Vivo

Has your life gone the way you thought it would?

Or does it sometimes feel like you’re just a monkey, flailing around in a complicated world? Well, Vivo can relate with the latter.

OK, he’s a kinkajou, not a monkey. Irrelevant! What matters is that he can sing and dance! Along with friend Andres, he busks at the local plaza. Connection and fulfillment in sunny Havana, Cuba; what’s not to love?!

A letter. A letter written by someone from Andres’s past, asking him to travel all the way to the United States. The old man is ready for this, probably his last big adventure. But Vivo is not. His world was once big and scary, before he found meaning in Andres and his music, and he’s not ready to lose either.

But life happens, doesn’t it? Vivo finds himself journeying alone to Miami, and in doing so, re-learning what it means to engage with his surroundings.

It’s a sweet story, and very often funny. This world is colorful; its animation, in that sweet spot between campy and hyperrealistic. And though a cute, singing animal can do no wrong, Vivo’s friend-along-the-way Gabi, played by Ynairaly Simo, steals the show. Not only is her character (arc) adorable and instructive, Ynairaly’s performance hits high notes across the emotional spectrum.

Music, of course, rounds out the movie. The songwriting is recognizably modern (and recognizably Lin-Manuel Miranda), though rooted firmly in its Afro-Cuban inspiration.

Vivo’s earliest scenes may be on the nose, but that doesn’t bog it down. It’s an energetic, fun family movie—and one whose best parts, funnily enough, are its heavier scenes. When the music stops and the hard work of feeling begins, characters and audience alike have a chance to reflect.

So what if life doesn’t always go the way you thought it would? If it did, how could it ever be better than you had imagined?

Max Richter's Sleep

Please take a moment. Try and remember how it was to be rocked to sleep. How it felt when your parent sang you a lullaby, or read you a story as you dozed off.

Did you feel safe? Comfortable? Or were you not really there, moving between worlds? Max Richter’s Sleep explores all of this and more.

And that’s impressive considering Sleep is just a song. Well, a song eight hours long, whose overnight performances transform event spaces into giant public bedrooms . . . But perhaps even more affecting is that the thinkers behind this experience—and the many attendees—were willing to do this kind of thing. A stubbornly long lullaby shared with strangers while you are at your most vulnerable? It flies in the face of an always-on, self-protective culture.

And yet it’s not a new idea, Max explains. Long songs and performances have been found throughout cultures and history. The difference here, though, is the focus: This meticulously planned event means to speak to your mind precisely as it moves in and out of consciousness. It sounds trippy, but it’s a largely comforting experience, and one that calls back to the simple (and powerful) act of letting go which humankind seems to forget as it ages.

Watching the performance and hearing the music is therefore refreshingly calming. So too is its origin story beautiful.

Interviews tell us that Max and his wife Yulia often went to bed with empty stomachs; the starving artists always fed their children first. But their desire to create and connect with a broad audience kept them firmly at the low-paying fringes of society. Even if Max performed somewhere afar, Yulia would tune in at the end of a long day—and inevitably fall asleep. A thoughtful and perceptive person herself, she found that listening while dozing was an experience unlike any other. And when Max responded to this observation with a secret composition years in the making, their lightbulbs burned in unison. We need to do something with this.

The two make an adorable couple, and their dedication and creativity are on full display in this movie. So, too, are the stories of certain spectators and performance planners. We learn a bit about what drew people to this unintuitive experience. It all makes for an interesting watch, and thanks to remarkably consistent camerawork and lighting, an experience you can safely doze off to.

This is typically not the highest praise for a movie. But here, it is. It’s a testament to the respect and understanding the moviemakers have for these creators, their hard work and goals.

So take a moment. Get comfy, turn those lights down and that volume up. You’ll be glad you did.

The Orange Years: The Nickelodeon Story

The thrill of this movie may be lost on Generation Z; its members can access endless, personalized entertainment at any time. But Millennial viewers who had even sporadic access to the Nickelodeon channel growing up will know: It is special to experience something just-for-kids in an overwhelmingly adult world.

This nostalgia is made for the in-crowd, but even so, The Orange Years: The Nickelodeon Story is an uplifting watch.

One reason is its people. So many of them, it seems, were genuinely passionate about creating entertainment that nodded to the inherent unfairness, loneliness, and helplessness of being a kid. Executives, creators, and performers alike sit down with us to describe just how moving that was—and still is—to them. Nobody around was doing what they tried to do.

