious backstory and lots of time to feel grumpy and forlorn; audience's mileage will vary on this -- Jude Law himself feels a bit unsure about what he's doing in the role -- but for me, the attempt to infantilize with Hook did not work. Conversely, Tiger Lily as a warrior princess who speaks authentic Cree is a welcome reimagining.

Apart from these elements, everything else in the film is more of a mishmash, a lukewarm mess that never feels as engaging or fun as it should. A wonderfully diverse group of Lost Boys includes some girls, which is cute until it renders their collective name useless; it's this kind of thing that will make people roll their eyes about inclusivity, because it doesn't make sense within the logic of the world presented to us. Tinker Bell is here played by a woman of color, which is nice, but her name isn't explained (which is maybe good, as it might make us view her as a Black fairy maid); further, she seems to be the boss of Peter, who defers to her repeatedly, and yet is stripped of her voice. She's also much more complex than she should be, in terms of Barrie's insistence that fairies aren't big enough for multiple emotions at once.

Technically, the film is gorgeous to view. Cinematographer Bojan Bazelli and the designers craft a stunningly beautiful Neverland that will make you want to pause and relish. The CGI is thick here, made more off-putting by frenetic editing, but when the visuals land, they stick that landing, even with a giant man-eating crocodile. I was annoyed more than once about the scenes shot in the dark, though, as even with a calibrated TV it was nearly impossible to discern what was happening in these sequences. The intense fight during the climax, which also hammers home its attempt to make us sympathize with Hook, made me a bit nauseated, but also looks dreamy, like a watercolor painting on a book jacket.

The banal moral of this movie seems to be that everyone misses their mothers. The moral of my review is that Peter Pan & Wendy is a heartbreakingly wasted opportunity. I suspect Lowery's hands were tied by the studio, because this is simply not up to his usual standard. We deserved a surreal but realistic adventure, one rooted in environmentalism and the magic of myth and storytelling and wishing for what is ultimately fleeting. Frankly, if you're interested at all in this movie, you should skip it and watch instead Benh Zeitlin's Wendy, which is in every way the kind of movie Lowery usually makes and does exactly what I, for one, wanted from Disney's remake.