The Yellow Wallpaper

Baby crying again? Throw it out the window already!

I joke, folks, though The Yellow Wallpaper does not. This psychological horror reminds us that disturbing comes in different packages.

Take Jane and John. This married couple will spend the summer with their newborn at a lovely estate. Nice, right?

Wrong. Oh so wrong. Jane’s face screams it. Hubby (who is also her doctor) has arranged this trip to fix whatever Jane is living with, and wow does the prescription have side effects.

You’ll stay in this room Jane, I picked it out for you. It gives you a bad feeling? Nonsense. And stop with your writing, you must rest. Enjoy the grounds, now, but don’t stay outside for too long. Oh, and I might be gone a couple days; someone has to pay the bills around here. See ya!

This mix of patriarchal- and medical-malpractice is maddening. And as you’d guess, Jane’s condition worsens in its midst. Whether it’s anxiety or postpartum depression, boredom or schizophrenia, we can’t tell. What we do see—heck, what most of the movie is—is long, quiet scenes of Jane staring at things. Exploring dark parts of the estate, here; staring at that terrible yellow wallpaper, there. Wait—did you hear that?

Brief and few moments of narration do not change the feeling of this movie; it is slow, naturalistic. Kudos go to essentially all of the moviemakers here. You can see where the story is headed and it makes you wanna scream.

Fair warning, though, I was taken out of it more than once. Jane’s descent feels about 20% longer than it needs to be; its different scenes aren’t meaningfully different. And while Jane’s character is a difficult one to portray, filled with inner dialogue and turmoil that can only be hinted at on the surface, I found the portrayal to lack a certain depth. Little things like eyes darting (which can happen when actors try too hard to avoid the camera) and Jane’s accent (markedly different than those of her fellow characters, and curiously modern-sounding at times) are what I’m thinking of here.

With a meaningful, interesting premise and lovely techniques to explore it, The Yellow Wallpaper captured my attention for a while. More often than not, however, I had the feeling that this movie was almost there. That tempered my experience a fair bit.

The Batman

There are two types of long movies: those that feel long, and those that run long. The Batman belongs in the second category, its mystery getting better with each passing minute.

Watching the first few scenes had me thinking other thoughts, though. Cross-cuts of a city living distrustfully; baddies doing bad with tortured smiles on their faces . . . we’ve seen this before, I thought. Even our lead’s entrance was more silly-comical than comic-comical. As the camera finally settled down to focus on something—you guessed it, shadow—only footsteps were discernible. Affecting for sure, but after so many seconds, surely their maker would’ve entered the light by now? By now??

The rest of this movie, however, is a marvel. Its writing respects us, providing a complex story that we must wrestle with alongside our hero. Its characters, motivated by emotions that each one of us has felt. And the dilemma it presents goes to our social core: What should we do with animals who are capable of both greatest evil and greatest good?

Spoiler: Even Batman isn’t sure. Indeed, our pale, eye-make-up’ed hero is more emo than anything else. After working by night to stop crime, he drags himself home to write in his diary. Does a people which chooses to eat itself deserve saving? Rather than filling this movie with fight scenes (though the few are heart-pumping), he prefers to observe. To ask questions. Especially about the fame-killings.

Civic leaders are being murdered, folks! Perhaps even worse, the culprit(s?) are doing this to spotlight terrible hypocrisies committed by those figureheads of justice. And we thought the city was bad before . . .

As you can imagine, Batman races desperately against time to figure out what’s going on—with these crimes, with their messages, and with his complicated past (all of which could be connected). Together, the crimes and his reactions create a dialogue. And wow is it suspenseful.

Darkness is the word to describe this one. From its lighting to its themes (and really, every technical aspect in between), it is measured, expert. I never once looked away from the screen to check the time.

Passing

Passing is rather like a windless snowfall: soft and gorgeous, gentle and consistent even as it buries you.

It was an experience so deceptively simple, so beautiful and disconcerting, that I am not sure how I feel about it. And though I believe there is no right way to do a movie, I think Passing is a movie done right.

Irene is our North Star here, reliably unchanging as the storm unfolds around her. Her typical day is spent in a state of nervous agitation: prepping for high society events, worrying, or napping. The moviemakers hint at both existential malaise and drugs as the culprits.

One day, she tries something different. And in this extraordinary time for her, she happens upon an old friend, Clare. The meeting changes their lives.