And not only does it uplift, it excites. We hear tales of underdogs from different fields banding together to fight for yet other underdogs—and in short order, hear snippets of success.

The movie unleashes all this goodness in order. First comes the small-time, Ohio public access inspiration. Then, the slow, deliberate focus on figuring out what it really means to be a kid. Then, the journey; its twists, turns, and hit shows.

Even if you don’t care how Nickelodeon got its name, or why it picked an orange logo, or why so many of its early shows were successful, you’ll likely enjoy the positivity and resilience on display in this documentary.

Free Guy

Do we need another movie about the rat race? Well, why not? Creatives gonna create, and we can always take it or leave it.

As for Free Guy, you might just leave it.

In this one, we follow handsome but plain Guy. Good morning!, he says to his goldfish each day. What an exceptional experience!, he croons, sipping the same coffee he always orders. Ryan Reynolds’s performance here is typical: Quip after quip gives the feeling of a lively character, but a restrained delivery has us questioning if the character—or the actor—has anything else to offer. The answer is yes and no.

You see, this is no repetitive time-loop movie. Though Guy (and everyone else in his world) sticks firmly to the comfort zone, Guy chases his (apparently unique) intuition that there must be more to life. Mundane but honest banter with his security-guard office-pal (played sweetly by Lil Rel Howery) brings a certain charm to the movie.

And it’s funny, too, in large part because Guy is a stooge. Literally. He is a background character in a video game. As tanks rampage through his city and as his office is robbed he doesn’t blink an eye. This makes about two thirds of the movie a running joke—and one that often pleases. It’s a novel idea, seeing a game from the perspective of a clueless insider, and a good metaphor for our own lives sometimes.

When the jokes don’t cut it anymore, the movie tries to level up by introducing a couple of programmers involved with Guy’s universe. One works for the game’s host company; the other plays the game. Their three paths eventually cross in unexpected, cute, and dangerous ways. And this is where the movie lost me.

The programmers might have feelings for each other; the computer might be sentient; the head of the game company might be evil. Yadda yadda. Not only do parallel, drawn-out storylines fail to keep the movie fun, they refocus it away from truly interesting ideas: Guy, our thinking, feeling protagonist who dared for something greater in his life, was in true human fashion being used all along as a tool to tell a less interesting human story.

Watch Free Guy and you might find Easter eggs about intelligence, or love, or evolution. That can be nice. But those tidbits don’t make up for the logic errors in this movie’s programming.

The Green Knight

Oh, the silly games we play . . . the things we do for what we think we need . . .  

So, what do you play for? More stuff? More money? Or do you yearn for those intangibles like love, or recognition?

Young Gawain usually plays for pleasure. As King Arthur’s nephew, he’s able to take advantage of all the bounty that medieval times can possibly offer. Drink and women seem to be high on the list. 

But he wants more—honor, to be exact. Inadequacy gnaws at his brain as he sits among legends like the King and his knights. Connected he is, but proven he is not. As luck (or something else?) would have it, a special challenge might solve Gawain’s problem.

On Christmas, when gifts are exchanged, the Green Knight visits the King’s court. And our world is changed forevermore. 

This knight is something wild. Unnaturally natural. When he offers a test that not even Arthurian legends will take, Gawain licks his puppy lips and bites.

What follows is a dark, mystical, and fantastical journey. The moviemakers—and without a doubt, the writer and director David Lowery—have reveled in the fact that the tale of Gawain and the Green Knight is centuries old and has many different versions: They’ve taken a cue from this and flooded their own telling with symbolism, double entendres, camera tricks, actor re-use, stunning sound and visuals and other tools that, quite simply, confuse us to high heaven. This is not a bad thing.

Legends exist for a reason, regardless of whether we can decipher it. They make us feel a certain way about the nature of the world and how we make our place in it. The Green Knight’s moviemakers understand this, play with it, and bask in it. Give this movie a watch with that in mind, and you just might awe in the confusion, too.

Val

What to do, what to do?

How about pretend to be someone else? Get dressed up, be silly, and get paid for it?

Val Kilmer has had a rather successful career doing just that. But this Hollywood actor’s life hasn’t been about money, it’s been about the things he doesn’t have. So don’t let Hollywood fool you: This is a true story that’ll tug at your heartstrings again and again.

One of the first things we learn is that this guy has always enjoyed capturing video. Thanks to thousands of hours of his own archived footage, we can see how he has acted (on and off screen) throughout the years. This was excellent raw material for the editors Ting Poo, Leo Scott, and Tyler Pharo (the former two of which also directed), and they’ve used it well. The years changed, but the man didn’t: He appears sensitive, humorous, and misunderstood since the beginning.

