Immaculate (2024)

Score: 4.5 / 5

One of the best nunsploitation movies I've ever seen was not on my Lent watchlist this year, nor my yearly bingo card of cinematic surprises, but here we are.

When you see the poster of a bloody nun with the word "Immaculate" superimposed, you know what you're in for. And Immaculate does indeed give exactly that. It also -- and this is crucial -- does it in a consistently engaging, thoughtful, provocative way. There is nothing wrong with retreading familiar paths if you're committed to a unique aesthetic or fresh techniques or an updated, relevant twist. Director Michael Mohan and writer Andrew Lobel's film does all that and more, so let's go through those main takeaways after I briefly offer a synopsis of sorts.

Sydney Sweeney, who has been making quite a name for herself the last few years, makes a bold turn as a scream queen playing Cecilia, an enigmatic but devout young woman who turned intensely to her faith after a childhood near-death experience on a frozen lake. She arrives at an Italian convent -- we're never really sure the time period, probably intentionally -- where she is out of place and time; not many others there speak English, and she doesn't speak Italian. The sisters are strange, the fathers are creepy (even the hot one), and there is an odd intersection of faith and of age at play: Cecilia and the other young nuns care for the older ones ravaged by illness, mental decline, and age. Their faith is their own, as they do not leave their monastery, but few seem truly devout in the Catholic tradition. When Cecelia is suddenly and inexplicably found to be pregnant despite having never been with a man (there is some question about this, which Sweeney brilliantly communicates nonverbally), her sisters and fathers rejoice the second coming of Christ. Their urgency to declare this is indicative of something sinister, which the rest of the film explores through the time-warped limited perspective of Cecelia in the trials of pregnancy.

Its devastatingly dark opening sequence -- typical of giallo and slashers in general -- keys you in to the kind of visceral, exploitative horror in store for us, of a kind that harkens back to '70s European horror, specifically the Italian giallo. I noted more than once my impression that this is what we would have gotten had Dario Argento or Mario Bava gotten his hands on a reworked screenplay of Rosemary's Baby or even The Nun. And while this film does feature some aspects of the giallo -- taboo eroticism, slasher violence, focus on female mental collapse, irreverent religious content -- it's hard to aesthetically link the two, as for the most part Immaculate reads visually as straightforward Gothic horror. Mohan and his team relish in this gray area, making a uniquely flavored film that bridges the gap.

Given the sheer amount of religious horror films we get yearly, it's hard to imagine much new material that can really scare you. It's one of the reasons for the push, in the last decade especially, for "elevated horror," a term I detest but that generally indicates slow-burn horror films that go for earned, disturbing reveals and existentially problematic scares. It's one of the reasons films like The Pope's Exorcist or The Nun and its sequel have been getting flak: effective as some of the scares might be, they are just jump scares in situations and with visuals familiar to us. Sure, Immaculate has its birds that crash into windows, ghostly nuns stalking shadowed halls, and priests not to be trusted, but it also features several jump scares that are absolutely unexpected and thrillingly effective. And they don't let up. This is a darkly entertaining scare ride that had me gasping out loud multiple times in the cinema.

Dramas or horror films about nuns are notoriously misogynist, at least at face value, usually highlighting their isolation and obsession with propriety as contrasted (or controlled) by the order of men in positions of power over them. Novitiate and of course Doubt are two notable dramas that eschew that, though it's still surely a part of any post-screening discussion. This film shocked me because of its boldly radical finale, which I will not spoil here, reminding me a bit of the climax of Buoyancy in its clear-eyed and rousing empowerment of a longsuffering protagonist. And it's not all in the climax; previous moments as noted increase our appreciation for Cecilia and Sweeney herself for stepping up to the plate and doing the difficult task of endearing us to this woman whose faith in the divine never wanes but whose faith in the establishment around her is in speedy decay. Offering disturbingly timely commentary on a woman's bodily autonomy, the ending also provides Sweeney with a long take that left me shaken long after the credits rolled.

All of Us Strangers (2023)

Score: 3.5 / 5

There's an air of magic to All of Us Strangers, a sort of dreamlike quality that you feel more than perceive. It's not always apparent, but once you key into it, you can't stop sensing that things are just a little off. The main character lives in an enormous high-rise apartment building that is almost entirely vacant; the only other resident meets him and asks for intimacy in a single interaction, and they embark on a profoundly sensitive and loving relationship. Light acts strangely around the main character, breaking into his apartment with almost sentient determination and dramatically coloring all his encounters with his new lover and with his parents, who are much younger than they should be when he visits them. 

This chamber piece indeed features four excellent performances from its actors, who delve into the richly layered dialogue with intense dedication in eliciting all the little nuances it hides. Andrew Scott plays Adam, the main man, whose liminal existence is nevertheless our only conduit into his world, basking in warm glowing light and stoically drifting through a world that cannot hold his interest. His flirtatious neighbor-turned-partner, Harry, is played by a charming Paul Mescal, who distracts Adam from his job as screenwriter (note: not many screenwriters could afford an apartment like this all alone, so again, one wonders the extent of realism here). Sometimes riding by bus to his parents' house in the suburbs, we meet Claire Foy and Jamie Bell, who greet him warmly and inquire all about his life over a meal. We learn that they died in a car crash many years prior, now stuck at that age in Adam's mind as he attempts to reconnect and make sense of his own life.

