LA BOLA NEGRA

Directing: A
Acting: A
Writing: A
Cinematography: A
Editing: A

There is so much depth, so many layers, so much richness entangled with Spanish history in La bola negra, it begs to be watched again. Being an American with only a cursory knowledge of things like the Spanish Civil War, some of its themes went a bit over my head. The more I learn about La bola negra and all that it references, the more impressed I am with it. To be clear, I don’t think homework should be necessary to fully appreciate a film. Thankfully this works incredibly well even if you go in with no prior knowledge of these things.

For instance? La bola negra really was an unfinished play, with a gay protagonist, started in 1936 by Spanish writer Federico García Lorca, portrayed briefly in the film by Alberto Cortés. Lorca had a lover, Rafael Rodríguez Rapún, a Spanish soccer player, actor and soldier who figures far more prominently in the movie, as portrayed by Miguel Bernardeau. Rafael is among the Spanish Repiblicans captured and rehabilitated from serious injury by the Nationalists intending to interrogate them before their execution. This is where he meets Sebastián, La Bola Negra’s primary protagonist, played by the gorgeous Spanish singer-songwriter Guitarricadelafuente, in a truly stunning feature film debut. His performance is breathtaking.

References to La bola negra thus go through multiple degrees of separation, between characters, across history, even in the space between fact and fiction. The timeline of this film switches back and forth between the late 1930s and 2017, with a contemporary protagonist, Alberto (Carlos González), himself a playwright, albeit one who has given up writing. Alberto has a loving boyfriend, Juan Pablo, who some may recognize as Salvadorian writer/actor/comedian Julio Torres, who created Los Espookys and multiple comedy specials for HBO, in addition to starring alongside Tilda Swinton in the 2024 film Problemista.

To say that La bola negra features a stacked international cast would be an understatement—many stars from Spain, including a memorable sequence with a woman entertaining the troops played by Penélope Cruz. We are even treated to an American star, Glenn Close, as an American scholar of Federico García Lorca, whom Alberto seeks out after discovering what a grandfather he didn’t even know was still alive until recently left him in his will. Alas, this part is not substantive enough to garner Glenn Close yet another Oscar nomination she doesn’t win, but it’s still a treat to see her.

To call La bola negra a movie about the gay experience in Spain would also be an understatement, as it does so via three different threads: Sebastián and his brief acquaintance with Rafael; Alberto, who also happens to be gay, and his journey of discovery with his recently departed grandfather; and the one I haven’t even mentioned yet: young Carlos, also in the 1930s, who is applying for membership at the “Casino” (an exclusive club) his father is a part of, and encountering rejection due to local rumors of his homosexuality. The club members vote on his admission using a form of blackball ballot, hence the title.

It is some time before it’s fully clear how Carlos’s story fits into the overall story, and even though he and Rafael clearly have different names, I must confess I went a long time thinking they must be the same character at different ages, because no other explanation was provided. Eventually an explanation comes, though, and the intricate plotting clicks together extraordinarily well, thanks to the clearly deep well of talents shared by co-directors and co-writers Javier Ambrossi and Javier Calvo (a third cowriting credit is shared with Alberto Conejero). The duo is known as “Los Javis,” and their 13-year relationship ending during principal photography, with no end to their creative partnership, is already part of this movie’s lore.

There is so much to mine in La bola negra, tons will get left out—but that is fitting, as this is a film that should be an experience of discovery. We are introduced to Sebastián, Carlos and Alberto separately, at different points in time, and we must travel across Spanish history before finding out how they are all connected. Each of them must navigate relationships with their own brand of complexity, and the key thing they all have in common is their sexuality. La bola negra is a story about gay men, written and directed by gay men, representing other gay men who wrote about gay men at a time when it was lethally dangerous to do so. Gris Jordana’s cinematography is exquisite, especially during the occasionally fantastical visual flourishes.

In other words, it’s as though La bola negra were created in a lab just for me, a gay writer with an appreciation for queer history and an abiding love of cinema. I have a clear bias here, but I won’t apologize for it. La bola negra is also about many other things, including familial relationships, the Spanish Civil War, and how the two intersect. Alberto has a strained relationship with his mother (Lola Dueñas), who is kind of horrible to him, but eventually we learn how she also fits into all of this, collateral damage of a history of homophobia.

This is a film of intricate delights, visual splendor, and tragic sorrow. La bola negra is an epic of our times, an instant classic of cinema—queer or otherwise. It’s a tapestry of narrative threads that I feel privileged to have been wrapped up in. It will be streaming on Netflix on December 2, but for now I am deeply grateful it was given a theatrical release. This is a film that commands immersion, which an only truly be provided by the theatrical experience.

Behold, Sebastián: just one of the indelible images in La bola negra.

Overall: A

WILD HORSE NINE

Directing: B+
Acting: A-
Writing: B+
Cinematography: A-
Editing: B+

Someone should file suit against whoever cut the trailer for Wild Horse Nine, because its vibe is wildly different from that of the actual movie. This trailer has been playing in theaters nonstop for months, and it gives the impression that the movie is a zippy crime comedy. It is a good movie—a very good one, even—but it’s not that.