Clare, apparently, is pretending to be white. And the husband has no idea.

The story and its themes unfold as Irene prepares for the latest society event, now with Clare once again in her life. What will happen next? Will Clare be found out? Will she implicate Irene? Above this underlying nervous energy are the many other layers of emotion, including, perhaps, romantic ones.

Simple but gorgeous motifs balance out all these weighty topics just as well as they complement them. Light passes through and bounces and refracts around every inch of the picture. Piano keys flit down our ear canals like cars outside the window, a recurring city refrain reminding us of time and place. Scenes transition just as softly as the movie begins and ends. A dissolution into nothing, or everything.

Sometimes, when a thing is done really well, you don’t notice it. This movie plays with that idea, in a serious way. I will not soon forget it.

The Electrical Life of Louis Wain

Louis was an odd cat, and this movie revels in it. What a unique and charming experience!

Our proper Victorian narrator hints at what it’ll be early on. While speaking the hard facts of Louis’s life, she makes sure to pepper in phrases like “positively geriatric” and “vomited immediately”. Think silly sprinkled over serious.

Most every other technical aspect of the movie builds this whimsical vibe, wobbling between the seemingly contradictory. When Louis navigates the world through oddjobs, for example, we are made to feel energy and not just concern. When he stares into the eyes of someone a beat longer than is polite, we sympathize just as much as we are discomfited. Even a detail as small as the flicker of a candle is put to use.

OK, so Louis and this movie are goofy, we get it. What else? Well, his curiosity is insatiable and directionless. And one day it lands on something new: Emily.

As governess to Louis’s many sisters, Emily knows and can teach the basics of human interaction. Even more intriguing is that Emily is more open-minded than others in Louis’s social class. (The first time we meet her she is sitting in a closed closet . . . )

As the two begin to see virtue in each other, Louis’s sketches for the local newspaper reach new levels of beautiful. What’s this feeling? This electricity? It seems to move him and her and so many people out there . . .

Whatever it is, it’s what makes the story so romantic. And heartbreaking.

The more I think about this movie, the more I’m a fan. Its casting and performances are super; its colors, inspired; its music, somehow capturing the simultaneously insane and inviting nature of our existence. Everything about this one is a celebration.

Aftershock

Being Black and pregnant in the United States? Like being a Black man pulled over at a traffic stop. Scary.

An expecting mother tells us so. The story here is many, but at its simplest, Aftershock is about Black American women dying around childbirth; how; why; and what their loved ones and community are doing about it. It is without a doubt a distressing topic.

But just as a good parent does when speaking with their child about the facts of life, this movie delivers its message to us with empathy and stoicism. Its subjects—our stars in a cold, seemingly unforgiving space—shine bright. Their reactions to tumult are creating positive energy; power for the powerless. Stars indeed.

The statistics are appalling and scary: Black American mothers die around childbirth at an alarmingly high rate, at a disproportionately high rate compared to other women in the United States, and in a country which itself already has disproportionately high rates of maternal mortality around childbirth compared to other rich nations.

That’s a lot to take in. First, we spend time with Shamony. With Amber Rose. These two young women were ready to raise the future, and home video captures some intimate moments of their family and promise. What a joy life can be!

And then we lose them.

Why? Experts at medical schools, hospitals, and non-hospital birthing centers weigh in. A bit of old-fashioned interpersonal racism here, a bit of a healthcare complex that incentivizes faulty algorithms, quick turnaround, and drug-induced surgeries there. A big business which (rather like a fast food chain) advertises happiness while providing product that’s cheap, quick, and unhealthy.

So is it all sadness? No. We follow Omari and Kevin, who Shamony and Amber Rose left behind. They create art and spread the word, respectively. They help other people process and grieve and learn and be held accountable. Shamony’s mother, Shawnee—herself a healthcare professional—speaks in a manner so composed and powerful and insightful. Helena Grant, CNM and Dr. Neel Shah teach us about empathy and history and paths forward. Seeing these people is inspiring and makes me proud.

How lovely, to see people create power out of pain. And yet, the better thing would’ve been that this pain never happened. Death is natural, but negligence is preventable. To make sure none of this happens again, then, we need to first listen. And so Aftershock is for us a gift.

Sirens

We’re all slaves to something; running from something, says Lilas.

That’s why the music of her thrash/death-metal band, impressive and melodic as it can be, does not exist to lure people in. Rather, Lilas and her bandmates use song because it’s the only form of expression they still have in their country. These women are not sirens: They are Slave to Sirens.