Director and writer Andrew Haigh exhibits masterful control over visuals and tone -- consider his previous work in Weekend and Looking, among other titles -- and this is no exception. Especially his cinematographer here, Jamie D. Ramsay, does some incredible work here clearly in tandem with Haigh's vision. But it's not an altogether pleasant viewing experience, and that's a matter of taste I mostly blame on the screenplay. It's all just too much to handle. Each interaction Adam has with any character feels cathartic, like a mini manifesto about a certain aspect of queer relationships. Less a roller coaster and more a dirge, each scene bleeds into the next, weighing it down with increasingly intense and tragic meaning. We get no rest, no reprieve, not even fluffy filler to differentiate the energy and offer us a breath of fresh air. And with the predictably excessively tragic twist ending -- no spoilers here, but you can see it coming before it slams into you -- it's all an endurance test that really doesn't go anywhere except from loneliness to maudlin isolation.

That said, it's a beautiful film in more than just visuals. The thick dialogue, while one-note, is profoundly insightful and can offer boons to anyone who appreciates articulation of spiritual and cultural consternation. Adam's relationship with Harry feels swiftly started, but their conversations are wonderfully paced and realistically tender. Their age difference allows for some nice points about "post-AIDS" attitudes about queer identity and gay sex, not diluted with any small talk whatsoever. It's, really, what a real romantic drama should look and sound like, something most (especially hetero romances) eschew in favor of cheap laughs and self-actualization. And, to be fair, Adam's conversations with his parents are similar, with nary a wasted second, and though his coming out to his mother feels jarringly outdated, his coming out to his father is one of the most deeply moving moments in the film.

Your mileage with this film will largely be determined by your own personal history. If you have estranged or nonexistent relationships with your parents, this will hit hard. If you have experienced the death of a lover, you should probably steer clear. If you, like me, were raised in the height of the AIDS epidemic and have experienced more than your share of doomed, tragic gay love stories, it's really hard to enjoy yet another, no matter how pretty it is. Haven't we evolved from basing queer stories on trauma and letting them wallow in it?

Drive-Away Dolls (2024)

Score: 2.5 / 5

Drive-Away Dolls promised a lot of fun in its irreverent homage to road trips and screwball comedies, and while some will appreciate its kitschy femininity on display, one is left wondering what the point of all the fuss is, and why Ethan Coen thought he was the filmmaker to handle it.

Set in 1999, this crime caper starts in Philadelphia as two lesbians plan a road trip to Tallahassee. The time period and destination seem a wink and a nod to those of us who know these characters are on the brink of a conservative spiral in national politics. Note that these two lesbians are, truly, friends: Jamie (Margaret Qualley) has recently been kicked out of her ex's (Beanie Feldstein) apartment for her infidelity, and uptight Marian (Geraldine Viswanathan) just wants to get out of town and birdwatch in a more exotic locale. Jamie seems eager to get Marian to loosen up, and her infidelity seems a fact of life, as she increasingly flirts with Marian in the hopes of some casual sex on their road trip. Between the BBQ joints and lesbian bars along the way, of course.

Short on funds, they plan to drive a booked one-way car to Tallahassee, not knowing that their car has already been booked by someone else. Proprietor Curlie (Bill Camp) might make some shady deals, but he also makes a terrible mistake in this instance, as the car he lends the girls is already loaded with a suitcase carrying untold secrets between criminals. Thankfully, unlike in Pulp Fiction, we do get to know what's inside this one, and it is admittedly very funny, thanks in no small part to the ensemble presence of Pedro Pascal and Matt Damon and Colman Domingo in effective bit parts meant to showcase the desperation and inadequacies of men in the face of loud and proud young dykes.

There is plenty to enjoy in this film, especially if you like crude sexual humor and obvious aesthetic ploys for kitsch and irony. The brightly lit material and zany situations feel straight out of a John Waters flick, but rather than bask in its own mise en scène, the film keeps ramping up its own absurdities, adding pointless action and forced one-liners to guide the flow of each sequence. It jerks us back and forth between the two main lesbians and their pursuers, everybody bickering with each other. Thankfully the performances, especially of Qualley and Feldstein, are dedicated and inspired, proving Coen's steadfast ability to wrangle killer deliveries from his actors.

I could never quite shake the feeling, however, that this film was simply trying too hard to do something, and I still don't know what that something is. Coen and his spouse Tricia Cooke co-wrote the screenplay, and while I don't think artists shouldn't be imaginative and creative, this material feels uncomfortable under their pens. Perhaps it's their blasé attitude toward queerness and a strange entitlement to language that isn't theirs to own; perhaps it's their crude handling of material without any consideration of the realistic basis for their humor. It's equally odd that idiosyncratic, setting-specific crime comedies like this are what made the Coen name famous, yet this feels like a B-movie knockoff of their own earlier works. Its dirty irreverence and foul-mouthed fun feel indicative of the writers' "what the hell, why not" entitlement, and I'd have preferred even a little bit of earnestness in it, like there was in the similarly silly Burn After Reading or Hail, Caesar! Then I might have cared more, especially about the faux-camp to which this movie so desperately aspires.