There’s a moment when John Malkovich’s CIA agent character Chris ruminates on the idea of a Western being made from the point of view of a horse. He concludes that such a movie would be “downbeat.” That’s really the perfect word for Wild Horse Nine: downbeat. It’s also sunny and pretty to look at, set mostly on Easter Island, where Chris and his close friend Lee (Sam Rockwell) are taking a weeklong trip. It has several funny moments, but in the end it was sad enough to make me cry.

One editing choice in the trailer irritates me in particular. Anyone who has gone to a movie in the past six months has seen it: Lee gets off the phone with CIA bureau chief MJ (Steve Buscemi), signing off with “Why don’t you shove it up your flabby ass?” Chris says to him, “Who was that, your mom?” The trailer makes this look like a needling joke, using a pretty cliché line. In the film, it’s contextualized very differently. It almost seems as though Chris thinks it actually could have been Lee’s mom, and this gets into the circumstances of their friendship at this time and place.

The time is 1973, shortly before the Chilean coup d'état. Much of the dialogue is distractingly anachronistic. How commonly would someone in 1973 say, “I hear he’s been acting problematic”? Or accusing someone of “whining like a bitch”? The production and costume design all look like the 1970s (at least to someone who was not born for another three years after this), but they all talk like it’s 2026. This is a quibble, admittedly, but it took me out of the movie.

A lot of the plot strains plausibility, but I guess that’s fine. We quickly learn that Chris and Lee are professional assassins, though Chris, who is of course much older, has killed far more people. More gradually, we learn that Chris may or may not have been involved in the Kennedy assassination. By the end, the answer to that question appears to be clearer, but I still had a hard time buying it.

I had really high expectations of Wild Horse Nine, both because I bought into the hype and because writer-director Martin McDonagh has made other movies I loved: In Bruges (a film this one has a lot in common with), Seven Psychopaths, The Banshees of Inisherin. McDonagh doesn’t always quite knock it out of the park: see the deeply divisive Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri. Maybe the secret sauce is for McDonagh to cast Colin Farrell in his movie. Farrell is not in Wild Horse Nine, though; Sam Rockwell is. To his credit, Rockwell is still well cast, offering some of the greatest facial expressions in response to Malkovich’s line deliveries.

Parker Posey also appears in a couple of scenes as Lee’s wife, though we only ever see her talking on the phone with him. Posey is always a welcome presence, and nearly always underused. This woman is an icon among character actors. There are two young women Chris and Lee meet at the airport (Mariana di Girolamo and Ailín Salas), and they cross paths multiple times while on Easter island, the women figuring into key plot points. But they are all merely in the orbit of Chris and Lee, and Malkovich’s and Rockwell’s performances, which really make this a movie worth seeing, even if it proves to be surprisingly downbeat.

Honestly, it feels a little like McDonagh just thought a movie set on Easter Island sounded cool, and then thought up these details to fill out the story. There’s a definite flimsiness to the plotting, but exceptionally written dialogue can go a long way. It’s Malkovich and Rockwell who make it work, to such a degree that all the talk of them both getting Oscar nominations feels like a natural progression. These guys have an easy chemistry, and are very convincing as old friends. The age gap just means one of them is reflecting on his life in a way he never has before, skirting the edges of regret.

Not that this is especially important, but I’m a little stuck on the title, which I keep wanting to find a literal explanation for. There are indeed wild horses on Easter Island in the movie, and they feature relatively prominently. But there are definitely more than nine. Is it a reference to the characters? I can only count eight of significance. There is one horse that Chris feels he’s connected with, maybe that’s one of the nine, if we want to get metaphorical? McDonagh has been quoted as saying, “Yeah, I've got no idea. I like numbers, and I like horses.” Okay, got it.

In any event, it’s easy to see Wild Horse Nine gaining greater depth upon rewatch. It really helps to know exactly what you are getting into. I walked into this movie wanting to love it, but needed to temper my expectations as it consistently mellow vibe unfolded onscreen. I should have known better; McDonagh is known more for talkiness than overt excitement. Don’t let that trailer fool you. This is worth a look and features Oscar-worthy performances, but be prepared to be moved rather than thrilled.

A movie with a specific mood you’ll want to match if you want to get into it.

Overall: B+

BREEDER

Directing: B-
Acting: C+
Writing: B
Cinematography: B
Editing: B-

As soon as Russell (Daniel Doheny) arrives at the home of dog breeder Patti Kolb (Dot-Marie Jones) and he is introduced to her five pretty and highly intelligent daughters, you kind of see where the story is going a mile away. Honestly, I’m a little embarrassed I didn’t see it coming even sooner.

Breeder is neither particularly inept nor the most competent movie ever made, and even though it’s certainly not special enough for me to go shouting from the rooftops that people need to see it, I also don’t want to spoil the basic premise. This leaves me a bit unsure of what else to say about it. I can tell you that the opening scene reveals itself to be about something different than first assumed when reflecting on it later. I can also tell you the opening titles appear far later into this 98-minute film than they should, and the opening scenes are given plenty of time to set the stage for some minor pacing issues.

This is a film made with a budget of between $1-1.5 million, putting it in league with that of Obsession, an overrated film that is still decent and definitively superior to this one. There’s a bit of an irony to this film having an up to 50% higher budget. The edge that Breeder still has is a story concept it’s honestly surprising we haven’t seen in a wide release film before.

