Ya No Estoy Aquí (I'm No Longer Here)

When was the last time a movie snuck up on you?

And please, don’t answer with a horror movie. Those are sneaky over split seconds. What I’m asking about is that rare ninja snowball—that quiet, unassuming story which somehow builds into a knockout. Like Ya No Estoy Aquí.

Sure, the story isn’t new: A teen flees Mexico for the United States. And sure, the structure isn’t special: Scenes alternate between past and present, and are so action-less that seconds pass like syrup. But at some point, this movie hits with you an icy clarity. It is something special.

Like Ulises. He’s just a teen, but already an expert dancer of cumbia, and looked up to by his crew. They’re all terkos. In a community where every street ends in drugs or violence, the terkos decide to dance, slowly and together.

Until they can’t, of course. Bye bye loud haircuts and baggy clothing. Ulises has to flee when he gets implicated in something dangerous. And so the movie flashes between his past moments with friends in Monterrey and his present difficulties living in New York. Each scene is simple: Ulises listens to the radio here; a friend complements his hair there. But after enough rolling, we see the snowball. Los terkos is the only people, the only place, where Ulises is allowed to be himself.

The acting is raw, and the moviemaking, powerful. It’s funny how something can start so simple and transform beyond expectation. How like life.

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s t a n d o u t s — **spoiler alert**

(1) fam

Ulises and los terkos are stubborn. We know this because the movie tells us so—it literally defines the word. And over time, we learn why the teens call themselves this. They live among violent gangs, but refuse to get involved. They seek out a different community. One that is bright and vibrant.

This is their rebellion. It’s funny, to think that non-violent dance is such, but here it is. And so, many of the scenes of this chosen family are tame. Almost boring. The kids might sit together, or dance for a song. Surrounded by violence and crumbling buildings, we see community. The terko way of life in real time. Take a look.

(2) stick around, gang

Another technique used to show us Ulises’ reality is when the camera sticks around. Ulises might walk out of focus, but the camera doesn’t follow him; it remains to capture what is going on around him.

At first, these scenes might feel distracting, or seem like transitions. But they are all relevant to Ulises’ reality, and are context clues for us.

For example, when Ulises walks by a woman in New York, the camera stays on her. She dominates the screen, preaching in Spanish. God has saved her from something. Or, when Ulises calls into a Mexican radio station and can’t get through, we watch the DJ put on a commercial. All we see is that room. All we hear is the Mexican government promising security to its citizens.

The moviemakers are telling Ulises’ story, but they want us to know that his situation is not necessarily unique.

Wolfwalkers

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Do you remember your favorite bedtime story? The bedsheet fuzz which lulled you to sleep, as you and your loved ones explored worlds? This is one of the treats of childhood, difficult to replicate as we age.

But we try. And it’s more than just nostalgia-seeking, or a bribe to sleep. We tell bedtime stories to teach our most vulnerable, receptive minds the knowledge of generations. We want them to know what we know, and more, without them having to endure the hardship. It is a rational and laudable goal.

The story from Wolfwalkers seems made for this ritual. But is it worthy of it?

Robyn would say yes. She’s an adventurous young girl, ready to explore the world. While father sets wolf-traps in the forest, she shoots her crossbow around the house. Sure, chores are important, but higher callings even moreso. Like catching wolves.

That’s our first problem. Robyn’s higher callings have been chosen for her: by her father (to keep her safe) and by the Lord Protector (to keep her civilized). The three are English invaders, and must be careful in this wild, pagan Ireland.

And that’s our next problem. Whether it be the Irish hunting wolves or the English hunting the Irish, nobody seems to get along. So when Robyn sneaks out of the house, difficulties surround.

What she doesn’t expect is to befriend a wolfwalker named Mebh. But this part-human, part-wolf teaches Robyn more about family and harmony than any civilization has.

The moral of the story—that all living things are connected and deserving—is certainly bedtime story material. The idea that we must care for the planet while caring for ourselves is demonstrated tenderly. But the movie loses force when it picks its bad guy.

Here, that bad guy is a different religion. The Lord Protector quells wolf and human rebellion alike, and sees the Irish’s close connection with nature as something dangerous. To be tamed. This religiously-motivated awfulness is subtle, and will likely be lost on children who are paying attention to the story of two brave girls encountering danger and caring for family. And the movie is a quality one; vividly animated, touching, and family-friendly. But bedtime story material it is not.