Madame Web (2024)

Score: 3 / 5

Getting back on my soapbox: In a time when it's cool to hate new installments of long-running franchises, nuance has all but vanished from conversations about film. Especially when it comes to superhero movies in the consistently flooded market of the genre. So I tuned out the vociferous outcry against Sony's latest Spider-man-adjacent title and went to see it with no expectations other than what little I remember of the character from the comics. And while its rushed story, heavyhanded exposition, and frustratingly messy climax do hinder its impact, the film is surprisingly delightful in its mid-2000s aesthetics and noir-thriller approach to its feminist story. Too, and perhaps more importantly, it reimagines its protagonist in such a fresh way that multiple times during the film, I forgot it was a "superhero" movie.

Madame Web refers to Cassie Webb (short for Cassandra, referencing the cursed Trojan prophet), a paramedic in Queens in 2003, who after a near-death situation begins having precognitive visions. Many of them are violent, of course, and no one believes her, but this isn't just Happy Death Day in the Spiderverse; she is inexplicably mentally tied to three teenage girls who are being hunted and attacked by a menacing man in a black bodysuit. As Cassie tries to make sense of her visions and rescue the girls from Grand Central Terminal -- in a breakneck sequence of earned suspense and action -- we learn that their pursuer also has the ability to see the future, bestowed to him by a rare Peruvian spider along with strength and rapid healing. He foresaw that these young women would kill him, and is now out to kill them first.

We know from the introduction scene that Cassie's mother was in the Peruvian Amazon thirty years prior looking for just such special spiders. It's all much ado about precious little, but the screenwriters -- a whole committee, it seems -- seem determined to make their Sony Spiderverse into its own thing, and this movie kind of fits the bill for an origin story of sorts for the whole shebang. By its conclusion, it seems to have established not only the origin of spiders with superhuman toxins, but it has also established one of the older and more mysterious characters in Spider-man lore as a sort of Professor Xavier, complete with retinue of Spider-girls ready to take on crime in the city. Clunky and expository as most of their dialogue may be in the film, the screenplay is narratively doing a hell of a lot, actually.

The feature film debut of longtime television director S.J. Clarkson allows that screenplay to be what it is, focusing her efforts on eliciting dedicated, grounded performances from her cast. Dakota Johnson plays Cassie with a frustrated world-weariness that authentically captures the angsty urban young adult in the mid-aughts. It's telling that Clarkson worked on Jessica Jones, because Johnson here comfortably handles the deadpan, wry humor that defined that character. The teens (Sydney Sweeney, Isabela Merced, and Celeste O'Connor) are a fun and funny trio of energy, while their antagonist (Tahar Rahim) is legitimately scary in his handsome, brooding menace. More importantly, Clarkson and her editor use the frantic, stylized techniques of the period to frame the action and especially the scenes of precognition, making the whole experience feel like a blast from twenty years ago. More than once I wondered if Sam Raimi was part of this team, because it's got his energy all over it. And for a film that knows exactly what it is, what it wants to do, and why it's doing it, this is pretty solid stuff. I will champion any superhero film these days that doesn't overuse CGI to make a spectacle of world-ending, apocalyptic climaxes. This movie keeps things simple and straightforward and grounded, breezy and pleasant as it stays focused on itself. It's just out of time with the current state of the art, which is probably why so many people are writing it off.

Spaceman (2024)

Score: 1 / 5

A lonely man on the fringes of the known universe, occupied mentally with memories of loved ones, turns his survival into an epic journey of cosmic comprehension. It's not a new narrative, and this movie turns Adam Sandler into the titular sad boy in space. Most of this type of film -- I'm currently thinking of First Man and Ad Astra, though Interstellar and The Martian and Solaris also fit the bill -- engages with elements of action, science fiction, or horror to remain engaging and relatable to the audience. Not so in Spaceman, in which Johan Renck (of the miniseries Chernobyl and episodes of many other series) focuses instead on his protagonist's state of mind.

Sandler's Czech cosmonaut, named Jakub, has been alone in space for six months already, en route to a cloud of dust near Jupiter. His ship is all but a wreck, and perhaps that's less a critique of the times or funding and more a literal representation of the real driving force in Jakub's life: his marriage. His pregnant wife Lenka (Carey Mulligan) seems to be giving him the cold shoulder, offering him radio silence in the vast reaches of space. He's still troubled by the death of his father, a Communist informant, when he was young, and seems to be a workaholic to the point of neglecting and abandoning Lenka when she miscarried. The production design and effects feel desperate for purpose, unfortunately, rendering what should be glorious shots of the galaxy inert and cheap, and offering us little to no insight into the character's experience or reality. No wonder he's in the dumps.

So when a giant spider suddenly appears in his vessel, Jakub is rightly terrified. But Hanus, as it calls itself (voiced unnervingly by Paul Dano), has no intention of harming him. Even in these moments, when we should be most concerned for Jakub, Sandler's uninterested and subdued performance reinforce what little we know about him -- namely that he isn't a likable guy -- and completely disconnect us from him. Anyone who knows me knows I hate spiders, but even I wanted Hanus to just eat him and put us all out of our misery. Alas, Hanus tells the truth and only speaks to Jakub in lengthy conversation, plying him to share his memories and experiences in the style of Socratic dialogue.