You could argue that this story is a pretentious self-advertisement. But I think you’d be wrong. There are too many genuinely tender and vulnerable moments here to think that this is born of pure self-aggrandizement. The way the man looks adoringly at his two grown children; the way he jokes with people; the way he speaks about his mother is likely to start your waterworks more than once.

So what actually happens? Well, we watch home movies of kid Val and his brothers making movies themselves; of young-adult Val on stages and movie sets; of middle-aged Val at home with the kids; of current-day Val doing something creative, while voice-over Val explains what we’re witnessing. These stories are the building blocks, and can teach us the power of storytelling; of seizures; of cancer.

These blocks create what Val would call the big picture: an explanation for his desire to act, to find the truth behind illusion and the illusion within truth. Though it sounds fanciful, these concepts are brought down to earth—heck, they never even leave it—because of how genuine everything laid before us seems to be.

Even the ways Val talks to us throughout the story—through past movies, in voice-over and addressing us in realtime—are poignant, and introduced in poignant ways. This movie is the work of many creative minds—and at the very least, one more than I had previously thought.

Roadrunner: A Film About Anthony Bourdain

Anthony Bourdain is gone, and this documentary won’t bring him back.

You might say to yourself, fine, I just need a taste. Well, even the taste is sour. To watch this isn’t to indulge in never-before-seen footage or experience the refreshingly twisted, pessimistic optimism that made this public personality so popular. To watch this is to be more like Tony—to embrace the uncomfortable hoping to understand.

As we hear from Tony’s close friends and co-workers, we learn about his insatiable curiosity. The small-time chef was not just a chef, but an aspiring writer. The best-selling writer was not just a writer, but a magnetic journeyman. Descriptions like these were not his thing, though. People were. War-torn or five-star didn’t matter; the people there did. 

The first half of the movie almost assumes that we know all this. It starts off in a fit, just as Tony’s rags-to-riches story begins, but is otherwise slow and uneventful.

The second half, though, channels the openness of our star, and in doing so magnetizes us to the screen. Watching him describe and experience his wildest dreams (writer, father); watching him live the lows of uncertainty and desperation as his friends are helpless, are moving, if quite painful to watch. 

There’s not much to it aside from that, and that is more than enough. This work is a respectful study on a vibrant, if dark and puzzling man. It’ll remind you of the beauty that life offers if you seek it—and the pain of experiencing things that we cannot yet—and maybe never will—understand.

The Get Lost Losers

Your family is trash.

This is just one of many colorful songs written and performed by The Get Lost Losers. To name others would risk spoiling their bite; each—like the movie itself—is acerbic and hilarious, and must be experienced. What we have here is a pitch-perfect mockumentary. 

We begin by meeting the band several years into its rock and roll lifetime—at a time when most of the members are, quite frankly, tired of rock and roll. Our permanently-scowling bassist, Orly, can’t hide her disgust at how uneventful this has all been. She’s about ready to pounce on other work. And our drummer, Christophe, smartly written as the opposite of that wild, unintelligent-drummer stereotype, introduces himself by sharing his love for his 401k and catered office lunches.

This is funny stuff, and the moviemakers know it. From jokes and characters to the story arc itself, they use (and twist) band stereotypes to wonderful effect.

Art is precarious, but the tension here is next-level thanks to Sereno. He’s the arrogant, insufferable front man who seems to think that rock and roll requires it of him. That most everyone in the Los Angeles music scene hates him actually fuels his passion . . . until it drives his band members away.

Right before the band showcases its talent to industry executives, it falls apart. Even Anthony, the hilariously docile, verging on air-headed guitarist; even Anthony, the man who can attract girls with his sensitivity just as fast as he can . . . repel them with his sensitivity, has lost his patience for his friend Sereno.

Can Sereno form another band in time? Will any one of the rest succeed without the others?

Maybe you won’t care: This humor isn’t for everyone. It's quite dry, and lands better if you have preconceptions about rock and roll and band dynamics. But if you like it, you’ll really like it; it’s clever and hilarious, close to but never over the top. The band—or what’s left of it—has a new fan in me.

Reefa

Some movies, you remember for the twist. Reefa belongs on that list.

It follows Israel “Reefa” Hernandez in the days before he and his Colombian immigrant family receive their green cards. Though the parents are all nerves, Reefa stays calm. This teenage visionary—or this broke immigrant kid, as his father would describe him—is convinced that everything will work out, and that his art will change the world.