Their home, Beirut, is in turmoil. Their style of music, one whose whose heyday has passed. It doesn’t help that their lyrics and general essence rubs many fellow citizens the wrong way. Disappointing facts all, and the movie does not hide them. But it’s important to say here that Sirens is no downer. In fact, when I think of it, I smile.

Part of why is Shery. If Lilas is the soul of this band, Shery is the heart. The band formed around this pair, and hearing the details of their story makes watching them create all the more poignant. The bassist (Alma), drummer (Tatyana), and lead singer (Maya) fill out the stage. Even if you don’t like metal, it is reassuring to see people find a glimmer of happiness and follow their dreams.

There is no storyline here per se—although an economic crisis, cultural revolution, worldwide pandemic, and terrible explosion all did unfold during the filming of this one! Rather, the story is that these humans exist; that these people try. That they do not fit the stereotype of Middle Eastern women currently soaked into the brains of so many.

Because this is the case, the movie flits between interviews, voiceovers, and simple moments of observation. And so we see them shooting their own music video, sun itself shooting gold through the Beiruti haze. And so we watch them crack open another beer. And fight.

Blending personal and cultural intrigue, Sirens delivers a lot. I say, rock on, ladies! Moviemakers included.

The Incredibly True Adventure of Two Girls in Love

The title says it all. The Incredibly True Adventure of Two Girls in Love is an amusing, light-hearted, and romantic affair.

It begins with Randy, the punk. The one who daydreams about her yet-to-be-formed rock band instead of doing homework. The one unashamedly out—and ostracized for it.

Now Evie, she’s oblivious to all that. Popular, scholarly, and conventionally pretty, sure. But naive. So when there’s something wrong with her car, it’s a nerve-wracking experience. Can someone, anyone help? Randy steps in with a smile. In more ways than one, she’s thinking, as she pretends to inflate Evie’s tires. Our characters are revealed.

A first move is made; a friendship blossoms. Scenes where the two interact (think a glance in the hallway while changing classes, or a smile over the table at the diner) capture well the nervous energy of young love. The acting in these moments is pitch-perfect (and redeems the very few moments of over-the-top anger which are clearly manufactured—and uncomfortable to witness). The writing is similarly heavy-handed a very few times, our characters throwing out platitudes that just don’t fit the scene; but again, these moments drown in the sea of good ones.

The story moves at a clip, and is full of humor. Even the dinners leave a mark. Evie’s: refined French inspirations with matter-of-fact conversation. Randy’s: a cacophonous, vegan, lesbian controlled chaos. Each endearing and silly in its own way.

The picture quality lends a certain nostalgic, romantic fuzz to it all. Smart close-ups retain focus on the girls even as they interact with others: We care about what they’re experiencing, after all.

Oh, young love! I hope it lasts. But if it doesn’t, hey, we’ll always have this movie!

Hustlers

Hustlers is about strippers, but not stripping. About beautiful women: beautiful because of their human trials, not their genes. It is funny, serious, and tender all at once.

And it begins with energy. In the first, unbroken scene, Destiny walks out onto the floor of the strip club. With every step the anticipation builds. Music pulses; bodies twist; glitter shimmers. Could this be the way to support grandma?! Then quick edits show us what a shift truly looks like. Glamorous maybe, but work, definitely. And Destiny is not as popular as the other girls.

Then the answer walks into our lives. Gorgeous and experienced, intelligent and independent, she is what Destiny wants to be. So Destiny reaches out for tips (so to speak). 

As Ramona teaches the newbie about how to carry oneself—and gauge the clientele—the two become fast friends. They see themselves in each other, each wanting to be a provider. Destiny especially finds in Ramona the mother she has always wanted. Friendship and commerce? Talk about beauty! 

Then the money dries up. It is 2008, and Wall Street’s excesses have destroyed these Main Street jobs. The movie was delightfully engaging until this point, but now is when the show really gets good. 

When the only way our leads are able to make money is taken away from them, they brainstorm a bailout of their own: Hustle the grand hustlers. The plan is bold and intriguing; creative and creepy. But is it tenable?

Destiny’s part is performed with both range and depth. Big time acting. Her growing closeness with Ramona and their co-workers is touching, even as their plan spirals out of control. Subtle social commentary adds oomph to the show, as do other fantastic moviemaking decisions (like precise use of music and sound effects to emphasize a feeling).