Flashbacks to dramatize Jakub's past filmed oddly -- I think meant to be what Hanus sees or imagines -- and edited so haphazardly as to confuse purpose and cohesion. Much like the vague, soporific dialogue (the number of times Mulligan intones something like "Where you go, I go" in Terrence Malick-esque voiceovers is annoying at best), these sequences serve mostly to slow down the already plodding film and offer little to no entertainment to the proceedings. It doesn't help that an actress of Mulligan's caliber is utterly wasted in this one-note role as it is written. In fact, the material is such a depressing slog that Hanus resorts to snacking on human treats just to keep its spirits up. The only other characters we get are brief, underwritten scenes with his physician and commissioner (Isabella Rossellini, here for some bizarre reason and woefully underused).

By film's end, we learn the Chopra cloud -- the reason for Jakub's journey -- is material left over from the beginning of the universe in which all time exists simultaneously. As he floats in it and mourns his disintegrating friend in the film's most visually disgusting flourish (as the melancholy music swells, jarringly), Jakub comes to the conclusion that all he wants is to be with his wife. It's a frustrating conclusion because there hasn't been a moment of the film in which that wasn't the case. So, apart from being able to articulate himself better -- maybe that's the point -- Jakub goes through no real development or growth. Despite all the arachnid's efforts at therapy, Jakub succeeds only in ruminating on his bitter childhood and current insecurities before deciding that, just as he pines when we first meet him, love matters to him most in the end, and the Scrooge-like epiphany that he still has time to fix his relationship with her. What an insipid waste.

Dune: Part Two (2024)

Score: 5 / 5

For anyone who didn't already know Denis Villeneuve is one of the best directors currently working (some of us would say ever), Dune: Part Two will cement that attribute to his name. For those of us who love the middle part of any trilogy -- for, indeed, the heart of Frank Herbert's Dune is the first two books, the story of Paul Atreides, this film being the second part of the first book -- this is eminently on par with the likes of the middle of The Lord of the Rings and the three Star Wars trilogies, picking up where the previous left off, diving right into action without need for more exposition, and intensifying the dread of war and prophetic doom while raising the emotional stakes for characters we already know (and a few new ones). Villeneuve has never shied away from scope and breadth in his films, but his keen focus on the psychology of his main characters is what makes all his films feel epic. With this material, he can finally embrace a real epic, and boy, is it glorious.

After their annihilation of the Atreides, the Harkonnens take over Arrakis again and wage war on the Fremen "sand rats" who live in the desert and disrupt the harvesting of valuable spice. Unbeknownst to Baron Harkonnen (Stellan Skarsgard) and his brutal nephews (Dave Bautista and a chilling Austin Butler), one tribe of Fremen led by Stilgar (Javier Bardem) harbor two Atreides house survivors: Paul and his mother Lady Jessica (Timothee Chalamet and Rebecca Ferguson). As they integrate into Fremen culture, the two learn more about prophecies of a savior from beyond, a messiah meant to lead all Fremen tribes to take back Arrakis and launch a holy crusade that will turn their planet green and sweep across the stars. They decide the prophecy applies to them -- and well it might -- and take drastic steps to ensure their own ascendancy.

Whereas the first installment sets the stage in every conceivable way -- mostly expository and world-building, the first film had more intrigue and tension (if not action) than some credit it -- the second allows the various factions to collide in some spectacular battle sequences. More importantly, the heightened stakes reveal more about characters we need to care for, making the violence matter in emotional ways. To counterpoint this, several characters, especially Stilgar and Paul's love interest Chani (Zendaya) inject key moments with unexpected and wonderfully effective humor. Exerting extraordinary mastery over tone, Villeneuve and screenwriter Jon Spaihts use these elements to inform their headier themes of corruptibility of power and the uses and dangers of fanaticism in ways we rarely see in epics or hero's journeys.

Not to be outdone by cerebral intrigue, Villeneuve continues his inability to make any visuals less than picturesque. Shot by Greig Fraser, every moment could be paused, blown up, and framed, including enemy bodies falling from rocky buttes and fleets of sandworms racing across no-man's land. Costume and production design continue to be the best in the business: a sacred reservoir looking like a bottomless cavern, a princess in pristine silver that could be chains, a new reverend mother who looks like some priestess or goddess from an eastern religion. And nothing compares to the breathtaking transitions to infrared light on the Harkonnen homeworld of Gieidi Prime under its "Black Sun," a brilliant interpretation of the novel, which suggests the planet is a volcanic wasteland raped by over-industrialization; here, their world (and lifestyle) is so removed from nature that even the sun's light seems profoundly wrong and torturous.

While I was annoyed in the first film that Zendaya's Chani narrated, I was pleased to finally have some of Florence's Pugh's Princess Irulan in this film, though her part is sadly limited. So is Christopher Walken's Emperor Shaddam IV, but he's not featured much in the book either (and frankly I've rarely been interested in his acting, so this limitation was fine). Given what happens in Dune: Messiah (the final part in this trilogy, though I promise, no spoilers here), I'd have liked a bit more time with the emperor and princess, Charlotte Rampling's reverend mother Gaius Helen Mohiam, and Lea Seydoux as Lady Margot Fenring, but I expect we'll get plenty more in the next film. This isn't their story. Yet. On the other hand, I was pleasantly surprised at the visual power and attention paid to Lady Jessica's rise and the film's recognition of her disturbing desire to galvanize weak-minded religious tribes into worshipping her son and waging open war. This isn't about them understanding and joining and leading the native people; it's about them co-opting an entire planet for their own designs.