Seeing Reefa in his element, in the artsy underbelly of Miami and with other first-generation friends, is instructive. We don’t learn as much about his motivation as we watch how he spends his days, but we do learn plenty about the pressures his generation faces. Doing something wrong won’t get them grounded; it’ll get them and their families deported. They remain upbeat, skating and cracking jokes, kids after all. But it’s clear that they live concerned.

As we are. Especially so when we’re introduced to the third-generation, rough police who patrol the city; especially so when Reefa gets the itch to do something less than legal. He needs to go to New York like his art idols, but before he can do so, he has to create a masterpiece for his city. His friends say that it’s dangerous, but if he doesn’t tell his story, who will? 

Indeed. 

In this last portion of the movie, Reefa’s dreams come to a head. The tacky lines, extraneous interludes, and unnecessary romantic storyline dissolve from our memory as we focus on what is happening right now. The moviemakers move the lens from Reefa to his friends, and in doing so, wrap us in a straitjacket.

Reefa, played by Tyler Dean Flores, can be both charming and maddening. The same can be said for this movie. Though it’s well-intentioned, it’s a fair amount choppier and sappier than it needs to be.

Nevertheless, it reminds us that our world needs people like Reefa, with their head in the clouds. Unfortunately, it also reminds us that this alone won’t stop the rain.

Drunk Bus

How do you feel when things don’t go as planned? Do you get frustrated, or down? Do you giggle and shrug it off? 

Our reactions to life are important, and this is what Drunk Bus is all about. Take its open-air screening last night at the Montauk Film Festival, for example.

The showing started a tad late; we had to wait for the sun to set. Gorgeous, elemental, but slow! And when the sky eventually darkened enough to see the projection, the movie wouldn’t play. And when the movie played, no sound came out.

And then the heavens smiled on us and said let there be sound. I was ready to be hurt again! A darkly beautiful, music-driven opening scene drew me and the rest of the crowd in. It was at precisely this point that the director stood up and asked us to stop the movie. We should have been hearing dialogue, but weren't. Did I mention that it rained, too?

Michael, our lead, would’ve sat through all of this with a blank stare, his mind elsewhere. Actually—he wouldn’t have come at all. A late-shift campus shuttlebus driver, he’s stuck to the same routine for years. Since his girlfriend left for New York, he’s been both upset and incapable of changing anything about his life.

The college-coming-of-age tale has been written before, but that takes nothing away from this one. Michael is played convincingly by Charlie Tahan, a young and promising, depressed and muted individual all at once. And then there’s Pineapple.

This punk rock, Samoan Santa is hired as security after Michael loses his latest battle with belligerent passengers. Pineapple is not the answer to all (or really any) of Michael’s issues, but he is something different. Very different. Thanks to Pineapple Tangaroa (the real person), Pineapple (the character) is a confusingly soft and intense presence. His dark sense of humor and worldliness makes it easy to build a bond with Michael—and just about every passenger who jumps on that bus.

Their interactions move the movie, but even bit players like Fuck You Bob (a grumpy passenger) and Michael’s intercom-only boss add levity and depth to the story. The writing here—like the direction, art direction, camerawork, editing, and music—are thoughtful, well-balanced, and dark in the lightest way.  

As expected, Michael and Pineapple go through their ups and downs. Michael’s loop of indecision and unhappiness doesn’t change, but it hurts ever more. The impending return of his ex adds to the discomfort. We begin to wonder whether he will ever make it out of his self-imposed prison, just as we wonder where the heck Pineapple came from.

Before Drunk Bus, my perspective was lacking. After Drunk Bus, I was able to see how a speed bump-filled evening was indeed a fitting host for such a quirky, touching movie. 

The Loneliest Whale: The Search for 52

There’s a whale out there who has swam alone all of its life, crying into the vast nothingness of the oceans and never hearing a reply.

What a sad story—and one that we are all too ready to believe is true. You see, we don’t actually know the details of 52’s life. The scant data we have simply tells us that it communicates at a frequency which we haven’t encountered before or since. 52 hertz, hence the name, 52.

The Loneliest Whale is the riveting story of the first ever search for 52 in the flesh—if it’s still out there. We learn about the military who first discovered this phenomenon, the civilian scientists who dedicated years to studying the unknown, and one moviemaker who, like so many others, had his life change after learning this story.