Not only is Hustlers surprising, it is surprisingly good.

Don't Look Up

A comet is heading directly for Earth. Now what?

I’m not quite sure how to answer that question, but Don’t Look Up has me thinking. Although this witty satire is no horror movie, it is recognizable enough to be alarming.

It spotlights ridiculous, frustrating human behavior—yet remains silly and funny and entertaining. Somehow light; somehow tender.

The story begins with Kate, a PhD student. Her anti-establishment haircut is almost as loud as the rap escaping her headphones. She (like her generation?) is smart, capable, and a bit disillusioned with how disgusting and hypocritical people in power seem to be.

Then she discovers a comet. She does the math with her professor, Randall, and the answer is ice cold: The Earth doesn’t stand a chance.

At its simplest, Don’t Look Up is the story of these two (very different) people trying to warn others about impending danger. Though they’re imperfect—she a bit too cynical, he a bit too science-focused—they’re rational and well-meaning overall. And this is where the satire comes in.

Hardly anyone listens. From the classroom to the newsroom to the White House, the people who learn about the comet either shrug it off or look to exploit it for their own gain. We, like our heroes, begin to wonder how the people of the United States have devolved so. Will rationality not be enough to save the day? Will short-sighted self-interest really propel us into the future? Has it always?

One scene sums it all up. When Kate and Randall are waiting to deliver the news to the President, a military man charges them for snacks. We later learn that these snacks were free. Why did he do that? It’s kind of hilarious, kind of enraging. Kate cannot shake this meaningless greed out of her head, even though all of existence will be over soon.

This movie will undoubtedly polarize its viewers, each of whom might have a different perspective on interactions like that one. It lambasts the ethos of many Americans who believe, for example, that scare-tactics are purely power tools, or that profit is the next step in human evolution. But because Don’t Look Up raises important questions about self-education and the role of the individual in a complicated and dangerous world, and because it does so with humor, I can’t help but like it.

The Matrix Resurrections

Resurrections? I’m not sure anything died.

Something sure does stink, though.

You see, three Matrix movies preceded this one, and that trilogy stands as a monument in movie history. Its blend of ground-breaking visual effects, wild choreography, and intricate storytelling blasted philosophy off a dusty page and onto on our modern screens. It made questioning reality fun.

The Matrix Resurrections tries to do the same. Unfortunately, it relies too much on what’s been done before without adding anything meaningful.

This one starts with our saviors, Neo and Trinity, living obliviously amongst their sheep. Just a mom at work and a video game coder going through the motions. How did this happen?

Neo’s therapy sessions and psychotic visions enlighten us. He has put so much of his hopes and fears into his popular video game (called The Matrix) that he now can’t distinguish his memories from game sequences.

Much of the movie passes by before we learn why. And much of that is filled with clips and characters from the original trilogy. Not only are these callbacks overkill for those who don’t know the backstory, they are jarring for anyone who does. They’re reminders that what we’re witnessing pales in comparison to the original stuff.

So Neo is unsure about his reality; Neo is awakened; Neo must fight machines; the odds seem awful. We’ve seen this all before, folks. Having watched The Matrix Resurrections, I now feel like I’ve met the lazy, insecure child of one of my heroes. There is something recognizable in it, but nothing that grips me.

All that said, kudos must go to many of the moviemakers on this one; the production and set design, the special effects, and the camerawork especially drew us in even as the writing worked so hard to take us out.

Spider-Man: No Way Home

It’s way deep down, I think. The one, irreducible reason why we watch movies. We want to feel again how we felt that very first time, when something on a screen had us thinking, just, WOW.

Sometimes I think chasing that sensation is useless. And then a movie like Spider-Man: No Way Home comes along and I have hope again. Just, WOW.

I’ll get to the story in ten seconds, but at the risk of overstating things, it’s hard to understate how well written, produced, and acted this movie was. The action/adventure/thrills are entertaining, yes; but more importantly, they are held together by the strands of a believable coming-of-age story. In this one, empathy and love don’t always make things easier. Characters—both good and bad—have nuanced internal struggles. This is a superhero movie, matured.

Peter Parker therefore struggles for much of it. This good-natured, rather jacked teen is trying to figure out how to best live in a world that villainizes his superhero alter ego, Spider-Man. His loved ones (Aunt May, girlfriend MJ, friend Ned) usually keep him grounded, but he’s tired of the dramas of his life hurting theirs. So he asks an older, wiser fellow superhero, Dr. Strange, for help. Oh child, how the problems do follow.

