Space Jam: A New Legacy

To succeed, don’t do what you want; do what they tell you.

This is what LeBron James—perhaps the greatest basketball player of all time—tells his computer-code-wiz son, Dom. By working hard and pushing computer games aside, he says, one can provide for themself and their whole family.

LeBron may be right. And this is a big problem.

You see, Al G. Rhythm is jealous of it all. The fame, the adoration. As an algorithm for Warner Brothers Studios, his work creating movies has gone unloved and unrewarded. But not anymore.

Al has a plan to finally win over the hearts of humans: He will kidnap LeBron and Dom and challenge them to a game of high-stakes basketball. Oh, and whereas Al’s teammates will be NBA and WNBA superstars, LeBron must pick his crew from the lowliest of the low, some stale old Warner Brothers intellectual property called the Looney Toons.

If you have questions at this point, I have answers. Yes, this movie is ridiculous. Yes, about half of it is as stiff and try-hard as you’re afraid it’s going to be.

In fact, it feels like Warner Brothers rushed through the brainstorming phase and made this movie purely to advertise its previous hits: It constantly ties characters, quotes, and even clips from its more successful movies into this story. Sometimes it works, but most times it doesn’t. It’s uncomfortable and embarrassing to watch a studio stoop this low, just as it’s embarrassing to think that in what was clearly planned as a blockbuster advertisement for itself, it decided to have its own computer—the thing that we’re supposed to believe creates its movie ideas—be evil. (Let’s not even think about the computer knowing that the Looney Toons have overcome impossible odds to win a basketball game before, and that it has decided to attain human validation by beating down a human admired by millions of people.)

So, this movie may be the most expensive, least effective advertisement of all time. But it’s not all bad. LeBron’s conflict with his son Dom is believable, and Dom’s acting is genuinely good. LeBron’s slighty-more-stiff delivery even punches up a few one liners. And the second half of the movie almost redeems the first: It reinvigorates the clever ridiculousness of the Looney Toons of old, toying with our natural instincts and creating laughs for the whole family. 

But that’s not enough. Although light and family-friendly, Space Jam: A New Legacy is a forgettable movie. Though “don’t overthink it” can sometimes be good advice about a movie, this is more a “don’t think it at all” one, which, if you ask me, is not a worthy way to spend your valuable time.

Shiva Baby

Somebody died. Wanna get frisky? 

That’s one of the things Danielle is thinking right now. Others include does my mother think I’m a failure because I’m bisexual and why can’t I get a job in gender business?

These concerns may sound naive or niche, though Shiva Baby is anything but. It is a transgressive, sensitive, and observant work, one that’ll mesmerize you even as you peek through the cringe-shielding hands on your face. 

After meeting Danielle in a most abrupt (compromising?) fashion, we are thrown just as abruptly into a shiva. People, at a house, in mourning. And wow are they alive. 

They’re saying hi, catching up—and asking Danielle questions she can’t answer. Things become increasingly uncomfortable as it becomes clear that she isn’t growing up at the pace or in the way everyone expects. And the schmear on the bagel? Danielle’s ex-girlfriend and current sugar daddy are in attendance.

The editing and direction superbly cramp us in, and together with pitch-perfect writing, acting, and music, connect us with Danielle. Can we just have a minute, please?! Yes, yes, back to the food table for the fifth time, whatever works!

And so, we swim with Danielle through a sea of cloying, judgmental people, watching her young mind fire neurons in all sorts of directions. And so, this movie is a moving, impressive work of art. 

America: The Motion Picture

Lest you forget that the Declaration of Independence was written over a game of beer pong, or that Washington and Lincoln were totes besties . . . behold, America: The Motion Picture.

It throws whatever you know about American history into a blender, and pours out a raunchy, pun-filled adventure. Namely, some of America’s biggest names form a supergroup to, well, form the nation.

It’s mostly outrageous, and often hilarious. Take Sam Adams. He’s just a beer-chugging college bro, with blind dedication that’s somehow endearing—and racist giggles that’re telling. The writing respects people’s contributions while acknowledging their (grievous) faults. But what’s it all for?