It also has Dot-Marie Jones, very deliberately cast an oddball woman, occupying a nebulous space between akward and creepy, who breeds miniature poodles. Breeder would not work even as well as it does without her, even though her delivery can be difficult to judge. Is this a stilted character, or a stilted performance? I want to credit writer-director Alex Goyette for the ambiguity there, but I honestly can’t tell if he deserves it.

The rest of the cast could easily have been cast with any number of average, unknown actors, which is by and large what they all are. Daniel Doheny is serviceable enough as Russell, who has his own creature interest: he has long been working on a research project involving the protection of bee colonies. We see him working with bees on a rooftop that easily reveals the shooting location to be Vancouver, B.C., although it is shot quite deliberately to make the city he lives in look gray and drab.

Russell struggles to get funding for his project, evidently just because he hasn’t earned a Ph.D. It’s not super clear why he hasn’t, but it does leave him desperate for funding, so when he gets a letter from Patti saying she’d like to fund his research and invites him to dinner at her farmhouse a five-hour drive away, he jumps at the chance. Russell’s suspicious girlfriend, Haley, is left behind; another mystifying narrative choice, except that it serves the relatively flimsy plot. It’s also a bit of a plot point that Haley is not an intellectual on the level of Russell, yet Tanaya Beatty still plays her as someone smart enough to be suspicious. I kind of wish her performance were on the same level.

To be fair Breeder is the kind of movie that can be an unfair representation of acting talent, depending on the budget and the director—honestly, all of these actors seem like they could be great in another project with greater resources. Still, it has a vibe it’s going for, and it certainly gets there. Breeder is in the horror genre, but only in the sense of its creepiness, which tends to tip the scales away from unsettling toward subtly comical. It gets through the plot fairly swiftly, and it does have a cleverly constructed conclusion, with sparingly but effectively deployed violence. In the end, I found this movie satisfying, albeit barely, as it moves across some shaky ground to get there.

You may be wondering where the miniature poodles are.

Overall: B-

THE ONLY LIVING PICKPOCKET IN NEW YORK

Directing: A-
Acting: A-
Writing: B+
Cinematography: B+
Editing: A

People love to say “New York is a character,” or “It’s a love letter to New York,” both wildly overused phrases—but, in the case of The Only Living Pickpocket in New York, such claims are unusually and uniquely legit. Writer-director Noah Segan, a fourth-generation New Yorker, follows the pickpocket of the title, Harry Lehman (John Turturro), across all five boroughs in succession: the Bronx; Manhattan; Brooklyn; Queens; and a final scene in Staten Island. In all cases, the city environments are lovingly shot but with well-integrated characters. These are scenes deep in the neighborhoods, skipping the typical famous landmarks, until the final, extended shot panning from the Brooklyn to Manhattan skylines from across the water, holding the shot through the entirety of the end credits. I almost never sit through the end credits, but I was compelled to, even though nothing actually happens, except a memorably loving gaze on a city unlike any other.

For a movie largely about how America’s largest city has evolved over time, The Only Living Pickpocket is delightfully brief, clocking in at only 88 minutes. The script is well written, though; the editing is superb; and the film is visually compelling from the opening shots. Neither a moment nor a frame is wasted in this film, with a deceptively simple story: Harry has gotten by on pickpocketing for decades, but doesn’t see his own obsolescence coming. He makes a big mistake when he accidentally steals from a very powerful crime family, and the young man he stole from, Dylan (Will Price), sets a clock: get the USB crypto wallet back by 4:00, or his evidently paralyzed and mute wife, Rosie, will suffer the consequences.

The fate of Harry himself is set and stated early on, and Segan’s decision not to let Harry out of that is a refreshingly respectable narrative choice. Harry’s race against the clock is about Rosie rather than himself, and he must take a few moments to reckon with his own past. It must be said that Karina Arroyave is exceptional in the part of Rosie—perhaps more so than any other character never given a chance to move or speak onscreen. We never even watch her facial expressions change—but, they do change, from scene to scene, and you can feel her understanding of what’s going on around her, and the sadness and despair she must be feeling. Again: not for herself, but for her husband.

It’s been said that The Only Living Pickpocket in New York is a “small film,” and that is not inaccurate, but it’s also arguably misleading. This is a film more worthy of attention than most, with excellent performances—including from Steve Buscemi as Harry’s pawn shop owner associate, and Giancarlo Esposito as a detective long acquainted with Harry. Esposito is only in a couple of scenes, but you really feel the history between these two characters, and it’s always a nice change when this guy is not just another sneering villain.

I have only one complaint about this movie, really, and it’s a casting choice: we meet the mob boss of Dylan’s family in a final sequence that serves as the film’s coda. The actor who plays this boss is not something I will spoil, but I will say this actor has had such a late-career surge in fame and proliferation that the perfectly good writing gets wildly overshadowed by who the actor is, to the point of distraction. Turturro has had a long career as a character actor who easily disappears into his parts; this other person is very talented, but sticks out like a sore thumb in this part. For me, personally, it made the ending, otherwise very poignant, a slight bummer. I might very well have regarded this as a perfect movie otherwise.

On the upside, that sequence is followed by the aforementioned, lovingly held extended shot of the New York City skyline. If you have any history with New York at all, but probably especially if you are a New Yorker specifically, you’ll get it. I left the theater feeling real, nostalgic affection for a place with which I long had a love-hate relationship, and that is an impressive magic trick.

Be careful what you sell for: John Turturro and Steve Buscemi do some business in New York.