If you ever have the chance, I would recommend not pulling on a loose string in the fabric of space and time. To share any other plot points with you would be to spoil (several, wonderful) WOW moments, but it’s sufficient to say that this movie is as fun and funny as it is surprising and deep. Truly a blockbuster.

Sure, you’ll enjoy the story far more if you’re a fan of comic books, previous Marvel or Spider-Man movies. But I wouldn’t consider myself much of either, and boy—no, man—have I been trapped in this web. I am so happy about it.

After Antarctica

How stupid are we?

Destroying the planet that sustains us? Trekking solo in the Arctic at 75 years old?

Indeed, After Antarctica touches on some interesting human behavior. But it’s not here to shock or guilt or convince us of anything. Rather, it’s about one man’s connection with the last wildernesses our planet has to offer. And it is as beautiful and mature as movies come.

We begin it with Will, just choppin’ some wood. He needs fuel to heat his cabin off-grid in Minnesota. But he’s thinkin’, too, about his life. As one does when they’re about to do something that might kill them.

You see, after decades of exploring our planet, Will, at 75, still feels the need to walk in the wild. When he explains why, the camera zooms out from his red, crusted face and smacks us with reality. He is in the Arctic now, sitting alone, tiny, in a vast sea of freeze. A white so big it feels like it’ll implode under its own weight.

Smart edits and zooms like these add punch to Will’s already terribly interesting life story. He has adventured, seen death, gotten hitched. But this movie really knocks you out when Antarctica joins the ring.

In 1989, Will captained a small group of international explorers to study, walk, and sled across the entirety of Antarctica. From end to end, without motors or machines. It took seven months.

A talented film crew witnessed portions of that journey, and our current moviemakers unleash never-before-seen footage of such raw power and emotion that I began to feel the stupid one. Thinking humanity is stupid is stupid. We are capable of vastness, good and bad. Harming the planet, yes, but saving it, too. Assuming things about movies, then changing our minds.

With crevasses as big as your nightmares and mere rags separating skin from death, this movie is true thriller. True adventure and true superhero. But by zooming in to Will’s psyche and out to the Poles of past and present, this movie defies genre. It is a humbling, uplifting, and terrifying experience.

So am I sad? Miles of what Will has explored have melted away forever because of climate change. Will shows us so, understanding that he was the first and the last to see such places. But he doesn’t mope. After each adventure he returns to his cabin and the nearby wilderness center he founded. He educates his community about the planet so that they too can explore without destroying, should they choose to do so.

Movie Man

Old man sits alone. Looks out window. Plays movie.

This is Movie Man—and it’s far more entertaining than it sounds. Jam-packed with movie magic, actually.

There are a few reasons for that. Stig Björkman is the first. This octogenarian director, writer, interviewer, and film critic has steeped himself in the movie scene for years. His Stockholm apartment is filled with mementos to show for it, and that helps now that he must quarantine alone. If not for the coronavirus, he’d be jet setting around the world attending film festivals.

So, he throws on a movie. And then another. And another. Looks out the window; tap dances a bit. Oh! A video call, with friends! There’s always the video call with friends, too.

It doesn’t take many moments of Stig sitting in silence for us to empathize with his plight. Quarantine has affected us all. The camera sometimes continues filming for a few seconds past those moments, but no matter. There is plenty of movie magic left in this documentary to make up for that.

Which brings us to reason two. Because Stig has been around the block, his chats with friends—ahem, big names and luminaries—are documentary gold. We see how these people react when the world pauses. When they’re off of the red carpet, sitting shoeless on their own.

How gratifying it is. John Sayles’s Spanish totally needs work. Burhan Qurbani (like me) wants people to stop being so creative already! Isabella Rossellini casually drops a bombshell idea of returning to moviemaking. And then there's that scene where Stig is watching special features for a movie that he loves, and in those special features, the director praises some of Stig’s work. Film reels all the way down.

The best and most evocative part of Movie Man, though—the reason why I think it will be viewed and discussed for years to come—is its extraordinary compilation of movie scenes and music, weaved seamlessly into the context of our corona film club. The movie is truly a treat; a nonstop barrage of pleasurable, memorable moments from movie history. A reminder of the wonder and magic that cinema can bring to our (sometimes bleak) lives. You don’t need to have seen all (or really any) of these to feel the power they carry.

