If you’re looking for the most self-assured, quietly transfixing debut feature of the year, look no further than director Celine Song’s contemplative Past Lives. I’m too old to describe her film as being “a vibe,” but that’s exactly what it is. Past Lives is like a series of emotions washing over the audience in waves. Song has taken autobiographical bits and pieces of herself to make an authentic, modern romance that feels hyper-specific to the immigrant experience and yet also universal to the human experience
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It all started with an innocent enough question from my wife. She had no way of knowing when she asked it that the answer would lead to the both of us falling down a rabbit hole of cinema. (She’s been with her movie-obsessed partner long enough, though, to know that’s always a possibility. She knew who she was marrying!)
The two of us are always on the lookout for new shows we think the other would enjoy and that we can watch and discuss as we work our way through it together. Last fall, she mentioned a title she had been seeing on HBO Max for a few months – soulless media conglomerate Warner Bros. Discovery, which now owns HBO, recently rebranded the streaming service to the obnoxiously titled Max.
“Do you know anything about this Irma Vep?”
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The most unlikely man to coach an English football club – in deference to the Brits, who formalized play of the sport in the late 19th century, I’ll eschew the term soccer, although there is compelling evidence that it was our friends across the pond who invented the now-hated term in the first place – is seeing himself out. He’s doing so alongside characters from several other shows touted as the best of their crop of prestige television. In the last month, HBO powerhouse series Succession and Barry both took a final bow. Now, it’s time to say so long and farewell to the irrepressibly upbeat Ted Lasso.
The transformation of the show itself over the course of its three-season run irked some early supporters. What started as a lighthearted half-hour sitcom about a fish-out-of-water American football collage coach being hired to lead a team in a sport he knows nothing about blossomed into a heartfelt dramedy about human beings connecting with one another.
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The most fascinating thing that happens during a screening of BlackBerry comes seconds after the closing credits start. That’s when everyone in the audience picks up the little $1000 computer that we all carry around with us, so we can check what’s come in while we were busy staring at a different screen for a few hours. This strictly observed ritual takes place millions of times in movie theaters across the country each year. I’m sorry to say there are plenty of people who simply can’t wait until the movie is over before worshipping at the altar of their personalized mobile device.
What makes this now-common act of servility to technology something of note when considering BlackBerry is that the audience has only seconds ago seen a story integral to explaining how things got this way. BlackBerry tells the story of, as one character in the movie puts it, the phone everybody had before they got an iPhone. Director Matt Johnson and his wonderful cast frame this story as a goofy comedy, at least until the pathos kicks in and things get unexpectedly poignant.
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I sat in the comfy leather recliner at Violet Crown, waiting for the first screening of the day to start. I was surrounded on either side by older festival goers and we all struck up a conversation. The couple on my right were film festival fans who had splurged for the top-tier badge. The woman was looking forward to retiring within the next year; her husband was recently retired. The woman on my left and I chatted about how she had been to so many festivals that only a few minutes of talking to someone would determine for her if they had gone to film school or not. She said this after I described a movie that I had seen the previous day as being a you’ve-seen-one-you’ve-seen-them-all romcom.
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I stepped into the DIFF hospitality lounge on day two of the fest ready to set my lineup. I had already sent my list of preferred screenings to the address I was given in my welcome email, but for some reason, no one responded. Neither were any of my selections linked to my account. After a few minutes of exceptional help from a hospitality volunteer, I was ready to go with fifteen screenings booked over the course of the remaining six days of the fest.
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After cutting my teeth on two out-of-town film festivals, I’m now covering one in my own back yard. The 17th Dallas International Film Festival opened last night and will run through the fifth of May. Centered in Dallas’s West Village, in the heart of Uptown’s entertainment district, the lion’s share of screenings will be hosted at Violet Crown Cinema’s brand-spanking new Dallas location. A handful of screenings for DIFF 2023 will also be held at the historic Texas Theatre in Oak Cliff, aka my friendly neighborhood art house cinema.