Overall: A-

FJORD

Directing: B+
Acting: B+
Writing: A-
Cinematography: A-
Editing: B+

Fjord is quite the cinematic Rorschach test, making it quite easy to elicit empathy for different characters depending on your own cultural and religious background. Set in a village on the west coast of Norway, it all comes down to the cultural and legal judgment of a deeply conservative Christian family who immigrates from Romania, and the degree to which they may or may not be abusing their children. And this is really the crux of it: some might say the word “abusing” is being used loosely here, while others would say there is no other word for it.

Where might you side on this matter? Conservative Christians might easily side with the argument that Norwegian Child Protective Services involvement amounts to religious persecution. Progressives might easily side with the argument that authorities should intervene when parents get physical with their children at all.

The amazing feat of Fjord, written and directed by Cristian Mungiu, is that, so long as you don’t have particularly extreme views in any direction, it’s easy to empathize—if not necessarily agree with—all parties involved. There certainly is a subtle sense of xenophobia among some of the school staff who report the existence of bruises on one of the children, even though it’s never clear that she got them from her parents. Police interview records state that these parents admit to “repeatedly hitting” their children, when all they ever explicitly admit to is a swat on the butt or a slap on the hand.

But, in short order, CPS takes the children and places them in foster homes, and a criminal trial ensues. Many other complicating factors come into play, from the local school principal being a neighbor with whom the family has become friendly, to that family’s teenage girl who consistently convinces the two older children to disobey their parents. There is also the fact that these children seem perfectly well-adjusted, happy at home, and actually want to be reunited with their parents.

I find myself wondering how this film was received in Norway, where it is set. Was it very controversial? It seems there has been some controversy, but not a huge amount. Making the conservative family here Christian seems like a very deliberate choice. What if the family had been written as Muslim, its growing size in Scandinavian countries being a contentious issue (as everywhere)? That likely would have caused a far bigger stir, both in Norway and its surrounding countries as well as in the U.S.

I’m not judging the choice to make it a conservative Christian family, mind you, but one wonders if there is any sort of allegory at play, perhaps for other religions. Secular aversion to any kind of religious orthodoxy works in a story like this, however, and using Christianity was likely safer. And coming from a strictly Christian upbringing myself, I am by default inclined to judge this family—but, I always have great respect for films that portray Christian characters with the kind of dimensionality they do not often get in wide release films. Portraying them as wild fanatics is a trope that grew tired long ago.

In the story here, the situation is further complicated by the mother in this family being Norwegian, but who fell in love with and married a man in Romania. The husband, Mihai Gheorghiu, is played by Sebastian Stan, who happens to be Romanian by birth; still, his accent work and physical transformation here illustrates his stunning versatility as an actor. The wife, Lisbet Gheorghiu, is played by Renate Reinsve, in a performance so understatement you might wonder how good the acting is—until you see her ncredibly different performances in other films.

As the leads, Stan and Reinsve are incredibly compelling. It feels difficult to judge the rest of the cast, many of whom are Norwegian actors, with some who are either Romanian or of Romanian descent—such as the two eldest children, Elia (Vanessa Ceban) and Emmanuel (Jonathan Ciprian Breazu). The director, Cristian Mungiu, is himself Romanian, and as an American viewer with no experience in Scandinavia, it’s impossible to tell whether the uniformly stoic delivery of nearly every other person on camera is a reflection of the local culture or a specific artistic choice on the part of the filmmaker. I will say, I found the consistently deadpan delivery a bit distracting.

The deeply provocative story is another thing entirely. I wish I could have seen it with someone, so we could spend a great deal of time discussing the many questions it raises. Setting aside the actual scientific evidence to support the idea that physical punishment is broadly ineffective: where do you draw the line in terms of dictating what parents can or cannot do with their own children? There is a blurred line somewhere in there, between “discipline” and “abuse.” At what point does it justify removing children from their parents? Is it wrong to acknowledge that even when you disagree with certain behaviors, there are still degrees of severity? And when all of these questions are considered on a case by case basis, to what degree does xenophobia inform those decisions in one case versus another?

We never see Mihai or Lisbet physically discipline their children onscreen, which is the right choice, as otherwise too many of these questions would get—or seem to get—cut and dried answers. We do see them get disciplined, however, such as Elia and Emmanuel being forbidden from attending the birthday party of their neighbor friend Noora (Henrikke Lund-Olsen), after roughhousing dangerously around the baby. We see others use arguments against the Gheorghiu parents with debatable relevance, such as Elia stating to Noora her belief that being a lesbian is a sin, among other things. (Noora’s sexuality as a plot point, especially as she becomes closer friends with Elia, is a bit underdeveloped. It is never clear if the friendship makes Noora question her lesbianism at all, or if Noora’s influence in any way loosens Elia’s belief on the matter. Noora is clearly a bit smitten with Elia, but we never see any consequences of that.)

I have reached my own conclusions regarding how Mihai and Lisbet live their lives and raise their children, and it may not be exactly what you expect. I am eager for others to see the film and come to their own conclusions, which is the unique way in which Fjord is a must watch.

Should we just let them be happy in their own way?