Bedtime is for bedrock values, and this movie isn’t consistent about its own. It disparages colonialism and indenturing groups of people with the intention of making their lives better—however misguided such behavior is—while it takes no issue with its heroes using nature and other animals—even taking over their bodies and consciousness—to suit human purposes. Both “religions” are using the world around them for their own purposes and doing what they think is best for the less fortunate. The movie overlooks this fact in its search for something worthwhile to share.

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s t a n d o u t s — **spolier alert**

(1) It’s All About Perspective

In one sense, this story pits civilization and its strictures against the wild and its freedom. Even the Irish, who serve the English, fear unbridled nature and will take English help to tame it. The moviemakers’ animation styles weave in with this theme.

For example, scenes of the town are largely in two dimensions. Perspective is flattened, and highlights the symmetric, grey monotony of civilized life. There is no flourish here, no growth. Just the various cages we live in called home, town, city.

Compare that to scenes of the forest, where wolves and other creatures live together in balance. For these scenes, the animators show a lush, deep, three-dimensional world. Colors and lines are never the same. Here we see life flourishing; wild beauty unchecked.

Each kind of animation is striking, and a thing to behold. But maintaining their differences throughout adds depth to the movie.

The Forty-Year-Old Version

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You are going to die. Sorry, but we need to acknowledge that elephant in the room. It’s part of what makes The Forty-Year-Old Version so good.

Radha sees that elephant inch closer every day. A few years ago, hers was a life of promise. A playwright on a 30-Under-30 list, making her artist mother proud. But now? Mom’s gone. Radha has no plays on stage. She’s getting old, with nothing to show for it but a bad back and a dead-end job.

Showing, though, is what playwrights do. Without the chance to put her work out there, it doesn’t matter how insightful or witty Radha might be. For us, it seems unfair; but for her, it’s a life crisis. And looking around at rock bottom, she finds rhymes.

If you think it’s a stretch—like everyone she tells—it’s not. Whether by play or lyric, Radha’s writing is poetry. Performed for that elephant we all pretend not to see. When was the last time Drake or Run the Jewels rapped about the wider culture embracing poverty porn; how hard it is to lose weight; or how some white guys have black bootys?

Like the movie as a whole, Radha’s writing is observant and hilarious. But is it a breakthrough, or a creative hiccup? We can’t tell, because Radha won’t. She won’t compromise the integrity of her plays to guarantee stage-time, but she’s too unsure of herself to try and make a living out of rap. She might be talking to that elephant, but she’s not moving around the room.

We connect with Radha in this. Like all of us, her story is unfinished, and she’s unsure of the best way to continue it. Fans of plays, rap, NYC, art, comedy, philosophy, or acting/performing will like this movie; but even if that stuff turns you off, this movie is for you. It’s for anyone with a pulse struggling to do themselves justice (and who appreciates a joke along the way).

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s t a n d o u t s — **spoiler alert**

(1) s n a p ( s h o t ) o p i n i o n s

Radha cares what people think. Sometimes, she even asks them. Although she’s in this car alone, she knows other people are on the same roller coaster.

These asides are very funny, and highlight how differently people think about things. The way Radha (who wrote and directed this movie!) distinguishes these moments from the rest of the story is by their small size. These hang like talking polaroids on an otherwise black widescreen. Snapshots of moments passed. Fits into the theme of life passing by, no?

(2) NYC

The city is a character—in several senses of the word.

From the first scene to the last, this setting affects Radha. Anyone who has lived in NYC understands the jarring and strange pleasure of having been awoken in the middle of the night by carnal moans leaking from the apartment next door. Of thanking a bus driver for letting you on a bus when they shouldn’t have, only to be met with an incredulous, even offended stare. Why are you talking to me? Of hoping your charity to a homeless person will be met with grace and thanks, only to be harassed.

This is where Radha lives, and what she has to contend with, each day. It can be draining. But whatever it can be, it has influenced her relationship with the world.

(3) l o o k a t m e / l o o k a t y o u

Radha breaks the fourth wall three times in this two hour movie. It’s a moviemaking convention some people shy away from, but which can be powerful when used a certain way.