Washington is our main character, and his inner journey leads him to realize that what makes America great is its openness. But in a whiplash moment even for such a wacky story, the movie ends with Americans fighting because of their differences, and Washington losing hope.

This is disappointing. If the moviemakers wanted to make a ridiculous, fun movie, they could’ve done so. But they brought in philosophy, and only did half the work.

Free thinking is not just a luxury, it is a responsibility to approach other ideas with patience and charity—especially if you disagree. The moviemakers seem smart enough to understand this, so the next time they make a movie about their country burning down, they’d do better than to simply draw a caricature from across the street, point, and laugh.

I'll Never Forget My High School Friends

Some people grow up faster than others. Ryan doesn’t seem to think about this when he hands his friends cameras to document the end of high school.

Not everyone likes the idea, but they oblige their nerdy, aspiring director. Unfortunately (for all of us), naiveté, intergroup romance, and jealousy get in the way. Very not lit.

There is promise in the moviemaking here, but the story does not hit home. More than one character vanishes from the plot without adequate explanation. And though we are watching people spend their last moments together, we haven’t learned enough about them—or found in them sufficiently worthwhile traits—to care.

The actors are most convincing when they lean into being teens: self-centered, peacocking, and defensive. These portrayals and their writing can be insightful. The direction, editing, music, and coloring show care, too. But the lack of connection with our characters and other blemishes outweigh the good. The sound quality drops in and out, and sustained naturalistic camerawork can be jarring. 

But, because in the casual dialogue and uncomfortable emotions there is some truth, my advice to the moviemakers is to keep putting themselves out there. To quote the All American Rejects once more, “when we live such fragile lives, it’s the best way we survive.”

Wish Dragon

You have three wishes! Go!

Of course Din, our dear, kind-hearted Din, can’t go. What he wants most in this world can’t be granted. 

It has to do with Li Na. She’s gone from the neighborhood and on to richer things. But she still remembers Din and their friendship, right? If there ever was a time for him to find out, it’s now, with the help of a wish-granting dragon from a teapot.

Don’t let the extremely-on-the-nose opening sequence scare you off. What we have here is a wholesome story for the whole family to enjoy, one that highlights the deep joys of human connection. You’ll smile and chuckle plenty—and breathe a sigh of relief when you realize it’s not another story where a dull boy pines for an impossibly perfect girl.

Smooth, soft animation rounds out the feel-good feeling. Though we’ve seen this idea done before, good execution is good execution.

I Am All Girls

I Am All Girls will confront you. You have been warned.

Ntombi is an adult now, capable and strong, working in police forensics to hold sexual criminals accountable. Jodie is her lover—and a detective with the same goal. With a tender romance amidst difficult work, it’s dang easy to root for our heroes.

But the plot thickens. Ntombi’s methods do not always follow police protocol. And Jodie has no idea about that—or Ntombi’s past as a child sex slave. For now.

The production value is top quality, though the writing has flaws. Jodie’s character is unbelievably dedicated, Ntombi’s psyche is barely explored, and for a movie about an uphill battle against evil, the ending comes all too easy.

That said, this thriller is about remembering real lives that were taken—and that continue to be taken, each day. There can be few better reasons to base a movie on a true story, and for this reason alone, it is worth a watch.

Cruella

In to déjà vu? Then Cruella is for you.

It’s the origin story of a fashion designer, though you need not care about clothes to enjoy: Everything about this outfit is high-end.

From the larger costume and set design down to the quirks of the perfectly acted, perfectly one-dimensional supporting characters, many of its threads are creative and entertaining. How can you not feel for a little girl wronged before she had a chance to do right? And did I mention that the lead acting is fantastic? Cruella and her frenemy boss provide brilliant, brilliantly wicked performances.

The problem is, we’ve seen this all before—and to better effect. A hard-driving, ungrateful superior; the strength of chosen family; revenge and dirty tactics posing as justice. OK, but what have you done for me lately?

Although the movie’s production aspects deserve display at the poshest runways and movie theaters, the goal of its writing seems to be lionizing a deranged selfishness. This is not something our world needs more of, and no amount of glamour should change that.

Monster

How long will you read this before your mind wanders? 