You need to see this on the biggest possible screen with the best possible stereo system. Then see it again.

My Top 10 Favorite Films of 2023

Despite my best efforts, I've been unable to generate this post until today, the day after the Academy Awards. But it's never too late to talk about fabulous films! I now present to you my ten favorite films from 2023, along with several honorable mentions that also count as personal favorites (each hyperlinked film was close in running for my list!). I'll note here that I have not yet been able to watch The Zone of Interest, Eileen, or Godzilla Minus One, though I hope to soon.

Special Mention: Skinamarink
Not a single day has passed since I saw this film -- a full year ago -- and not thought about it. Regardless of what you think of its lo-fi presentation, its obscure plot (if there is a plot), its interpretive challenges, Skinamarink is an arthouse endurance test, an interminable nightmare that seeps out of the screen and into your consciousness. Insidiously implicating itself into your memories, it's one of the scariest and most provocative movies I've ever seen. The Outwaters, too, stole my attention this year, though its found-footage format and clear sci-fi elements make it less accessible or haunting to most of us.

10. John Wick: Chapter 4
The most thrilling and satisfying conclusion (maybe) to the series, the fourth installment goes back to basics, simplifying the story and streamlining unnecessary characters to focus on the hero's Sisyphean journey of revenge and freedom. Even for someone who only marginally tolerates action movies, this series consistently offers aesthetic pleasures and joie de vivre to rival any other, even with its rather nihilistic penchant for destroying Keanu Reeves's stoic body. Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 was also a memorable and heart-wrenching sendoff to that subset of the MCU, and I've never cried so hard at Florence & the Machine's "Dog Days are Over."

9. Leave the World Behind
A consistent theme in films this year was that of insiders and outsiders clashing, the haves and have-nots trying to work together but usually failing to do so without bloodshed or trauma. Perhaps the most blatant version of that central conflict comes in this arresting adaptation of Rumaan Alam's riveting novel about identity and cooperation when society fails. Uncomfortably, outrageously funny when it isn't terrifying, beautiful and sublime when it isn't shining a mirror on our nastiest instincts. And what a dream team, both on and off camera! I also really loved The Blackening and No One Will Save You, each also funny and clever and deeply unsettling portrayals of what happens when civility and civilization are left behind in the face of unspeakable horrors.

8. Maestro

Offscreen drama aside, this biopic of Leonard Bernstein is educational and beautifully moving, a testament not only to the tortured soul of an artist but to those who love the artist. To some's chagrin, we don't get much insight into the genius musical process, but we do get a profoundly human glimpse into his personal and social life, the sordid excesses of which are somewhat simplified into poignant dramatic beats that shape a film as lyrical as anything the composer wrote or conducted. Cooper may occasionally be a mess, but he's a damn great director when he wants.

7. Killers of the Flower Moon
A saga of tragic crime that relentlessly takes us to hell and back, Scorsese's latest epic forces us to experience history from the perspective of its villains, implicating us as it excoriates us. It's not abnormal material for the directing legend, but it is some of his most culturally sensitive and intentional work, manifest in glorious production design and casting that should have been standard for the last century. An oddly similar film, almost tied here, would be Oppenheimer, Christopher Nolan's latest (and some are saying greatest) epic about the creators of the atomic bomb, an existential horror story that meanders a bit too much for my taste but nevertheless teaches as it tragically takes us on a free fall to hell.

6. Are You There God? It's Me Margaret
Led by a trio of phenomenal female performances, this (by all accounts faithful) adaptation of Judy Blume's landmark book is the feel-good movie of the year. A rare title that should be seen by everyone everywhere at every age, it is a roller coaster of the best emotions and had me weeping and laughing in rapid succession. When adaptations stick the landing, you know it, and this is what family-friendly entertainment should be all about.

5. The Color Purple 

One of the best movie musicals I've ever seen. Its timeless source material combined with state-of-the-art cinematography and editing and production design renew the story for yet another generation. We don't deserve the Black queer feminism gloriously gifted to us, but we got it and it has deserved infinitely more popular and critical love than it has received. I can't imagine a more perfect adaptation or a more perfect revival of this material than in the spectacle of the largest screen and the best calibrated surround sound. This is why movies were created. Look what God has done!

4. TIE: Saltburn / American Fiction
The two literary cinematic marvels this year, respectively inspired by and directly adapted from source material, were primarily male-centered, exploring the depraved depths of humanity when Others invade circles of wealth, privilege, and influence. Both are hilarious in often cringey ways. Both are chilling when we recognize how realistic they are, despite heavy stylization. Both seek to relate us to social spheres with which we aren't familiar but are fundamentally part of. Each manages to balance substance with style -- rather, each manages to allow one to inform the other reciprocally -- in some of the most memorably verbose encounters we saw on screen this year.