The first time (which is always the most unexpected, and so potentially jarring) comes after Radha raps to herself in the mirror for the first time. This is during an evening in which she has blown yet another chance to have one of her plays put on stage; an evening after a long day of unfruitful teaching at school. The lyrics are raw: about sciatica; about always being horny but falling asleep instead of having sex; about being 40. This is a watershed moment for her, for us, and for rap, and at the height of this feeling, a few beats after she utters her final word, she sees herself in the mirror, and then looks at us. Guess what? RadhaMUSPrime and 40 ain’t nuttin ta fuck wit.

The second time Radha confronts us is while finishing another rap, during her first performance for somebody else (a beatmaker). Again, she is rapping about reality. How broader culture expects stories of misery and poverty from blacks—how such stories are the only thing expected, and considered the only art and contribution blacks can provide.

Radha is putting words to an unspoken reality, and it scathes. Her eyes at us pour salt in the wound.

The last time is not the least. In fact, it’s the most powerful. After Radha has sold out by turning one of her plays into poverty porn, after it has been enacted and the crowd has raved about it, Radha goes on stage to address the audience.

She gives thanks until she realizes that selling out is no longer for her. So she takes the opportunity to talk to fans of her false-self. And it is vintage Radha: powerful and articulate, funny but serious. Near the end of the monologue, the camera closes in. Radha looks the public, the elephant, us, right in the eye while speaking her truth. It is indictment, confession, and advice all at once.

“Every playwright hopes they don’t write a piece of shit like this play . . . Tired of selling my soul for these tokens . . . FYOV . . . fund your own vision . . . fill your own void . . . find your own voice . . . fuck you old vultures . . . forty-year-old version, that’s who I be.”

We need more Radhas to speak, and we need to allow more Radhas to speak. You can do both.

Énorme (Enormous)

Frédéric wants a baby? That’s funny; his wife already acts like one.

Claire’s a world-class piano player—but aloof, and overwhelmed by the world. She needs Frédéric to plan her schedule. Feed her. Relax her. And it works, because the two are in love.

So what’s the problem? It’s not that Frédéric is ready for the responsibility of a child while Claire can’t even remember his birthday. It’s that Claire doesn’t want a baby, and that Frédéric does something unforgivable to get one.

This is not something to gloss over. But however it makes you feel, it makes the movie. Frédéric himself becomes a doting mother: buying all the baby gear; reading all the baby books; eating into his own baby bump. His excitement is sweet, and very often hilarious.

The way the couple reacts to their situation reminds us that both sexes contain multitudes. Throw that together with jokes? What’s not to like?

In and Of Itself

These days, we can watch anything we want, any time. Go to a party, go out on a date, and you’ll talk about “what you’re watching” as much as anything else. Binging an entire weekend away has moved from joke fodder to culturally acceptable. Is this good?

Derek wants to know. He’s a magician, and In and Of Itself is a magic show, but he cares about what we do and how we define ourselves. And, I promise, this one man and his six skits will beat any binge.

It’s almost not fair. Derek’s a card sharp, after all. The ease with which he plays with our minds—even with the camera zoomed in on his hands—is downright scary. But he’s not stealing. He’s teaching: the different ways to shuffle or hold a deck; the ways he hid his mom’s sexual orientation from friends; the ways people judge him. Here, Derek’s tricks are microcosms of life.

So the show is furiously personal. Just as often as you’ll ask how he just did what he did, you’ll ask how he’s so comfortable unloading his baggage with strangers.

He speaks softly. Slowly. His eyes glass up with tears for much of the show. But this is the opposite of a sob story. It’s funny, sweet, and entertaining, and our magician knows exactly how to keep us engaged. As much as the movie showcases his talent and storytelling ability, it spotlights us.

Whatever magic is, this must be its highest calling. It’s hard to imagine it ever getting better.

My Salinger Year

A movie about writing? Sounds risky. Everyone knows that words trigger; words attack. And worse still, words can be boring. Still with me?

The thing is, words make us who we are, and give us what we know. Actions speak loud enough, but when that moment has passed, I bet you’re going to say something. Because words matter.

Few people understand that this is a powerful magic. Even fewer like it enough to become magicians. We call them writers. And Joanna wants to be one.

She’s not sure how, but she’s determined. So she moves to New York and goes to open mic poetry. Sounds about right. How about taking a job as a literary agent’s assistant (whatever that means)?