Stig, of course, didn’t need such a reminder. But I bet you all my popcorn that, nestled in his chair, surrounded by all those DVDs and books, candy bowl at the ready and TV playing this movie, he’d be tickled to see how he plays a part in such a grand story. And that tickles me, too.

Joyce Carol Oates: A Body in the Service of Mind

I remember most her eyes. Those big, almost perfect circles vacuuming it all in like her life depended on it. Sometimes they’d widen and it felt like she was pleading with me. But that one time, when they closed and she giggled . . . I felt, I saw pure joy.

This is no infant I speak of. This is one of the United States’ most celebrated and prolific writers, decades into life. This is Joyce Carol Oates.

Simply mesmerizing she is. How she talks, what she has to say. The moviemakers know it and so feature Joyce and just Joyce. We sit with her in her sanctuary, the writing room. The place where she spends ten hours a day.

Then the comfortable, soft silence is broken by a question. How did a household without books or high school diplomas produce you? Joyce answers, words flow and eyes dart. I swear you can hear her mind whirring.

Though she has written millions of words over the years, none of her story is stale. Each question for her becomes a terribly interesting response for us. Riots in Detroit. Beatings and murder at home. Misery, mystery, yearning.

The voice-over language captures it all so beautifully. Of course it does. These are the words of Joyce by way of one of her characters, from one of her novels. Whatever we just learned about her life, one of her creations has experienced something similar. This blending of history, fiction, and memory is as much a respectful homage as it is a powerful moviemaking technique. Thank goodness director Stig Björkman persisted for years asking to document his friend.

And so, watching Joyce Carol Oates: A Body in the Service of Mind feels like getting away with something. Humble genius has sat down with us, so that we may know it. But such genius can only carry its shield of articulation for so long; at a certain point it melts under the weight of deepest emotion. And it is in these precious few moments of complete vulnerability that the true treasure of this movie is revealed.

Objects

Have you ever taken a shell from the beach?

Vincent wants to know. As writer, producer, cinematographer, and director of Objects, he’s trying to understand why some people cherish things and others don’t.

Like that famous journalist who fills his books with hunks of dead grass. Or that writer whose desk might as well be an archeological site. He finds keepers like these and asks them why they do what they do.

Their answers are vivid and touching, recounted with such conviction that it’s hard not to smile. By explaining to us—heck, just by their laying eyes on that ancient party favor or faucet handle—our subjects (re)live deep emotions of a lifetime.

Is this unhealthy attachment, or are the non-keepers out there the broken ones? The movie explores these ideas, too. Clips from popular downsizers and minimalists confront our keepers. But they don’t blink. Over time, their stories seem to present to us a picture of deep feelers—not hoarders or materialists.

It’s sweet stuff. And smart moviemaking maintains a nostalgic, whimsical vibe throughout. Flashbacks blend focus and dimensions because sharp here, fuzzy there is much like memory.

Objects will assuredly fade into nothingness someday, as all things do. How lucky I am for experiencing it first.

Boycott

Let’s pretend for a minute that Boycott isn’t for you. You’ve seen the trailer, read the reviews, and prefer not to watch.

It happens. And it’s usually not a problem. But now, let’s pretend that your decision to skip watching is against the law.

Sound ridiculous? You might be interested in Boycott after all. It’s about how anti-boycotting mechanisms are being written into law all across the United States.

And so this is the one where a Texan Muslim speech pathologist, a Scotch-Irish Arkansan redneck, and a Californian public servant walk into a courtroom. Though they seem to have little in common, they each value the freedom of speech. Rather than sign anything that included anti-Israeli-boycott language, they sued.

Hearing about these prohibitive laws is quite frankly shocking enough to keep our attention, but the moral rectitude of our three subjects is even more riveting. These are ordinary folk putting their livelihoods on the line.

We listen to their stories from the source while lawyers, think tank and advocacy group interviewees pepper in context. Apparently, boycotting has been around since the beginning of the country. So too religion and politics. And this is where the doc gets bogged down in bias.

Moviemaking techniques like fast editing and montages with ominous music set the tone that rights are being attacked. Hurting people (and thinkers who agree with them) are given the sole spotlight. Opponents receive minor screen time, and are either unprepared or not as thoughtful as the other interviewees. Even the pro-boycott experts—whose job it is to rely on reason rather than emotion to convince people—are exasperated when they try to summarize their opponents’ positions. The moviemakers of course made sure to justify this one-sidedness in the credits (by explaining that several people it had requested to interview declined to do so). None of these things alone is fatal, but put together in the manner that they were, they’re suspect.