3. TIE: Poor Things / Barbie
The two visual cinematic marvels this year, interestingly enough, were female-centered, exploring the surreal escapism and sublimity found when women forge their own unique paths and eschew what is expected of them by men (who also want to control them). Extraordinary costumes, production design, writing, and performances make these two films oddly fascinating in a double feature kind of way, though only one of the two is suitable for younger audiences. Each is mobilized by a character whose childlike innocence ends, though in very different ways between the two, and each paradoxically teaches us about our own world, despite neither film really adhering to the laws of nature or physics.

2. Beau is Afraid

There were a lot of surreal psychodramas this year, but nothing -- well, almost nothing -- compares to the punishing three-hour anxiety attack that is Ari Aster's latest masterpiece. From production design that had me drooling to surprise casting choices that had me grinding my teeth, from a story straight from hell to performances diabolically brilliant, this odyssey into the mind of a man (a culture, a way of life) in crisis is the Pilgrim's Progress of the 21st century. I'll never not want to watch this movie. I'll never be okay now that I've seen it.

1. May December

Psychodrama? Hold on, Ari Aster. Todd Haynes is taking the crown this year (well, and Tom Ford would too, but he makes so few films). Knowing almost nothing heading into this film served me well until it really didn't, and I still haven't brought myself to rewatch it. The most disturbing and haunting film I've seen in years, it bases itself on a true story but then flips the script by adding an original character who mirrors its subject perhaps too much, implicating us along the way as we all seek to consume that which we should not. Their vampiric monstrosity is accentuated by the film's keen -- and absolutely pure -- aesthetic of camp. Not shitty, kitschy camp all the rage these days, but true camp in its most deadly serious form, making what is ugly and disgusting fascinating and grotesque, even beautiful, until it destabilizes our understanding of everything -- everything -- this otherwise obvious story has to say. (Inasmuch as grooming is a thematic concern this year, I also think Priscilla was a shockingly timely and important film that won't get nearly as much attention as it deserves.) Led by performances that should have won every award available, helmed by a director at the top of his game, written like an organized nightmare that you care about deeply, May December is by far my favorite film of the year.

What do you think? What were your favorite films in 2023?

Lisa Frankenstein (2024)

Score: 3.5 / 5

What a delightful surprise. Pop horror and teen romance as a combo has been around for a while -- oddly enough, usually involving either zombies or vampires -- and it usually relies on references to classic literature like the teen characters would be reading in school. It was only a matter of time before another one materialized for us, and when I first heard of something called Lisa Frankenstein, I fast-tracked it into my "don't care, won't watch" lane. But as marketing started sharing names and dropping trailers, my interest piqued. So let's go step by step through why this film mesmerized me and won me over. Don't get me wrong, it's not something I'll recommend to everyone, nor is it something I'll eagerly rewatch often. But every time I thought it would zig, it zagged, and the strength of its aesthetic convictions make it far, far more than the sum of its parts. Kind of like its literary namesake.

First, and probably foremost on everyone's mind: this work was penned by Diablo Cody, the cult favorite writer of such titles as Jennifer's Body, Ricki and the Flash, Tully, Juno, and the Broadway musical Jagged Little Pill. If anyone was going to understand idiosyncratic punk-meets-princess female flavor grounded in harsh reality, it's Cody. Second, director Zelda Williams (daughter of the late Robin Williams) debuts here in stunning fashion. Literally. Her team and her vision feel perfectly suited, making the whole affair a neo-Gothic fever dream of thick stylizations and performative atmosphere (don't worry, we'll unpack that presently). Third, the cast was largely unknown to me, but their talent and dedication to the material far exceeds expectations, especially Kathryn Newton and Carla Gugino, who inject witchy energy into the funky '80s proceedings.

The combination of these elements -- and, truly, I'm not sure who to credit other than all of them working in tandem -- result in a nearly perfect example of the state of modern camp. I did not expect that, and I don't think anyone did. I'm not saying it's good camp, or even the best camp (you'd have to watch May December for that, but hold on to something), but Lisa Frankenstein manages to coalesce its various parts into a production more concerned with style than with substance, a style which strangely manages to improve its substance. Newton's Lisa is reclusive, fabulously donning Madonna-inspired getup, and her mannerisms share more in common with silent film actors, garishly melodramatic and fiendishly wanton. Her sassy descent into morbidity and sexual awakening feels borrowed from something akin to John Waters fanfiction (whose name, indeed, is used for other characters). Gugino's presence was perhaps the clearest indication of camp for me, her dark, troubling intensity belied by her candy-colored period garb and big hair. 

The plot itself leaves much to be desired, though it more or less balances its often cringey laughs with genuine insight into coming-of-age Goth womanhood. Lisa -- whose last name is Swallows, which the film conspicuously drops without much comment -- was traumatized while witnessing an axe murderer butcher her mother, and now spends her time wishing for a Victorian-era gentleman caller in an abandoned cemetery. She's not liked by her classmates, and when she shows up for a party, her lab partner takes his chance to finally score with a girl. I'll note that this sequence involves nonconsensual drugging and sexual assault, and without trying to get moralistic, it felt inappropriate (and more than a little exploitative) in context of this film. Once her dream man gets resurrected via lighting, it's up to Lisa to experiment on him to bring him closer to real life. Think something like if Twilight or Beautiful Creatures had a baby with Beetlejuice or Edward Scissorhands, and you'll see where this film fits in terms of both genre and aesthetic. It never gets as violent or graphic as it could, and while I'd have liked to see the depraved depths to which this material could be taken, it's also clearly not the filmmakers' intent. They stick to their vision of teen romance, coming to terms with death and sex, and frame it in the most fitting aesthetic possible.