Overall: B+

WILDWOOD

Directing: A-
Acting: B+
Writing: B+
Cinematography: A-
Editing: A-
Animation: A

To say that a surprising choice is made in the very opening sequence of Wildwood would be an understatement—it’s the kind of choice other filmmakers would be afraid to make, but director Travis Knight (Kubo and the Two Strings) and writer Chris Butler (ParaNorman) kick things right off with unusual boldness. Never mind how this opening sequence shifts perspective in an otherwise relatively conventional way, it’s still the tip of the iceberg of countless reason this movie truly blew me away, both visually and narratively.

Perhaps you should be warned, because this film that seems at first glance to be a kids’ movie features surprising amounts of brutality—and I don’t mean just here and there, but throughout, in a never-dull 130-minute runtime, the longest stop-motion animated feature film of all time. I must admit I was shocked when I first learned of this film’s length. How could that possibly be justified? Well, I can only tell you to see it, and find out for yourself. Because this movie is riveting from beginning to end. In fact, if I had any complaint, it would be that it actually feels a tad rushed at times. I did find myself wondering occasionally what its MPA rating is, as I could not imagine it being any less than PG-13 (which indeed is its rating; it’s the third-ever stop-motion animated feature film to get the rating.

And I don’t think the content of this film can be overstated. There are epic army battles, stunningly rendered but with quite a lot of onscreen kills. Some characters who seem like they will play significant parts, you might not want to get too attached to. This is a great movie to see in a packed movie theater, both because the incredible visuals are best seen that way, and because on multiple occasions during it, the crowd audibly gasps.

I can’t remember another fantasy film that is so perfectly constructed with a contemporary sensibility. The “real world” the main character, Prue (Peyton Elizabeth Lee), lives in is both widely recognizable and satirized: it’s Portland, Oregon. Prue defies the plea of her parents (voiced by Jake Johnson and Mr. & Mrs. Smith’s Maya Erskine) not to take her baby brother out of the house while babysitting him. She pulls him on a wagon as a trailer behind her bicycle through the city, and this sequence is packed with light, Portland-specific gags and landmarks. The citizens of Portland are going to adore it.

They will also learn, as we do, that there is a magical “Impassable Wilderness” just outside the city, which a murder of crows whisks baby Mac off to, snatching him from a playground. And yes, sure, Wildwood has a fair bit in common with the 1986 film Labyrinth, not that many of the young audience for this film will know to make the connection: an older sister enters a magical land to retrieve a baby brother kidnapped by a greedy member of magical royalty. This time, instead of Jim Henson puppets, it’s stop-motion animated puppets; and instead of David Bowie the Goblin King, it’s Carey Mulligan as Alexandra, the dowager governess who has been darkened by grief.

Unlike Labyrinth, though, Wildwood takes narrative risks not often seen outside of original Grimm’s fairy tales. In an era of deeply risk-averse film studios, I was kind of stunned by this, leading to genuine delight, because this is one movie in which you truly have no idea what will happen next. And even in the midst of all these surprisingly tragic turns, Knight still allows the story to breathe enough to include a ton of deeply charming details, and characters who will consistently make you giggle just the way animated features often do.

I haven’t even mentioned Prue’s classmate, Curtis (Jacob Tremblay), by whom she is initially annoyed but who ultimately becomes a sidekick she could not get by without. He fills a satisfying narrative function, though I found myself wondering about his own parents, who are never even mentioned, even though he gets lost in the same Impassable Wilderness as Prue. Even Prue’s parents get fairly little screen time, honestly, although they do get enough characterization to seem like real, young-ish Portland parents. But, as with many fairy tales, this is a story about the kids and not their parents—although Prue’s parents turn out to be critical parts of the backstory.

Wildwood is otherwise fleshed out with an incredibly well-realized universe, in which human and anthropomorphic animal characters just coexist, which alone allows for many subtly clever gags. There is a uniformed army of coyotes, and their animal and amusingly vulgar behavior provides entertainment and menace in equal measure. There’s a giant community of birds in the “Avian Principality,” from which the antagonistic crows have long separated; the number of birds in this film make for some of the most awe-inspiring visuals as they engage in separate patterns of murmuration.

This may be the most visually stunning stop motion animated film ever made, and I say that acknowledging recency bias—but, I really can’t overstate how blown away I was by it. The voice acting is good, but kind of overshadowed by the visuals, even with the voice talents of Mahershala Ali as the Bandit King; Awkwafina as Septima the gross but surprisingly friendly rat; Tom Waits as the leader of the coyote soldiers; Charlie Day as Dmitri the coyote turncoat; Angela Bassett as the giant golden eagle called the General; Richard E. Grant as Owl Rex the onetime Prince of the Avian Principality; Blythe Danner as the Seer who advised Prue’s parents before the children were born; Rob Delaney as Samuel the rabbit constable; and many more. The truth is, they could have hired all unknown names to voice these characters and it would have worked just as well, but getting all these names adds to the film’s pedigree. I was far more taken with what was going on in every scene than I ever was with the voice of given characters, whose personalities were better conveyed through expert animation and writing.

Be sure to stick around through the first few minutes of the end credits, to get a brief glimpse behind the scenes. The stop motion animation reportedly took about six years to complete, with only minor elements augmented by CGI (including digitally created crows from scans of hand-sculpted models, or digitally removing seams on the puppets). The more you learn about Wildwood’s making, the more impressed you are likely to be—but, the story very much speaks for itself, as do the visuals simply as they appear onscreen. I can hardly wait to see this again.

Girl on bike meets bandit on horse: the magical collision of worlds in Wildwood.