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A new bill has been introduced in the Florida state legislature that will clamp down on what teachers are allowed to say to students when it comes to sex education. Because the kinds of people pushing draconian measures like the “Don’t Say Gay” law and the “Stop WOKE” act find it icky to think of any function involving reproductive organs beyond something that happens “down there,” this new Florida bill would naturally preclude any adult in a school setting from saying anything about menstruation to a child not yet in sixth grade. Never mind that girls can start menstruating as early as age ten.
I’ll issue this next statement in a whisper, in order to protect Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis, should he read it and get the vapors: (The new movie Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. is about girls getting their period.)
Is everyone OK?
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Almost from the start of Lana Wilson’s intimate yet sprawling portrait of the life and career of model and actress Brooke Shields, it becomes apparent that the director wants to use her subject to dig deep into the psychology of the culture that produced a figure like Shields. It’s also quickly apparent that Shields – who was used for the purposes of others long before she had the slightest bit of agency in the matter – is a willing and enthusiastic conspirator in the project.
Together the two women have crafted a searing indictment of how our society did, and, more importantly, still does, treat woman solely as sexual objects for the gratification of straight men. Pretty Baby: Brooke Shields also manages to present its subject as a whole person. By the end of the film, we feel we’ve seen Ms. Shields from every angle of her personality. It should be no surprise that this thoughtful and careful examination is infinitely more fulfilling than what those early in Shields’s career coveted her for, namely her beauty and her body.
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A woman crouches on a rocky cliff overlooking the sea. She is examining a handful of white flowers with long, red stamen. She sticks a steel soil thermometer into the ground next to the flowers to check the temperature. From a distance, we see her walking along the horizon; her bright red windbreaker is striking against the green and gray of her island surroundings. She carefully drops a rock into a deep well, listening for the splash as it hits the water far below. Next, we see her recording her observations in a notebook. She writes the date – it’s April of 1973 – the temperature from the soil thermometer (14.3° C, or about 57° F) and the words “no change”.
Everything else that happens in Enys Men happens around this basic routine, which we see a dozen times over the course of the picture. It’s the most mundane depiction of data collection you could imagine. In contrast to that mundanity, the woman, referred to only as “The Volunteer” in the film’s closing credits, experiences either a psychological crisis or a metaphysical terror, though the movie never definitively answers which. We experience her reality in the form of existential dread.
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You might be forgiven, especially considering Hollywood’s reputation, for expecting a movie titled Tetris to behave more like the 2012 screen adaptation of the popular board game Battleship and less like an intricately plotted spy picture, an 8-bit Bond. Thanks to Noah Pink’s tightly paced screenplay, Jon S. Baird’s crowd-pleasing direction, and a true story that the pair embellished in order to make it sing on the big screen, 8-bit Bond is what we get. Tetris is a raucous good time. It also has more on its mind than how seven geometric game pieces might fit together.
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If you need any X-mas gift ideas for me this year, here’s one: a custom-made shirt that says, “I went to SXSW in 2023, and all I got was a case of covid.” After successfully avoiding that spikey little bastard for three full years, it finally got me. Unfortunately, that means it got my wife, too, since I didn’t know I was sick until after I returned home. She says she’s not mad at me. I believe her, because, frankly, she’s a better person than I am.
It was probably the one music show I attended at South By that got me sick. It was a small venue, fairly tightly packed, and I didn’t wear a mask at all for it. (My only defense is, after a trip to Ebert Interruptus, Fantastic Fest, and Las Vegas last year, I was clearly under the mistaken assumption that I was invincible.) When Melody, my friend and couch-provider-for-the-week, told me that Tangerine Dream was playing after my last screening for the day, I was all in. I audibly gasped when she told me about the show.
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My first South By Southwest experience has been dominated by documentaries so far. Over my first two days of the fest, I’ve seen five films, and four of them were docs.
I arrived in Austin at a little after one in the afternoon on Monday. After checking in at the convention center to obtain my badge and any pertinent information I needed, I headed straight to the Alamo Drafthouse on South Lamar Blvd. As soon as I realized that the S. Lamar Alamo was one of the seven venues showing films for SXSW, I knew that’s where I should start, since I was already familiar with the location. I spent eight days there for Fantastic Fest 2022, after all.