Good Grief (2024)

Score: 2 / 5

Marc and Oliver have been husbands for many years, and we meet them at a cozy, upper class Christmas party in London shortly before Oliver departs early to travel to Paris and is suddenly killed in a car accident. So begins Good Grief a marginally humorous drama about, as you'd expect, grieving the loss of one's longtime partner. It seems especially interested in the psychology of learning, through the grieving process, that one's partner may in fact be someone one hardly knows. Not in a creepy, erotic thriller or domestic invasion way, but rather the simple fact that some people keep secrets, and some people are very good at doing so. So when Marc reads a letter from Oliver a year after his husband's death and learns that Oliver was having an affair, his reeling emotional state spurs him on to make some rash, understandable, and "funny" decisions.

Dan Levy, who wrote and directed this material, also stars as Marc, and while he's never less than a riveting onscreen presence, here I daresay he tried juggling too many things at once. Perhaps flying solo as a creative artist so soon after the wild successes of Schitt's Creek is too much for Levy, but his material here is so unwieldy and unfocused and undynamic that you have to wish someone else had offered some workshopping or editing to his drafts and shoots. What we thought was such a specific, refined, and insightful voice in the hit comedy series has foundered elsewhere, and in this directorial debut, he's barely treading water. What purports to be a sensitive thematic study of loss loses itself in a mired mess of rabbit-trail plotlines, unnecessary globetrotting (read: flaunting of privilege), and boorish, even nasty behavior that the film itself tries to excuse.

The strongest elements of this film are in its casting, as Levy's chemistry with costars Ruth Negga and Himesh Patel is endlessly watchable. They play Marc's best friends Sophie and Thomas, respectively, who accompany him to Paris to visit the apartment Oliver was secretly leasing to carry on his affair. In fact, it was to this apartment Oliver was headed the night he died, the night he left the letter for Marc revealing his infidelity. Sophie and Thomas have troubles of their own, but their unconditional love for Marc is really beautiful, if overly convenient for the purpose of this story. The gimmick that they'd just up and travel internationally for funsies without any actual rationale wears thin quickly, but they're likable enough that we go along for the ride, too.

Levy's attempt at an ode to chosen family is equally thickly written, with Marc identifying himself multiple times as both an orphan and a widower (I should note that, early on, we learn Marc shied away from fully grieving his mother by starting his relationship with Oliver). But apart from their clear affection for each other, we don't really get much insight into who Sophie and Thomas are as characters, making each little tidbit feels like a profound revelation, which is arguably evidence of shallow writing. Probably because they're mostly used as mirrors for Marc and for letting us hear more insight into his whole deal. Similarly, there's a new love interest that materializes so abruptly, it's as if the film is screaming at us to not be sad because it knows how to do the rom-com schtick. So it's not a total waste of time -- I don't think Negga is ever a waste of time -- but it's certainly forgettable and disappointingly dull.

May December (2023)

Score: 5 / 5

Todd Haynes, you brilliant bastard.

One of my favorite filmmakers is back on his bullshit (in the best and most challenging ways) in a recent Netflix film that deserves much more popular conversation and all of the awards. May December sounds weird and, in fact, is very weird; not at all a feel-good experience yet vitally important in the oeuvre of Haynes's work and in the past year of films. Only about halfway through, I realized this was the most emotionally and psychologically complex story I'd seen in ages, and that it was easily climbing the ranks of my favorite movies of the year. It's hard to desrcribe the effect of Haynes on an audience -- given the bizarre breadth of stories he chooses to tell -- and you can't really ascribe particular aesthetics to him, but the best I can manage is to loosely define his style as one of embracing mundane horror or, rather, seeing what is horrifying in otherwise commonplace things. And I don't necessarily mean horror in terms of "that which is scary" but rather what makes something disturbing, uncanny, or grotesque, despite appearing simple and beautiful and peaceful. Take his last feature film, Dark Waters, which he spun from a dry legal procedural about an environmentalist and humanist lawyer fighting pollution and corruption into a riveting, nightmare-inducing thriller with strong Gothic undertones. It was like nothing we had seen from him, but also kind of fits his filmography with its devastating premise and delivery.

And what a perfect return to form with this material! The narrative of May December concerns successful actress Elizabeth Berry (Natalie Portman), who arrives at a lovely home in Savannah, Georgia, to spend a week with a nice but unremarkable woman named Gracie Atherton (Julianne Moore) and her family. We know -- as does Gracie, who has agreed to be shadowed -- that Elizabeth will be playing Gracie in a forthcoming indie film. We don't know, however, exactly why, and dark hints are dropped during the first act as to exactly why Gracie might be the subject of a feature film. Surely it isn't about her twins, who are graduating high school while Elizabeth visits.