Overall: A-

WICKER

Directing: B+
Acting: A-
Writing: B+
Cinematography: A-
Editing: B+

It may take a few beats to feel immersed in the world of Wicker, a fantastical film based on the short story The Wicker Husband by Ursula Wills. That title clearly gives a bit away: it’s about a husband made entirely out of wicker, woven by Peter Dinklage’s Basket Weaver at the request of Olivia Colman’s Fisherwoman. The character names here are just what they do, you see: Doctor (a nearly unrecognizable Richard E. Grant); Tailor (Nabhaan Rizwan); Bottlewasher (Gustav Lindh); Baker (Ben Ashenden). With the exception of Fisherwoman, however, the women in this little village are only addressed in relation to the man they are married to: Tailor’s Wife (Elizabeth Debicki); Baker’s Wife (Ella Bruccoleri); Bottlewasher’s Wife (Marli Siu).

These rigid gender roles are quite literalized very early on, with marriages featuring the groom putting a metal collar around the bride’s neck. The minister shouts, “Man and Woman becomes Man and His Wife!” Fisherwoman is established quickly as not just an aging spinster, but one the villagers make fun of for her fishy odor. But when Fisherwoman goes to the Basket Weaver to request he make her a husband, he’s startled by the request, but tells her to come back in a month, and in that time he has one for her. But not before Fisherwoman leaves him and we see Basket Weaver perform an extended monologue, something that occurs twice in the film and is one of the few things I found did not quite work. It feels like an attempt at something playfully Shakespearean, but even though Dinklage is up to the task as always, it lands awkwardly.

What’s amazing about Wicker, however, is how much of it does not land awkwardly when you might easily expect it to. A live, man made of wicker? Yep, that’s what we get here—and one incredibly well-rendered, I might add, with almost entirely practical effects. Wicker is a feminist fable, and fables often feature anthropomorphized non-human characters; I suppose a man made of wicker qualifies. The trailer to this film already made amply clear that the Wicker Man and the Fisherwoman have lots of sex, which leads to the obvious question: how on earth can anyone comfortably have sex with wicker? Aside from a very brief but delightfully shocking glimpse of his anatomy, I regret to inform you this question never gets answered—and, I will reluctantly concede, it is entirely beside the point of the film.

The villagers quickly become jealous of Fisherwoman’s and Wicker Man’s happiness and harmoniousness: the women of Fisherwoman getting so freely satisfied sexually (not to mention constantly volunteering to help around the house); the men feeling inadequate in the shadow of someone their wives clearly wish they were more like. Even the Fisherwoman gets caught up in the cycle of mistrust and jealously, leaving the Wicker Man as the only person who is too new to existence to even quite understand all this pettiness.

I will admit that at first I couldn’t quite decide what to make of Wicker, it is so brazenly odd, but the more I think about it, the more taken with it I become. This is a film that is very much its own thing, constructed from a simple fantasy universe that feels simultaneously familiar and unique. The performances are excellent all around, particularly on the parts of Olivia Colman and Alexander Skarsgård, who plays the Wicker Man with a physically stiff but heartfelt devotion that is easily melting hearts. This is an incredible achievement, given the obvious constraints of his wicker suit, and the fact that his eyeballs are the only part of his actual person we ever see. (We do see the Basket Weaver polishing an eyeball while constructing him; why a Basket Weaver would have eyeballs laying around is one of the many questions you are meant not to ask when being told a fable.)

Wicker is not only quite clearly not for everyone, but this is a case in which one might quite understand it not working for some. I suspect that for those susceptible to its charms, however, it works quite well. In the end, I am one of those people—admittedly, largely because Alexander Skarsgård remains irresistible even when all you are really getting are his eyes and his voice.

A match made in the willows: a loose Olivia Colman and a stiff Alexander Skarsgård complete each other in Wicker.

Overall: B+

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

Directing: B+
Acting: B+
Writing: B+
Cinematography: A-
Editing: B+

It would seem that film and TV adaptations of Jane Austen novels—she only published seven, only four of them during her lifetime—are endless. But, this is really a testament to the enduring power of her work. Pride and Prejudice has of course gotten the most treatments, and Emma also had its fair share. But Sense and Sensibility, Austen’s debut novel, has only had two notable feature film adaptations, starting with the widely admired 1995 film starring and written by Emma Thompson, who won that film’s only Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay. Now we have a new film adaptation, over thirty years later, and as with all adaptations, it reflects the time in which it was made as much as it reflects the time it depicts (in this case, early-19th century England).

One might wonder what point there is of another film adaptation, if the previous one was so great. I shall probably watch that one again soon, just out of sheer curiosity—but, it was likely the right choice not to have watched it right before this one. Making comparisons inevitable is unfair, and this Sense and Sensibility, directed by Georgia Oakley and adapted by Diana Reid (writing her first feature film script), works quite well on its own merits.

The world of this adaptation feels deeply lived in, and features all the charms one might want or expect from a Jane Austen story: a family of young women who are all victims of circumstance; a subtly villainous woman; fundamentally misjudged suitors; an eccentric aunt. The aunt in this case, one Mrs. Jennings, is played by an always-welcome Fiona Shaw, significantly livening up the proceedings.

