Director Chloé Zhao’s inspired blurring of truth and fiction in her newest film Nomadland reveals an emotional truth about the American spirit that is more profound than even the most probing documentary could capture. Her movie, in its own quiet way, celebrates the beauty and grandeur of American western landscapes and the human desire to drink them in, much like Sean Penn’s Into the Wild. It also documents, like a modern-day Grapes of Wrath, the crushing poverty that forced these beauty-seekers on the road in the first place. It’s the blending of these two aesthetics that make Nomadland such a delicate treasure.
It’s an exciting, confusing, and scary time to be a film lover. Director Steve McQueen has decided to hasten the blurring of the already very fuzzy line between cinema and television with his Small Axe anthology of films. He’s done it with the help of a global pandemic. McQueen began working on the idea for Small Axe as early as 2010, and he had the project in some form of development since 2012. Originally conceived as a more conventional television series for the BBC, McQueen realized that he had enough material to make five distinct, standalone movies.
When the premier of the first picture in the series, Mangrove, was cancelled because of the 2020 Cannes film festival shutdown in the spring, due to COVID, the director decided to try a hybrid approach to distribution. Small Axe would run on BBC One, as originally planned, but it was also featured in the fall at the virtually held 2020 New York Film Festival. The film community got a collective case of the vapors trying to decide how to classify Small Axe. Is it television? Is it cinema? After seeing Mangrove – and being highly anxious to visit the rest of the films in the series – I am coming down firmly in the camp of, “when the movie is this damn compelling and well-made, who the hell cares what you call it?”
The emotional exuberance of Minari is exemplified in a scene midway through the film. The Korean-American Yi family have made their way to rural Arkansas from California. The father, Jacob, has bought a huge plot of land with the dream of starting a farm in order to grow Korean vegetables to sell in surrounding urban centers with large Korean immigrant populations. He will save money by digging his own well for irrigation, avoiding using the county water supply or paying an exorbitant fee to a local “water dowser” who promises to be able to divine a water source using his dowsing rod. Jacob is skeptical at best, believing the man is little more than a con artist.
Instead, Jacob uses his brain, explaining to his five-year-old son David that water is likely to be in a down-hill location, close to trees. They pick the most likely spot and start to dig. When they hit water, Jacob yells in triumph at his success. Little David mimics his father. The two go back and forth shouting at the top of their lungs in celebration. It’s an ecstatic moment for the Yis and for us.
The North Texas Film Critics Association (NTFCA), of which I am a member, voted last month to honor the best films of 2020. As an organization, the NTFCA is proud to call attention to outstanding achievements in the craft of filmmaking. I consider movies to be not only entertainment, but in the best examples, they are also art. They teach us about the human condition. Here are the winners for each category in which we voted:
I put off publishing my top ten films list this year by a little over a month. I’ve had a very strict deadline in years past of publishing this list on the anniversary of starting my website (December 20th). But this year has been like no other, at least that I’ve lived through. So, as I ended my sixth year of writing film criticism, because I was tired, and because I wanted to squeeze a few more films in before I made the list, I held off.
I’m glad I did…
Direct cinema documentarian Frederick Wiseman’s 46th feature film is called, simply, City Hall. It chronicles the workings of the local government of a great American city, Boston, Massachusetts. Shot during the fall of 2018 and the winter of 2019, Wiseman and his crew give us glimpses into Boston Mayor Martin Walsh’s administration and examines in incredible detail what makes a city run.
Over the course of its 4.5-hour runtime, we witness moments like Walsh giving a state of the city address, city employees holding a meeting about reducing evictions, and garbage collectors tossing waste into the maw of a garbage truck. It might sound mundane – much of the film is devoted to presentations by city employees and city meetings in which people troubleshoot issues – yet in Wiseman’s expert hands, it’s anything but.
“Power just means a world where we’re safe to be ourselves.”
That’s a quote in the film One Night in Miami… from the character Muhammad Ali – more accurately, Cassius Clay, as the story takes place on the eve of the legendary boxer converting to Islam and changing his name. What power means to the Black community, and the best way to obtain it, is the preoccupation of both the film and the four iconic real-life figures at its center. The movie is all about power, both in the Black community and among these four characters, who would all shape the world in their own ways. It’s a gripping character study that addresses the ongoing struggle of the Black movement to secure that basic sense of safety that Ali is talking about.
I’m taking a little time off, but instead of going silent, I’m publishing something I wrote a few months ago for a pop culture writing class I took last fall. You’ll probably notice that it seems a little dated (because the world we are living in seems to change dramatically every week or two), but I don’t think it’s so dated that it’s not still relevant. A few of the facts and figures are old, but I added one parenthetical aside that addresses the momentous, awful events of this week. Please enjoy, and please be kind to each other. I’ll be back next Friday with a new review.