Joanna will find out soon enough. It means typing form letters, shredding fan mail—and answering calls from J.D. Salinger.

Wow. Joanna is so close to great writing. But is it her writing? Here’s our conflict.

Watching Joanna learn the tricks of the trade is like visiting a new bookstore: It’s quiet but exciting, fresh but recognizable. If you’ve read this far, chances are you’ll like it.

Beginning

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Why is it that we don’t seek out sad? It’s a fact of life, after all, and denying reality is a recipe for disaster. Is it because life is hard enough on its own? Because we know sad will always be there, whether we look for it or not?

Whatever the reason, we treat sad movies the same way. When was the last time someone recommended to you—truly, deeply recommended to you—a sad movie? We just don’t do it. But happy needs sad. Loss helps us recognize what we appreciate; helps us know what to look for, or remember. Sad movies do the same. Their brutal truths can be uncomfortable, but they open our eyes to what is—and therefore what can be. Think about Schindler’s List. Or Requiem for a Dream. And add Beginning to the list.

It’s about Yana, mostly. She’s having a hard time raising her son in a healthy environment. The community attacks her family for its religion. But however unfair and dangerous this is for them, this is not our brutal truth. The brutal truth is that here, men treat women like tools.

Take Yana. She does the work around here: teaching the neighborhood kids about faith; caring for the house and her son, while her husband goes out on business for extended periods. And yet, he expects this and more from her, without giving anything in return. Whenever he is home and Yana doesn’t blindly support his insecurities, or have sex with him, he tosses her aside like the wrong screwdriver. No questions about her day. No words of support. And the cherry on top? He gets upset at his wife when she opens up about being raped.

This is just awful. How can we watch something like this? Well, you can if you care about people. If you care to learn more about what hurts them, and what helps them. If you’ve ever appreciated when someone sat down with you and listened, that’s how. And if you take the time to do so here, you’ll remember that there are still things of beauty in a sea of heartbreak.

Like Yana. Every day, she’s alone and uncomfortable. Dissociating. But every day, she fights through this to teach children; to care for the future. Floating alone, she tries to do right by others.

The longer we watch, the more we see how this takes a toll on her. The last scenes are some of the most shocking and elemental you’ll see in a long while.

Nobody likes sad. But sad teaches. Sad is universal. So take some time for yourself and watch this movie. Maybe it’ll help you remember that you’re not alone. Maybe it’ll help you remember what makes you happy, so you can go for it.

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s t a n d o u t s — **spoiler alert**

(1) d a r k n e s s

Yana is in a bad place, both literally and figuratively. Though the moviemakers express this in several ways, a simple and striking one is the use of dark and light.

See below, how much of the frame—of our perception—is darkness? How light (how goodness? how Yana?) can sometimes feel small? Separate?

(2) t o g e t h e r b u t a p a r t

Not just Yana feels detached. Each of the characters is dealing with an issue, and the way they are framed hints that they are working through their issues alone.

Take a look below. Each of these people is having a conversation. But they are alone, surrounded only by emptiness. Sitting together, but apart. The moviemakers are talking to us here.

Even Yana’s attacker, a man who arguably has power, is shown apart. Left behind by his hunting party, he falters. Is he thinking about his atrocity? Being punished by a higher power?

(3) n o t h i n g n e s s

Just keeping the good times rolling here! After darkness and separation, we come to nothingness.

A recurring theme in the movie is Yana’s dissociating, discomfort, and depression. We know this in part because of repeated long takes of nothing, where we simply watch Yana live in silence. In these moments, we see Yana exhausted, defeated. Giving in to the abyss of sleep—almost as if she craves death.

When Yana visits her mother, she asks why they never talk about her father. Yet another man missing from the picture. Apparently, he used to call his daughter Sleeping Beauty. Remember that story? When a girl was cursed to die too soon, and then instead cursed to sleep, not living, but waiting around until a man kisses her, to live? The are layers of meaning here.

I Care a Lot

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What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? Well, who cares? These days, we can chomp on popcorn and watch superhero movies, comfortably knowing that the good guys will win. Forces and objects are gonna clash in flashy ways. Awesome. But the methods come second to the outcome. Second to the good guys winning.

Again and again, we go into superhero movies assuming this ending, and yet we still have an exciting, fun, even exhilarating time. How?