There is something eternal about Austen’s stories, in which the women who make up the primary characters have their fortunes tied only to the fates of the men in their lives. Here we focus on three sisters: Elinor (Daisy Edgar-Jones); Marianne (Esmé Creed-Miles); and Margaret (Bodhi Rae Breathnach). Their father has died and left their mother, Mrs. Dashwood (Caitríona Balfe), relatively destitute, as his older child from a previous marriage, the sisters’ half-brother John (Tom Brooke, a somewhat inexplicably odd presence here), thus inherits the house. So it goes in this time: an uknown relative can take all the assets because inheritance only passes through the men.

And so, as always with these stories, the plot revolves around the women finding happiness by finding the right man with whom to secure their future. While Margaret gets a bit short shrift here, perhaps because she is youngest, both Elinor and Marianne are faced with suitors who have their own array of challenges: Edward (George MacKay) has clear affections for Elinor but is painfully shy about it, with more complicated reasons revealed further into the story; Colonel Brandon (Herbert Nordrum) is taken with Marianne, who is annoyed by his apparent lack of passion, and smitten by the apparent abundance of it in one John Willoughby (Frank Dillane).

I spent a lot of time watching Sense and Sensibility and thinking about its many narrative similarities to Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen’s second novel and by far her most popular. It’s also true that this particular film adaptation of Sense and Sensibility has a fair amount in common with the Kiera Knightly-starring film adaptation of Pride & Prejudice from 2005. That is a better film than this one, just by virtue of its far higher pedigree, but not by a huge margin. By all accounts, the same could be said of the novels: Pride and Prejudice is better, but not by a wide margin.

These other stories largely exist for people wanting to continue their Jane Austen fix. At least in this adaptation, the characters are more lively than they are buttoned-up—particularly the women, who are well-rounded, multi-dimensional and distinct characters thanks both to the writing and the performances. In this film, the male characters as a general rule are serviceable but nowhere near as interesting. It’s always great to see women get their due, but they also deserve better men, don’t they?

This, I suppose, is the downside to the world of Jane Austen: the women can only pin their hopes and dreams on the men available to them, no matter how interesting or dynamic they may or may not be. With different actors, these men might seem more charismatic, but it’s also how they are written. But, whatever: it remains easy to get emotionally invested in these young women, their romantic entanglements and especially their relationships with each other. Such is the magic of Jane Austen, particularly when well enough adapted, which this is.

One of many stills from Sense and Sensibility that could double as a painting.

Overall: B+

Tasveer Adance: 49 TO 51

Directing: B
Writing: B+
Cinematography: B
Editing: B+

Grief is different for everyone, and I was glad to see this notion stressed in 49 to 51, a documentary feature about the experience of someone suffering the loss of a loved one to suicide. In spite of it being an oft-repeated sentiment, it really can’t be repeated enough. I had an aunt once tell me that there are many ways to express grief, “all correct,” and it was something I found equally comforting and beautiful.

A significant qualifier in 49 to 51, however, is that there are also different and identifiable types of grief, and grieving loss to suicide is a very particular one. Director Ambalika Khadria, in her feature film debut, finds a fascinating subject to focus on: Indian-American mental health advocate Pooja Mehta, who herself has experienced suicidal ideation and speaks openly about her own suicide attempts—but this is about how she copes with the suicide of her younger brother, Raj.

49 to 51 is constructed on a “microbudget,” as Khadria herself called it in a post-screening Q&A, and at times, this shows—particularly in the film’s opening moments, which quite slowly ease into the details of Pooja’s family life in the hours and minutes leading up to the specific circumstances his death. Raj himself had no evident history of mental health struggles of his own, and his motivation for this act is an eternal mystery, something that will likely haunt his family for as long as they live.

Pooja talks onscreen about how well she knew her brother, how certain she is he would tell her if he was not well, and that he could not have been himself when he did this. I don’t mean to be argumentative, but what immediately came to my mind is how we can never truly know anyone outside of ourselves, not even our closest family. Raj may have had mental health struggles and simply hid it extraordinarily well. It is also stressed in the film that there is no reliable correlation between mental health and suicide, and I’m not attempting to dispute that. One of many struggles with Raj’s suicide is simply the not knowing. What could possible have motivated him to do this, and evidently so impulsively?

49 to 51 wisely does not dwell on this question, as the focus is on Pooja, and the evolution of her expression of grief, especially in a South Asian family in which suicide is a taboo subject. It’s natural to be curious about Pooja and Raj’s parents, who suffered the tragic loss of their child. But they are much older and far less comfortable discussing such intimate details of their own grief, especially on camera. Khadria worked on this film for roughly five years, and did speak to the parents many times, eventually earning enough trust for them to allow footage of Pooja’s arrival for a visit home in their foyer, and that’s about it. We do get some archival footage of them speaking at Raj’s memorial service, which, among many other scenes in this film, is heartbreaking.

Still, Pooja makes for a uniquely compelling subject in this story, given her own mental health history and her longstanding work as a mental health advocate. Grieving the loss of someone to suicide is already very complex, and this adds a whole new level of complexity. And it would seem that if there is any overall message to this film, it’s an encouragement to talk about grief, both your own, and that of others. More often than not, people actually want to talk about the person they are grieving. Others around those who are grieving are often terrified of doing or saying the wrong thing, but this is not something the person grieving is really thinking about. Just ask them what they need, maybe give them options: do you need space? do you need someone to listen? There can be this idea that this approach is more dangerous territory if the lost loved one took their own life, but it isn’t, really. Suffering in isolation is the worse option.