I’m doing something a little different with this review. My wife, Rae, felt so strongly about Promising Young Woman when we finished watching it together that she felt compelled to write about it. I thought it would be cool to get a male and female perspective, for this movie especially. Whenever I write about a movie that focuses on a historically oppressed class of people, I try to seek out someone in that particular group to give me feedback before I publish, to make sure my white, straight, cis, male point-of-view isn’t causing me to write insensitive or unintentionally ignorant things. For this review, I’m including the entire perspective in the form of Rae’s review. I hope you enjoy the experiment. Please let us know what you think in the comments section!
Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom is destined to be remembered as the final screen appearance of the immensely talented, gone-way-too-soon Chadwick Boseman. The actor, who died in August of 2020 at the age of 43, from colon cancer, is absolutely electric in the roll of Levee Green, a trumpet player in the titular character’s band. Boseman’s performance is a testament to his formidable acting abilities and a stinging reminder of what we’ve all lost.
Aside from Boseman’s performance, there are numerous other pieces of the puzzle that make Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom a superb, taut, devastating film. The formidable presence of Viola Davis, as Ma Rainey, is one. The assured direction of George C. Wolfe is another. The powerful words and ideas of playwright August Wilson is one more.
There’s a tradeoff made when producing an authorized work of art examining the life and career of a famous person. The documentary Zappa, which focuses on the life and times of musician, filmmaker, and iconoclast Frank Zappa, makes that tradeoff with mostly successful results. Director Alex Winter – an actor who moonlights as Bill S. Preston, Esq. in the Bill and Ted movies – had full access to Zappa’s extensive personal archives for his film. The extensive amount of concert video, behind-the-scenes home-movie footage, and interview archives allow Winter to paint a portrait of Zappa – who died from prostate cancer in 1993 – that feels exhaustive and intimate.
The danger with authorized biographies is the risk for them to slip into hagiography. The biographer might smooth over some of the rough edges of a subject in an effort to keep in the good graces of those offering the unfettered access. Zappa doesn’t shy away from some of its subject’s negative qualities. We learn about Zappa’s serial philandering and his tendency to treat his musical collaborators like props who only existed to fulfil his vision. There are darker strains to Zappa’s work, though, that Winter fails to explore. The enfant terrible creative genius, who used satire and comedy in his music to great effect, often incorporated sexist-bordering-on-misogynistic lyrics and racist cultural appropriation into his art. Winter looks the other way from all this, and his film suffers for it.
“You cannot capture a man’s entire life in two hours. All you can hope is to leave the impression.”
So says Herman J. Mankiewicz early in the biopic about his greatest professional achievement, writing the screenplay for Orson Welles’s Citizen Kane. In Mank, that’s precisely what director David Fincher does with Mankiewicz. Here was a man of principle, Fincher shows us. Here was a man of character. Here was a drunk, an inveterate gambler, but above all, here was a man with an absolute conviction in what he believed.
There are two bravura sequences in director Brandon Cronenberg’s waking nightmare of a film, Possessor. Brandon, the son of legendary horror director David Cronenberg, proves with Possessor, his second feature after 2012’s Antiviral, that he’s up to taking on the family business: creating mind-bending cinema centered around queasy body-horror special effects.
Possessor follows Tasya Vos, a contract killer who works for a company with a revolutionary process for carrying out its assignments. Vos is a possessor; using the company’s technology, her consciousness is implanted in a host body to do the killing. After each hit, Vos is pulled out of the host body, leaving that poor soul to deal with the consequences of a murder that he or she had no choice in committing.
The uninspired comedy Buffaloed takes a handful of gags and uses them over and over again to fill its feature length. The way the locals of Buffalo, NY speak is one of those gags. They way they look is another. And that’s really about it. The classic film Fargo also pokes fun at the way its characters speak. But there’s so much more under the surface of that film. Buffaloed is a one-note comedy that ends up feeling disposable.
Set in Buffalo, NY, the debt-collection capital of the world, Peggy Dahl is determined to be successful and break out of the chain of poverty in which she was raised. Her father died when she was very young, and her mother pays the bills (just barely) by running an unlicensed beauty salon out of her house. (Ten cent wing night at the local bar – this is Buffalo, remember – helped keep Peg and her brother fed on their mother’s tight budget when they were growing up.)
Even if Sound of Metal weren’t one of the best, most emotionally pulverizing cinema experiences of the year, the outstanding lead performance from Riz Ahmed would be reason enough to praise the film. The English actor/rapper/activist’s incredibly rich performance comes down to the level of interiority that Ahmed is able to convey to us. Through nuanced looks and gestures, most often conveyed with no words at all, Ahmed accomplishes with his character, Ruben, one of the most noble goals of the arts: the ability of the audience to truly see the world through someone else’s eyes.