Indeed, everyone in the film knows what's really going on, and it takes us some time to catch up; a rewatch would only exponentially improve our understanding of the furtive glances, the thick silences, and the veiled language every character uses. We learn that, twenty years prior, Gracie had an affair with a coworker at the pet store where she worked; she was 36 at the time, married, with kids, and it royally messed them all up. We also learn that the man she had the affair with was, in fact, a boy: Joe, 13 years old, in the seventh grade. So the affair was actually rape. Gracie was sentenced to prison, where she had Joe's baby. After she was released, she and Joe married. They are about to be empty nesters, despite that Joe (Charles Melton) is now 36 years old.

It's an endlessly depraved premise, one that will endear few viewers. And it's not meant to, though this might be one of the most sensitive and daring looks into pedophilia and grooming I've ever seen in a film. Samy Burch's screenplay has no interest, really, in what happened in the past, or even probing the minds of its characters. We're (thankfully) not forced to endure flashbacks or reenactments (with one notable exception, when Elizabeth attempts to reenact the inciting incident in the pet store's supply closet by herself, but we'll get to that). The film doesn't even want us to judge its characters, despite the clearly appalling, monstrous subject matter. The more time passes, the more confusing their lives and motivations and rationalizations and justifications get, and we're awash in a bewildering mess of bright colors and lights, warm interactions that belie icily guarded truths, and the unbearably polite sham of social graces that enable evil to thrive.

For a drama that is as frequently gasp-inducing as laughably absurd, May December is also the most thrilling viewing experience of the year. I sat on the edge of my sofa literally vibrating with anxiety almost the entire time, a sensation I previously felt while watching Beau is Afraid. Haynes films the most dull moments with a melodramatic, Technicolor flair that could tip into Stepford Wives or other psychosexual territory at any second. It's funny that our introduction to Gracie is her face looking into the fridge, the cold light shining off her visage, wondering if they have enough hot dogs; Haynes stings the moment with music that could indicate something violent or graphic, but when nothing happens, we're left with the feeling that, for Gracie, it might be horrifying that she doesn't have enough hot dogs and that that's the most concerning trial of her present life. It's hilarious, but you don't dare laugh.

Maybe part of the reason we don't laugh, even then, is that we understand there's something not quite right about Gracie. Later in the film, other people characterize her as naive, passive, simple, sweet; she's not, apparently, a typically calculating, vicious, or even serial predator. Or is she? Moore plays both sides, balancing a dangerous game of moments that are genteel and hospitable, reluctantly forthcoming or withholding, and powerfully threatening in the most understated way, often all within the same scene. It's dizzying, heady stuff, and clearly only Moore herself knows what's really going on with the character. No less mesmerizing is Elizabeth, whose determination to learn all about Gracie leads her to try and insinuate herself into the lives of this already put-upon family who have endured surely no small amount of public disdain, ridicule, and ostracism. Why did Gracie agree to being the subject of a film? We'll never know. But Elizabeth is not going to let the opportunity go to waste. It helps that Portman plays desperation and artistry so well together (think Black Swan and Vox Lux), and as she mirrors Gracie's simplicity, Portman brings her own darkness to the character she's creating in recreating Moore's character. Her visit to the high school drama club -- and the things she says during it -- is the kind of scene that feels like you're free falling when you thought there would be another stair.

I told you it's heady stuff, y'all. It's also visceral.

Moore and Portman deserve endless awards for their performances, which should be studied by theatre artists and theorists alike for decades to come. Moore's lilting, occasionally lisping voice reveals nothing about her mental or developmental state, though you'd think it would, and in fact blurs the lines between pathology and physicality. Portman's vampiric efforts to consume her subject while becoming her are most obvious in their literal mirroring scenes, usually framed by or shot through actual mirrors, when we start to realize that we can't clearly identify which character is the predator. Obviously Gracie was the legally convicted predator, but is Elizabeth's predation any less animalistic? Is Elizabeth becoming the predator she's watching, or is the real predatory Elizabeth finally starting to show? Meanwhile, even as we're increasingly aware of Elizabeth's horrifying possibilities, we increasingly suspect that Gracie is as simple-minded as some claim her to be; she doesn't seem to understand that she ever did anything wrong in manifesting love for the person she fell in love with. Has she convinced herself of this over time -- as she has clearly convinced Joe, who Elizabeth starts pushing to question his lived experiences -- or has she ever considered the alternative?

The film is bright and colorful and beautiful, a visual style that just doesn't fit, and the ironic juxtaposition seems to inform our understanding of the characters as well. Despite several scenes outside in picturesque -- a little too picturesque -- locations, under fawning trees and clear skies and bright warm sunshine, the characters look lost in their own minds and bodies, floating through scenery without really existing in it or even seeing their surroundings. They're totally disconnected from the reality of the film, indicating levels of delusion, preoccupation, and willful unreality shared by every single character. It's the opposite of chewing scenery, and against every instinct of performers in any professional vein. I'd argue -- and this is its own dissertation, but I'm working on it -- that May December is a perfect example of real camp, the kind that is deadly serious and cruelly superficial. There is no end to discussing this film and its infinite complicated depths, but we'll pause here as I urge you with every ounce of my being: if you are willing to stomach it, buckle up and take the ride. One of the best movies of the year will fuck you up.