I’m not asking to judge you. I’m just curious, because it happened to me watching Monster, early and often.

It’s funny, because the movie is very good. Steve is a budding moviemaker, open-minded student, and good friend and family member. So how strange and scary it is when he’s charged with murder. Just another young Black man found at a robbery gone wrong.

Tight writing, smart structuring—everything from the color of clothing to ambient music gives us a moving watch.

Most of the performances are expert, too. But Steve’s is extraordinary. When he quietly narrates his aspirations from the rooftops, or shakes in a mix of guilt and fear in front of his parents, it’s difficult not to marvel at how good this actor is. How genuine it feels when he explores the possibilities of his life, unsure all the while. It’s both personal and universal.

A story about an upstanding kid caught up in the pains of experience and prejudice is worth a watch. But more than that, as great art does, this movie makes you think about things outside of what you’re seeing. So let your mind wander on this one: It will always come back.

The Underground Railroad (Parts 1 and 2)

Within seconds, The Underground Railroad will shake you.

The gravity of the situation alone is . . . planetary. Cora, a young woman enslaved on a Georgia plantation, has been left behind by her mother. Even her community, which holds together what shreds of humanity it can in the face of such brutality, looks askance at her. Tragedy on tragedy.

But Cora is not alone. She has Caesar—and his ideas. He reads Gulliver’s Travels by night, contemplating human nature and the journey of life. The two know in their hearts they cannot take this anymore. So they try for freedom.

If the writing wasn’t already intelligent and powerful enough for you, it will start to be here. The underground railroad is not what you think it is. Or put another way, it is exactly what you think it is, and will still surprise you again and again.

This work is so delicate and intoxicating that it can only be described as awesome. Images and sounds which are intensely vivid take the raw stuff of life and translate it into emotion. You will find crickets in your ears when you watch this, and feel someone else’s heaving breaths reaching deep down into you.

We have seen respectful, blazing beauty from this director before, and music to match. Shallow focus and close stares into the camera, one of Barry Jenkins’s trademarks, continue to create connection on a fundamental level. We are seeing, but we are being seen. And the varied, vibrant musical art of Nicholas Britell accentuates it all. The production design, costumes, camerawork, acting—the list goes on. This is moviemaking masterwork which makes us feel deeply. So let’s feel, and learn.

It’s important to recognize that this is an adaptation of Colson Whitehead’s 2016 novel of the same name, a Pulitzer Prize winner. That said, there will be no comparisons made to the book in these reviews. What we watch is what we’re watching.

Mainstream

Don’t touch the stove, it’s hot! For good reason, this is what we were taught, and what we teach. But some people learn best by experience. Only pain sinks a lesson in.

So how about you? Do you need the burn to learn?

Frankie might. She feels a failure. Just another struggling bartender adding nothing to the world. If only her YouTube videos were popular! Then she’d be making a difference. When she meets Link—a charming, captivating (homeless?) man—she feels a spark. This is someone who can get people’s attention. Who can help her make a difference.

Link likes Frankie, too, but only because he likes most people. He values connection with ourselves and the world around us—and thinks that phones remove us from all of that. Why can’t Frankie see this? Well, maybe she can. Maybe she—and everyone else—can, if the two work together. If they satirize to open eyes.

With a writer friend (who completes our love triangle, of course), the couple makes videos critiquing the shallow, destructive nature of life with social media. And their videos hit it BIG. So big, in fact, that it becomes hard to remember the reasons for creating them in the first place . . .

In the end, Mainstream is a careful, desperate plea to all of us not to touch the stove. The characters are well-written, and the acting—particularly by Link—is simply riveting. The movie’s self-aware soundwork and editing only highlight how far we’ve come, and how complicated our relationship is, with attention drugs.

Stowaway

Stowaway has a major malfunction—yet still works.

That’s because, when you watch people blast off into space, you get invested. It’s only natural, rooting for the home team.

What’s more, we can identify with each of the three crewmembers on a personal level. Whether by ambition, altruism, or curiosity, their reasons for going to Mars ring true.

The issue—which is also what makes most of the movie suspenseful and nerve-racking—is that there’s a stowaway on this rocket ship. Yes. In something engineered down to the smallest detail, an entire human somehow managed to squish in.