Ruben Stone is a drummer in the two-piece metal band Blackgammon. His romantic and artistic partner, Lou (short for Louise), plays guitar and sings. A recovering heroin addict, Ruben is faced with a life-upending situation when he suddenly and almost completely loses his hearing due to the nightly abuse of Blackgammon’s metal shows.
It’s a simple setup – almost high-concept: the elevator pitch might be, “Metal drummer loses his hearing overnight and must face radically changing his life in order to adjust.”
There’s a risk in adapting a play for the screen. The typically confined nature of the source material can lead to a stage bound feel in the movie. That locked, static aesthetic is anathema to an art form that’s known, after all, as motion pictures. (Take a look at many movies made in the wake of noisy, bulky sound equipment being introduced to the process in the early 1930s if you don’t believe me. The worst of them look like filmed plays.) One of the best examples of a director and movie that thrillingly breaks free of the source material’s stage roots is Miloš Forman’s dazzling Amadeus. Chicago, too, adds a cinematic spectacle feel to its musical number sequences.
Joe Mantello’s adaptation of playwright Mart Crowley’s seminal LGBTQ melodrama The Boys in the Band only breaks free of the source material’s stagy feel in a few key sequences. Each time it happens is thrilling; it injects the wider world into the hermetically sealed one of the story. While the rest of the movie could have easily taken place on a stage, Boys has plenty more going for it to make it an electric experience.
I had my first colonoscopy this year at age forty. Most people don’t start getting this preventative care procedure until they turn fifty. I won’t bore you with the particulars of why I started early, but rest assured that everything is fine. Just before I was wheeled from the prep area back to the O.R., I had my first truly profound existential epiphany. The I.V. drip that the anesthesiologist hooked me up to started to take effect, and I began feeling a little drowsy. I had the comforting realization that death was like going to sleep. I thought about how I would be unconscious, knowing nothing, as the doctor performed this procedure, and how death, too, would be identical to unconsciousness; death is the act of never knowing anything again. In that moment, as the twilight of artificial sleep was coming on, I was fine with that realization.
Director Kirsten Johnson’s heartfelt, moving new documentary, Dick Johnson Is Dead, takes ninety minutes – culled from years of shooting for the picture – to make an uneasy, gallows humor sort of peace with the finality of death. It is a love letter from a daughter to a father, and vice versa. My only reservation with the film is how Johnson, right up until the final cut to black, prioritizes the main conceit of the film. She gleefully pulls the rug out from under us in the very last frame. I appreciated the playfulness of it, but not as much as was probably intended.
I’m imagining the year 2060, when I’ll be 80 years old. In my mind’s eye, I see someone who’s my age now. Like me, this fictional person is a history buff – and a cinephile, too, of course – and she watches old movies and reads books about (mostly pop-culture) history. (What will this time period’s version of Easy Riders, Raging Bulls be called, anyway? Stan’s World: When Marvel Ate the Entertainment Industry?)
This person, who was born in 2020, reads part of the Wikipedia entry for “COVID-19 pandemic in the United States” and becomes fascinated. After watching a few YouTube videos of archival news footage about the pandemic, she stumbles across the trailer for Alex Gibney, Ophelia Harutyunyan, and Suzanne Hillinger’s documentary Totally Under Control. She watches the whole movie with an unbelieving half-grin on her face.
It’s a disturbing watch, but for her it’s a little like when I watched Triumph of the Will. It all happened so long ago, it’s hard to imagine actually living through it. This invented person – like the actual people who might one day watch Totally Under Control four decades from now – will never know the rage, frustration, and sense of hopelessness that watching Gibney, et al.’s film engenders in someone living through this moment.
Aaron Sorkin’s sophomore effort in the director’s chair – after 2017’s Molly’s Game – is just as compelling, erudite, and masterful as his first. The Trial of the Chicago 7 is one of the best movies of the year so far. All of Sorkin’s strengths are on display here. His screenplay is brimming with his signature style of crackling dialog. He examines with nuance and complexity mature themes like patriotic dissent, justice, and what makes American democracy function. His characters are all fully fleshed out people, not merely two-dimensional dialog delivery devices.
The Julie Taymor who directed the electric films Titus, Frida, and, yes, even Across the Universe – a movie which wasn’t well received by most critics, but which really worked for me – shows up a little over an hour into her latest effort, The Glorias, the biopic about journalist and activist Gloria Steinem.
There are Taymor flourishes in the meandering first 70 minutes of the picture, to be sure. The film opens with a sequence in which an older version of Steinem – four actresses play the iconic feminist throughout The Glorias – looks out the window of a Greyhound bus as it rolls along the highway. Steinem and everything inside the bus are in black and white, everything outside the bus is in full color. It sets an interesting aesthetic that doesn’t pay off until Steinem finds her fiery passion for the Women’s Liberation movement. That’s when the movie really starts to rip.