Pooja is a rather brave person to bare her grief not just so frankly, but on camera. We see footage of her two and three years apart, intercut with each other. In the beginning of the film, it’s very focused on her; as the film progresses, we see her with certain dear friends, or visiting India, or reuniting with the man who ran her survivor’s support group.

49 to 51 won the Best Documentary Feature prize at the Tasveer Film Festival, and I found myself wondering how emotionally taxing it might be for the filmmakers to present and sit through this film over and over again; the post-screening Q&A I attended was deeply insightful but, naturally, pretty melancholy in tone. I hope they have space for joy in their lives, even while immersed in a massive, multi-year project about grief, which likely has people crying—as I did—at every screening. Before the film, they did show a photo of their film festival award, the crew surrounding it from behind with bright smiles. Balance is always good.

The title, 49 to 51, is at least a reference to something a bit more lighthearted, a lovely detail revealed very near the end of the film. The last shot, though, is a deeply impactful and memorable one, involving the curious mixture of heavy grief with a delightful memory filled with uproarious laughter. In the end, this is a film that effectively honors both the departed and those who will always miss them, however complicated the circumstances may be. There is no distribution yet planned for this film, but I do hope it finds a home somewhere that people can access. It’s a rare kind of film that is both a tough sit and also a comfort, particularly if you have grieved a complicated loss.

It’s an oversimplification to call this a tearjerker, but you do probably want to have tissue handy.

Overall: B+

Tasveer Advance: ELEPHANTS IN THE FOG

Directing: A
Acting: A
Writing: A
Cinematography: A
Editing: A

It’s a challenge to find lived-in, stereotype-free representation of trans people in cinema broadly, but rarer still to find any kind of trans representation at all in international feature films. Enter director and co-writer Abinash Bikram Shah, with a truly stunning debut feature film Elephants in the Fog, starring Nepali trans activist Pushpa Thing Lama—also in her film debut. Several trans women actors are featured here, and this was the film debut for most of the cast; this is a big part of what makes the film such an extraordinary achievement.

The community depicted here is known as Kinnar, a legally recognized third gender in Nepal since 2007—the first country in South Asia to grant such recognition. (This community was given legal recognition in Pakistan in 2009; India in 2014; and Bangladesh in 2013.) In much of South Asia this community is known as Hijra, but in this film the Nepalese characters default to the evidently more respectful Kinnar—at least when the women in question are referring to each other.

Legal recognition or not, there remains cultural discrimination and oppression, as with anywhere on Earth. In South Asia, however, there is a sort of tenuous tolerance of this community, widely seen to be capable of either blessing or cursing. We see these characters in Elephants in the Fog clapping their hands together as part of this ritual, its intent contextualized by attitude and demeanor. In many scenes, one of these women is seen granting a blessing at weddings or to a pregnant woman. They are given often meager amounts of money for this service, and this is how they make a living, all the while living in a tightly structured community with a spiritual leader and a vow of celibacy.

It is within this framework that the story of Elephants in the Fog unfolds. I suppose I could give a trigger warning: this is indeed a tragic story—but not in anywhere near the typical way trans people have long been depicted in film. Pirati (Pushpa Thing Lama) is “mother” to several of the other trans women in this community, including the recklessly rebellious Apsara (Aliz Ghimire), who goes missing shortly after a confrontation between the two. These women share a house in a vollage bordering an area where dangerous wild elephants roam, and the immediate assumption is that Apsara may have been trampled in that adjacent forest.

The bulk of the story involves Pirati’s obsessive search for her, in the face of police indifference and building community resentment of this entire Kinnar community. This is all complicated by Pirati’s own hypocrisy, as she is engaged in an affair with a man who lives in the city of Birgunj, a little over 30 miles away. Pirati is all stoic resolve, but her refusal to give up even as she endangers her own standing among her “daughters” indicates a deep-seated guilt.

Apsara’s ultimate fate is not what we spend the movie expecting, and yet it’s deeply tragic in its own way. What makes Elephants in the Fog work so beautifully is how flawed all of these characters are—these are not magical heroines in the face of their oppression. They are simply surviving, and in this exceptionally well-written script, they are fallible and messy, just like all human beings. Rarely do trans characters come across as so well-drawn, their community and environment so authentically lived-in.

Elephants in the Fog is also beautifully shot, by cinematographer Noé Bach (in this case, far from a film debut: Bach has been working since 2012). The film’s budget does not appear to have been made public, but it’s probably safe to assume it was relatively small; I found myself wondering whether we would get to see any elephants at all, or if they would remain unseen and, to a degree, merely metaphors for partial truth. Never fear, though: elephants do get some screen time, but they are used so sparingly that their impact is incredible, and in the end almost overwhelming. The final shot of this film is one of the most powerful in any film released all year.

Indeed, Elephants in the Fog will easily be one of the best films I have seen all year, if not the best film I’ve seen this year—a bit of a frustration, in that I cannot tell you where to see it: there has not yet been any U.S. theatrical release date announced, and if there is one, it will not likely be until sometime in 2027. But I cannot ignore this film until then, because it simply cannot be ignored. I implore you to make a note of it, and see it as soon as it gets U.S. distribution.

Kinnar in the Fog: a beautifully painted portrait of a very specific community.

Overall: A