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Through the generosity of a benefactor – which makes it sound like I’m Pip in Great Expectations – I’m happy to announce that I’ll be attending the South by Southwest 2023 Conference and Festival. I have scored a complimentary badge to the film festival programming for this year’s SXSW celebration.
Running March 10-19, the fest has already started, and, due to the short notice that a badge was coming my way, as well as a few prior commitments, I’ll be down in Austin to see as much as possible between Monday, March 13 and Friday, March 17, a solid five days of screenings. This will be my first time attending SXSW, and I’m excited to find out if it lives up to the hype.
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Do nothing. Stay and fight. Leave.
These are the options up for debate in Women Talking. The people debating, the titular women doing the talking, are a self-appointed committee representing all of the women in their isolated Mennonite colony that eschews modern conveniences like electricity and observes a strict patriarchal hierarchy.
The reason for their secret meetings is about as horrifying as you could imagine. It’s come to light that certain men in the colony have been using cow tranquilizers on women and girls in the community in order to rape and abuse them. They know this because one of the victims caught them in the act.
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To those who lived (and died) during the “war to end all wars,” it was anything but trivial. Forty million people (military and civilian combined) died as a result. Humanity experienced unimaginable suffering in the four+ years of a conflict that has mostly been relegated to dusty history books.
Swiss director Edward Berger has determined to make that suffering very imaginable and horrifically unforgettable with his adaptation of Erich Maria Remarque’s seminal 1929 antiwar novel All Quiet on the Western Front. Remarque was a veteran of WWI, and he relayed the horrors of what he saw in battle through his protagonist, the patriotic German Paul Bäumer. Three years into the conflict, Paul enlists with most of his high school classmates in order to defend the glory of his homeland.
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“I sell shit.”
That’s the key line in Swedish director Ruben Östlund’s brutally hilarious black comedy Triangle of Sadness. This is Östlund’s debut English-language film, and it won him a second straight Palme d'Or at Cannes, after 2017’s The Square. For this latest effort, Östlund – who wrote the screenplay, in addition to directing – skewers the super-rich with biting, merciless satire. Within the film’s eat-the-rich ethos, its flavor profile is enhanced with a liberal amount of mockery directed at the pitiless, transactional nature that extreme wealth breeds in every human encounter it infects.
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While The Way of Water is slightly less obnoxious than 2009’s Avatar, numerous Indigenous peoples tribes have blasted the appropriation of their cultures for entertainment, fun, and profit by a white filmmaker. As they did for the first film, these groups called for audiences to boycott the new installment. As you might have guessed, this call for a boycott from some of the most marginalized members of our society did not hinder the movie from making 2+ billion dollars (and counting) at the box office.
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The key moment in Baz Luhrmann’s latest cinematic maximalist bacchanal – about the one and only King of Rock and Roll, Elvis Presley – comes within the picture’s first five or ten minutes. The internet meme culture overlords got it immediately. It’s the scene, which became a viral sensation, of Tom Hanks’s Colonel Tom Parker being informed that the voice he’s hearing on the radio, Elvis singing That’s All Right, belongs to a white man. “He’s white…,” Hanks’s Parker says as if in a trance; it’s half-question, half-stunned-declarative-statement.
Col. Tom – who represented Presley from 1956 until the singer’s tragic death in 1977 and helped himself to over half of everything Elvis earned – is our (not so) humble narrator. He acknowledges that some will consider him “the villain of this here story.” Luhrmann let’s Col. Tom have his say, but he also uses his strong directorial hand to make sure we see the one-time carnie’s legacy of selfish and cruel behavior and the role it played in Elvis’s descent into addiction, despair, and, ultimately, death.
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My wife fell asleep while we were watching Aftersun. It was in no way the movie’s fault; she hadn’t slept well the night before and had struggled most of the day with drowsiness. Rae found it hard to believe me when I assured her that nothing bad, traumatizing, or depressing happens over the course of Scottish director Charlotte Wells’s quietly touching debut feature.
I wasn’t lying. Nothing worse than the loss of an expensive scuba mask and a few strained moments between a father and daughter appears on the screen. Nevertheless, Wells expertly crafts a sense of dread throughout Aftersun, often barely detectable, on the edges of the frame. Her film is a marvel of delicate restraint mixed with subtle, deep emotion.
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