One reason is that these stories contain conflicts so difficult that we truly question whether the good guys will win. We start thinking about how we would win. About each character’s approach to winning. In other words, good writing makes us think about the process as much as the outcome. Makes us question what those unstoppable forces and immovable objects really are, and whether it would be OK to use them, or be them.

So it turns out we do care about the winner of that clash. I Care a Lot is a savage, delicious study on this. It moves our burning question out of superhero space and into the real world, and adds a twist: What happens when there are no good guys?

It’s subtle about it, and it’s not. Our lead, Marla, asks us the question as soon as the movie begins. As a legal guardian unashamed of taking advantage of her elderly wards, she has no qualms putting it all out there.

Watching Marla string a web to catch her prey, slowly tying up their living situation, their finances—their life—is a deeply disturbing and interesting watch. Costume design, editing, camerawork, and acting of the highest level highlight how high this makes Marla feel, and how confusing and terrifying it is for the people she traps. It is compelling watching on its own, but it is just the half of things.

At some point, it becomes clear Marla shouldn’t be messing with one of her wards. A powerful, dangerous person is connected with this ward, and will do whatever it takes to save the ward. Marla becomes our immovable object; the most determined, stubborn, capable being. The dangerous person is our unstoppable force; no single entity could possibly withstand its attack. So who wins?

We do. This movie is beautifully paced, shot, acted, directed, edited, sound-tracked, costumed, cast, set, color-schemed. Sure we’re watching bad guys, but clever writing makes it impossible not to empathize with them. It creates a tug of war in our hearts, as we constantly change who we want to win; who we think deserves what treatment; who we hate or admire.

This is not an easy thing to do to us. Many movies have tried, but many have glamorized the bad guy as much as demonized. (Looking at you, Scorsese, anche se ti rispetto tanto.) I Care a Lot does no such thing. With a heart-pounding, realistic story, it makes us grapple with what we are willing to do to get ahead, and reminds us how to think about others who use different methods—but share our very same goal.

It makes clear that taking advantage of others is, at no point along the line, glamorous. It is simply delusion. But it happens. This makes the movie ambitious and important, scary and real.

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s t a n d o u t s — **spoiler alert**

Some things will catch your eye here.

(1) c o l o r

The movie uses color in beautiful ways. Yes, color can be pretty on its own, but it can also be a tool that carries meaning.

One example of color as meaning here is Marla’s outfits.

When we meet her, she is in her prime. Capable, determined, and winning. Her outfits do business in striking primary colors. Solid reds and yellows.

As she is introduced to dilemmas, the colors become darker, less flashy. Maybe she is less sure of herself. Less OK with being loud. Or maybe, the darkness means she is more serious. Stepping up her game.

So what would black mean? Or white?

(2) a l l e g o r y

The movie preaches, but is only outwardly preachy for a few seconds over its two-hour runtime. Most of the time, it relies on allegory.

(a) n u t s h e l l

The opening scene blends the two. It is an introduction to, and summary of, the movie.

“Look at you. Sitting there. You think you’re good people. You’re not good people . . . there’s no such thing as good people . . . Playing fair is a joke invented by rich people to keep the rest of us poor.” How many movies begin by calling the viewer out as a bad person? A stooge? This is as preachy as it gets.

As Marla preaches to us over a grungy, minor-chord riff, we watch elderly people being fed pills. They swallow it; we swallow it. That lie we tell ourselves about doing the right thing, as we languish, as Marla and others get rich off of us.

Gulp.

(b) ’m u r i c a

Marla also lets us know that she was once like us, and that she didn’t enjoy it. She doesn’t dwell on this as the story continues, but we do see glimpses of her motivations and life-choices in movie imagery.

We come to realize that Marla actually appreciates this conception of the world, of predator and prey, because it empowers her. If there are only two choices, then she can choose to be a predator. A simple enough path to leave a life of fear, no? We also learn that Marla believes the United States is a blessing, because it provides fair ground to become a predator—if one works hard enough and plays by the rules.

As stretched a conception as that may be, play by the rules Marla does. She takes advantage of the elderly by the books. See below where she fights for what she thinks is right, appealing to justice, and the American flag? (This makes the conflict of the movie even more interesting, as she believes herself better than her antagonist, who doesn’t follow the American legal playbook, but who is trying to prevent a wrong.)