An uneven hand does its cause no favors—even if that cause is just. By already having its mind made up on the issue, Boycott doesn’t allow its viewers to make up their own. It’s a head-scratchingly disappointing technique for a movie which otherwise heroizes people who think for themselves.

And yet all that said, Boycott is worth your watch. At worst the issues presented are real and compelling. And at best, these ideas (and lawsuits) might better the lives of people living all across the globe.

Dune

Tell me—what did you dream of last night?

For Paul, the answer never changes: a face bathed in warm light and swimming sands, whispering. Of what, we don’t know. But the dreams seem meaningful all the same.

Perhaps they’re just the byproduct of a little excitement; the Emperor has chosen Paul’s family to take over the desert planet called Arrakis, after all.

You’ll find out soon enough. And long before that, you’ll realize that this movie is magnificent. The worldbuilding is heart-stoppingly beautiful; the story, spicy. Polticial, religious, and romantic intrigue swirl around everything from persons to planets.

But brining things back down to Arrakis for a second, it’s quite popular. Scorching sun and monstrous sandworms won’t stop an endless caravan of colonizers; the sand here has spice, and spice fuels interstellar travel. Arrakis’s natives, the Fremen, are therefore forever subject to the whims of power-hungry outsiders looking to profit.

Paul’s Atreides family (from their own lush and oceanic planet) might be different. They sympathize with the plight of the Fremen and value their ways. But even so, when the Emperor asks you to do something, you do it.

So we follow the family’s journey in governing a new world—and we do so from Paul’s perspective. The smart young man with the dreams has a special aura about him. Likely inherited and cultivated by his mother, Jessica, who is as quiet as she is cunning. When the two spend time together speaking in all sorts of languages, it’s clear that in this universe of different things, they are yet still different . . .

The introduction to Paul’s life and home—like the introduction to Arrakis, the other power players and their home planets—is a feast for the eyes. The moviemakers give us breathtakingly realistic and impressive vistas. Everything from the haze over an alien city down to the woodworking detail in a living room adds to the gravity of what we’re witnessing. This feels real. Real culture; real history; real lives at stake.

When the Atreides meet the Fremen, things do not go as smoothly as anyone would like. And complicating this is the Harkonnen, who the Emperor has chosen the Atreides to replace—and who are desperate to have their position back.

Dune is not action-packed, but boy is it an adventure. Rather like a dream that moves you, it is so real, so filled with things you recognize, and yet so very different from what you’ve experienced before.

Lapsis

D’you ever think about what the world was like before you were born? How people accomplished things without computers, or telephones? Lapsis puts us in this thoughtful mindset—while maintaining a compelling story. It blends old-school thriller with new-school looks, and the result is a slow-burn, down-to-earth sci-fi that you don’t want to miss.

Its world is very much like ours. Tech companies monopolize profits while traffic cops sneak tickets onto your car. New Yorkers speak with unmistakably New York-accents. The only difference is, the computers are quantum.

Don’t worry, you don’t need to know what that means. Ray, our lead, certainly doesn’t. He won’t risk bringing untested tech home while his grown but sickly step-brother still struggles to get through each day. What the family needs is a cure, not faster internet.

It’s a fair point. But for Ray, it’s a losing one. This charmingly polite, rough around the edges everyman—played wonderfully by Dean Imperial—can’t pay the bills with his odd jobs anymore. The quantum bandwagon is beginning to look golden.

And so, picture Tony Soprano with a rucksack, dragging a lawnmower behind, and you’ll have a good idea of Ray at his next gig. As a cabler, he’ll hike through the wilderness and lay down cable for the quantum computer overlords. The job pays well. Really well, actually . . .

How? And why does Ray’s trail name make his fellow cablers shudder? Why does his employer hire humans to do work that its robots can do better?

With each footstep, Ray creates more money, more enemies, and more questions. The tone is uneasy from beginning to end, really; unfolding, refolding mysteries spook and entice us at the same time. It is a treat to watch.