So what to do?

Well first, push the ridiculousness of this scenario out of your mind. Then, soak in how human ingenuity and emotion can blaze through the dark vacuum of space. The ship wasn’t built to handle four people, and things aren’t looking good, but we are seeing one of life’s most pressing questions being worked through in real time: We didn’t ask to be here, but now that we are, who will help themselves, and who will help each other?

Dead Pigs

There’s a special anxiety that comes from not having. Not having someone to talk to; not having enough money; not having what they have. Insert your problem here.

We all share in this feeling, and it’s partly why Dead Pigs is so good. The movie taps into our natural anxiety—in a way that somehow relieves the pressure.

It’s a true cinematic experience, where five human stories converge into something larger than life. Sure, Candy’s doing well—but she lives in the last house in a neighborhood being torn down. And her brother? He’s a pig farmer with less money than pigs. His son, a troubled rich woman, and an expat architect round out the problem-fest.

That all sounds like a lot. Too much. But smart writing eases us in. Scene changes don’t distract or confuse; they pique our interest.

Further drawing us in is how the moviemakers create atmosphere. Each place mirrors the mood of its characters: a dark, neon city broods and seethes here; buildings fall apart there. In widescreen that both overwhelms and helps us take it all in, we find a sad, sweet, and funny story which reaffirms human connections.

Limbo

Life works in fits and starts. Things we’d like to change are slow to change; things we’d hate to change change suddenly and the most. Limbo, mostly.

Omar’s current one is the Scottish countryside. He’s a Syrian refugee stranded here, with just enough money to stay and not enough money to go. His parents feel the same—but in Turkey.

We watch Omar process this predicament. It’s a subtle, verging on minimalist movie. If someone asks you what happens?, all you can say is nothing much. And yet the movie holds our attention by choreography and countrysides, facial expressions and silly scenarios.

Omar and his supporting cast nail their roles. Though life away from family and past comforts is hard, they take it in quiet stride. This lets us contemplate their dilemma—and giggle at the naiveté of those around who aren’t struggling through such a thing.

It’s hard to fault any one part of the moviemaking here, and the themes are lofty. But the resolution (if you can call it that) doesn’t fit. This can feel a frustrating send-off for those who were waiting the entire time for something to happen.

Ghostbox Cowboy

If you could communicate with your deceased loved ones, would you?

Jimmy would—and Jimmy has. He’s invented a little box to do so, and is taking his talents to China in hopes of large-scale manufacturing his gift for the world.

It’s sad, and he seems to be on another wavelength. Everyone he meets takes advantage of this—because everyone he meets feels pressured by the demands of consumer culture. They all know: If you aren’t part of the system, you may be out of a job—and therefore out of a way to sustain your life.

It’s a trippy movie. Every aspect of the moviemaking provides us people, places, and things rooted in reality, but sopping with delusion. Themes like competition, hopelessness, and precarious living radiate out of each character.

Feeling bleak may not be your idea of fun. But what about watching an original, thought-provoking story, filled with characters trying to do their best in a crazy world?

Another Round

Good ol’ alcohol. Everyone has their thoughts. It’s not for me. It loosens me up! It is forbidden. Well, however you feel about it, it shapes Another Round in the best way.

You see, Martin and his three friends have lost the pep in their step. They’re not sure how it happened, or when, but they want it back. So what are responsible, middle-aged teachers to do? Test a hypothesis, of course: Drinking each day will bring whatever they’ve lost back.

Not to excess! Not like some of their students. Just enough to optimize their lives—to bring back their curiosities and passions. So in the classroom, at home, and in the park, we watch them try. It’s a fun, interesting, and often poignant time.

But drunken party it is not. Though there are scenes of that (ranging from exhilarating to concerning), this is above all else a nuanced story of personal exploration and friendship. We follow Martin most, his family and inner journey, but everyone plays a part.

And at some point, our teachers learn. Alcohol is a drug, and drugs have side effects.

For a movie about drinking, it is pleasantly balanced. It’s not too dark, but neither is it too rosy, or clinical. It has a whiff of realness to it. If I were you, I’d take a sip.

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.