Much later, when Marla is in the depths, losing ground to the unstoppable force, she clings to this American promise. And it saves her. When her tooth is knocked loose, a gas station and its cheap milk rescue it. When Marla is cold, a hot dog machine provides a hearth to warm up on. Red ketchup and yellow mustard sit like a dog by her side; reminders of the comfort and stability the United States has to offer. As long as she and this country are alive, she can do anything. It is no surprise that Marla finds a new resolve after this scene.

The Night is Short, Walk On Girl

Remember that best night ever? When somehow, everyone out was tapped into the same line of electricity in the air?

This movie is that night, thanks to The Girl with the Black Hair. She knows life is short, so she’s going to take a hit of that new drink; to chat up that stranger. Though her positivity is irresistible, so is her appetite.

Her quest for more lights up the entire city. Each place she visits, each character she meets, brings its own charming quirks.

The movie is a drunken delight. A poem to serendipity, with exaggerated animation that’ll change the way you take in the world, if just for one night.

Kajillionaire

What kind of parents name their kid Old Dolio?

The kind that like—no, that need—a scam. The kind so scared of how the world takes, they spend all their time scheming how to take first.

So, their grown daughter is as maladjusted as her parachute pants are big. But when a charming stranger nudges her way into the family’s latest scam, Old Dolio starts to see more of what she’s been feeling lately. Maybe there’s something worthwhile about other people, after all.

This movie is as breathtakingly creative as it is furiously romantic. Quirky, delicate, deep, and endearing, storytelling does not get better than this.

Holy Frit

If you’ve ever wondered how they built the pyramids, you’ll like this one.

It’s the behind-the-scenes build of the largest ever stained glass window. A monument to stand for centuries. And right now, a monument that the craftspeople have no idea how to make.

Millions of dollars (and just as many prayers) are on the line. With every shattered panel, every frantic thought, you’ll be more invested.

It’s a watch filled with all the nerves, guts, and jokes of people trying to do something bigger than themselves. What’s more impressive than that?

I'm Your Woman

The way Jean’s treated is antiquated and sexist—and it just might save her life.

Y’see, her husband rolls with a bad crowd. Tucking Jean at home keeps the danger away . . . until hubby goes missing, that is.

So Jean is next. We don’t know why, and neither does she. But she better do something—and fast. This makes a good portion of the movie heart-poundingly scary.

You could even say that the story is built around adrenaline. But adrenaline wears off. And when it does, scenes of Jean sitting in silence, trapped in her own fear, become repetitive.

That may be a natural reaction—especially in a world where men continue to keep Jean in the dark. But together with performances that can be so understated as to feel emotionless, it does not make for fun watching. More empty lighter than slow burn, any sparks you get won’t last.

Malcolm & Marie

Malcolm’s movie is a hit! So why is Marie upset?

A few reasons, it turns out. And so the best day of Malcolm’s life passes into the worst night. The couple argues on and off for hours, saying things that can never be unsaid.

The beginning is transfixing—even charming. There’s a hint of truth in celebrating with a drink, or cooking dinner for someone you’re upset with. But as time passes, the movie devolves into pretentiousness. Is anybody on earth this articulate at three in the morning? Who can possibly shrug off such devastating digs—and every twenty minutes, at that?

Exhausting is the word. Not because the floodgates of an unhealthy relationship are opening in the middle of the night, but because the movie does not feel like an argument; it feels like a movie that was written to fill two hours with one.

No amount of (gorgeous) camerawork or (unremarkable) acting can make up for this.

The Dig

The Dig strikes gold, then gets greedy.

Edith can’t kick the feeling that something big is buried on her land. With world war and illness looming, finding it has become that much more important.

Basil agrees. He’s no archaeologist, but the man respects a dig.

What the two uncover will go down in history. But making history and being history are very different things. So Basil does double duty, giving and Edith and her son some perspective amidst the turmoil.

It is a simple and touching story. What’s odd is that the moviemakers didn’t seem to think so. Surprisingly deep into this, a romantic storyline magically appears, shifting the focus of the movie and almost doubling its length.

But it’s still worth a watch, not least for its beautiful picture. Golden light and big sky expanses subtly remind us how precious life can be.

The White Tiger

The White Tiger is complicated. But to sum up, India is chickens.