And top notch moviemaking makes it so. Lapsis appears to be the baby of Noah Hutton: He wrote, directed, edited, and composed its music. This is an impressive workload, but especially so given how subtle and powerful each of those aspects is. Erica A. Hart has picked a wonderfully realistic and talented cast (with Madeline Wise standing out as the reserved but piercingly intelligent foil to Ray). And Mike Gomes’s cinematography gives us grains and hues and symmetry that make us see the cables in trees and the vines in computers.

This is a movie to watch, and these are moviemakers to follow.

Promising Young Woman

That girl is absolutely GONE right now. And look at that outfit, I mean . . . she’s BEGGING for it, isn’t she?

We’ve all heard this kind of talk before. We may even have debated its merits. But in real life, at night at the bar, things happen faster than philosophers can discuss them. And this is why Cassie’s plan is so intriguing.

She’s that girl, head rolling around, eye shadow running. She doesn’t say much when a man (inevitably) swoops in. And she continues not to say much when they’re at his place and he’s even more brazen about taking advantage of her. Then, when things are about to get very, very bad, Cassie sobers up instantly. What do you think you’re doing?

Their stunned, contorted faces—what a pleasure to witness. Yassss Cass, let the predator squirm under the weight of his own inadequacy; longer, longer!

And yet, stop Cass, please stop. Your behavior isn’t changing any minds in a meaningful way. You’re still depressed; still not over what happened to your friend back in med school. Why do you still do this?

And why would we watch something so uncomfortable?

Because we remember our mothers. Because we recognize those lines up top. And because this movie is catharsis itself. A treasure.

After seeing Cassie malaise through days at the coffee shop and nights at the bar, we get the picture. Then a real man enters it and gives us all some hope. He’s socially awkward still, but in an endearing way. Not out to take advantage, but around because he cares about that girl from his med school class who was so smart, so wonderful. The plot thickens.

I certainly had my guesses about where it would go. And they were all wrong. The movie takes everyday interactions and lays them out before us in an original, devastatingly illuminating way. Fairy tale blends with horror, mystery with thriller. The end product is a nauseating, tear-jerking, and triumphant work of art.

Special recognition must go to writer and director Emerald Fennell. Though the story speaks for itself, so many moviemaking techniques amplify it. Take the camerawork for example. It’s almost brazenly different than the usual. In many of the early scenes, the bottom of the picture falls just above foot-height. It’s not noticeable at first, but it’s a brilliant technique to freak out our subconscious: we’re on edge partly because we can’t get grounded, and we can’t get grounded partly because we can’t see the ground. With techniques like this or an asymmetrical or wide-angle shot, it can feel like we’re floating with the characters through a bad dream.

But dream it is not. Promising Young Woman confronts us with reality.

Ema

Ema adopted Polo. And when she didn’t like the fit, she gave him right back.

So begins one of the stranger stories I’ve encountered in some time.

Gastón fights with Ema about it. Though hubby directs her dance troupe, he takes no responsibility for what just happened. The snipes are as weak as they are disingenuous—hinting at what sorts of people would abandon a young soul, and why.

Our lead herself may have been adopted, maintaining to this day a disturbingly intimate relationship with her family. She considers freedom to be life’s ideal; dance and sex, interchangeable expressions of it. Gastón is also out-there, but interested in countering what he perceives to be pop culture’s dumbing down of society. The average person in Valparaíso, Chile—let alone Polo’s social worker—has trouble dealing with such idealists. She is dismissed as seedy and naive; he, spacey and gay.

So what’s this couple, a veritable middle finger to their community, to do next? Sleep around; create, for sure. But the crux of this movie is Ema’s devious, intricate plan to get Polo back. The story, if nothing else, is original.

It’s also worth a watch if you care about thoughtful and beautiful construction of movie scenes. As Ema ensnares more and more people in her plan, the screen pulsates with life. Every image (like a golden sunset, or a pupil shining bright against the grey odds of big city life) is vivid and meaningful. And then there’s the music. Strings discover an unexplainable emotion just before sliding into another one; reggaetón bass thumps our already overbeating hearts.

But pretty in pieces is not enough. The dialogue is too often unnaturally expository, taking us right out of the story. A strange choice for a movie that otherwise moves at a snail’s pace, introducing heavy ideas slowly and deliberately. And though having us think through things like sex, alienation, dependency, and incest is laudable, the story leaves so much open to interpretation that I fail to find a moral in it.

Perhaps that was intentional. Ema is undoubtedly a movie to confuse over and marvel at. But enjoy it or learn from it, I did not.