The movie condenses years of preparation—and shows mere days of electric, open-sea adventure—in a way that puts the videos you watched in science class to shame. It’s a modern-day treasure hunt which also explores why so many people identify with an animal yearning for connection.

This duality is what makes the movie. It’s curious and playful even as it helps us contemplate serious (and sometimes uncomfortable) questions about connection and meaning in our world. The pace is smooth and engaging, and yet in only one hour and thirty-six minutes is still reminiscent of the highs and lows of life: Brief moments of ecstasy as we approach majestic creatures are balanced out by the more typical—and many—mundane moments. 

Having hooked us with all that, the movie draws us in with booming, plaintive whale songs. I could listen to these endlessly. It’s a language like ours, from a creature who thinks and feels and has families. Hearing it, knowing this, will have the sound resonate through every fiber of your being. This is just one example of how the movie will affect you.

The needle in the haystack may never have been so thoughtfully used to weave a story.

A Most Beautiful Thing

When every day is a struggle, there’s no time for games.

Think about it. If you go to sleep not knowing whether your drug addict mother will come home; if you walk to school through multiple gang territories, your mind might be on other things. 

A Most Beautiful Thing opens our eyes a bit wider to living like this. Through interviews, montages, and discussions, we hear about growing up in the dangerous west side of Chicago. Our stars are now a group of middle-aged friends, but their story starts years ago, when they were teenagers at odds and on high alert. Yes, they made a movie about it, but no, you can’t make this stuff up. 

The sport which eventually brought them together, crew, drew their attention simply because of the free pizza at the high school info session. Hearing tidbits like this one will bring a smile to your face, and our stars speak often speak with one, reminiscing sometimes and actively thinking others.

But light this movie is not. Not only do the stars speak about crime and fear and violence, subject matter experts provide statistics to contextualize their lived experience.

Indeed, the movie walks a balance beam between poverty porn and fairy tale. In a positive but realistic manner, it shows how a group of people (who could be any of us) gained perspective and built healthy habits and relationships. It is sobering and uplifting at the same time.

Parts of the movie can feel like filler. Listening to stories, we see montages of “the streets” instead of looking into the eyes of our stars. But the emotional connection—and the statistics of pain—draw us back in every time.

So who need sports? Well, what if in blissful silence you found yourself gliding over water? What if after hearing sirens all your life, you now hear calm as YOUR tools slide into a cool blue mirror; now silence as you listen to YOUR heart still beating, still alive, still capable, now powerful, with your thoughts and with your family?

Naomi Osaka

You’ve just achieved your lifelong dream. Now what?

This is Naomi Osaka’s dilemma, and she’s only 23. Though she has broken professional tennis records and started important conversations about identity, it is difficult to say she’s content.

This eponymous three-part series dives into this discomfort, and is equal parts talent show and coming-of-age tale. Or put another way, bingeworthy.

Part 1, “Rise”, introduces our soft-spoken, dutiful superstar. We learn about her childhood apart; her desire to win for family and home-country of Japan; her extraordinary prowess on the court—and her inability to deal with fame. Home movies, grainy and muted, set the tone from the start. This life is crisp, but soft; this life is not automatic movement, but focused motion.

Part 1 has us feeling sympathy for our young champion. Surprisingly vulnerable narration shares the pressure she feels to do right by just about everyone. And lucky for everyone, Part 2, “ Championship Mentality”, provides breathing room. Naomi talks about her talents beyond tennis. Fashion? Well, she has sketched clothing for years, dreaming about wearing something other than sports clothing all the time . . . In this part, we see Naomi step off the court to reconnect with her curiosity and her family—and in her doing so, we see radiating positivity. 

This of course thickens the plot. Watching Naomi realize that fulfillment may exist outside of tennis is as haunting and exciting to us as it is to her. And not only does this make it easier to root for her, it makes it painful to watch how others glom onto her fame at the cost of her discomfort. The series does not hide these moments.

As you’d guess, Part 3, the “New Blueprint”, shows Naomi exploring this tension and following her inclinations. We learn about her Haitian father and Japanese mother; about her upbringing; about her desire to create conversations about identity, race, nationality, and more in a world that continues to navigate its own type of conversations.

Watching Naomi crush (or fail) at tennis is enveloping enough, but this series shines at stepping on and off the court at just the right times. In contextualizing the success of a young, still-active, still-maturing superstar, it is a special story. If this series has shown us anything, it has shown us how there are molds yet to be broken, and difficulties to be surmounted, if only one considers the possibility of doing it.

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.