Just take it from Balram. By clawing his way up from candy man to rich man he’s seen it all. And now, he’s telling all.

The story is full of intrigue, and often exciting. But it’s also dark. Hard truths about society—and Balram’s choices—are what make this movie. Entertaining and devastating can now be used in the same sentence.

Indeed, this isn’t about rags or riches. It’s about the internal struggle we each face: how to do the right thing for others while doing right by ourselves. Thanks in part to pitch-perfect acting, it’s never been so easy to cheer for characters in one scene and boo them in the next.

Family Romance, LLC

Drunk uncle gonna ruin your wedding day? Why not rent a replacement?!

That’s right. Family Romance, LLC has actors to fill whatever role you need—loved ones included.

It’s a strange concept, and even stranger to behold. The main event has “Dad” trying to rekindle a relationship with his neglected “daughter”.

Their moments together are real. But because half of the emotion is paid for, these moments feel hollow. It’s almost like watching a funeral. Yea yea, life goes on, but something’s missing, and you can’t tell me otherwise!

This seems to be the deeper goal of the movie—to get us thinking about the loneliness and connection life can offer. Although it’s thought-provoking, the movie feels more talent show than anything else. Most of the time has us jumping between unrelated scenes, just to exhibit different actors. This stalls the main story until the very end, when its conflict is finally introduced. The movie gets good just as soon as it finishes.

Twenty Two

Of 200,000, twenty-two survive. Those must be some stories.

Yep. And difficult to share. Surviving systematic abuse by the Japanese army, just to have society look down on you? These women deserve better.

So the movie does what it can. Our Chinese grannies share their pain—some of them, for the first time. But even when reliving becomes too difficult, we still sit with them. See them.

About half of the movie steps out of the room. Nothing-moments. As much as these give grannies a respectful distance, they give us time to download what we’ve just learned. Watching a snowfall, we can think about how the voice of pain is sometimes muffled. Or, we can focus on the flakes’ delicate dance. Up to us.

Whether by interviews or in-betweens, this movie is as tasteful and beautiful as a movie can be. There is no action, no journey. Just life, raw and real.

One Night in Miami

Hey—have you heard the one where two champions, a rock star, and a philosopher walk into a bar?

It’s no joke. In fact, it’s deeply satisfying. Watching Muhammad Ali, Jim Brown, Sam Cooke, and Malcolm X with their guards down, it feels like we’re getting away with something.

That’s because people speak more freely with friends. It’s catch-ups one minute, deep cuts another. Sure, you’re the best at what you do, but is your day job making the world a better place?

Some of the lines truly burn. But most of the movie is a more subtle sizzle. Even the slower pace and group imagery are saying, relax and celebrate while you can, but to be black in the United States is to return to a struggle.

There’s much to take away from this, and we each might take something different. The message, maybe, is that that’s OK. Our own experiences and talents can’t be denied. So if we disagree, let’s talk about it.

To All the Boys I've Loved Before

Speak now or forever hold your peace? I’ll take the third option.

Like Lara Jean. Instead of telling people how she really feels, she writes letters—never to be sent, of course.

Of course. Once these letters (mysteriously) make their way into the world, what had felt like a sappy movie transforms. When all the boys you’ve loved before are at your door, funny things happen.

It’s not a likely story. You’ll see more group hugs and self-possessed teenagers here than you will in a lifetime. But it’s hard to roll your eyes when the rest makes you feel so good. You can sympathize with the hard stuff, and laugh at the light. Lara Jean playing her part to perfection helps.

Wonder Woman 1984

It’s 1984, and big is in. Hair. Shoulder pads. Desire.

Diana isn’t the biggest fan: She believes there’s such a thing as enough. And as an Amazon warrior, she has the powers—and duty—to remind people of it.

That includes Maxwell. He’s selling the dream of more, to those with less. But it’s a Ponzi scheme. To maintain, it must grow. And to grow, it must take.

The movie leans heavily on these themes. That works well, for a while. But somewhere along the line, the story doesn’t follow its own logic, and so its message falls flat. OK movie, you want me to examine my place in the world? I’ll do that after you examine yourself first.

It’s frustrating. The moral is a good one, and shouldn’t get lost. But if you can look past the mistake, plenty of the movie is funny and entertaining.