WEIRD: THE AL YANKOVIC STORY

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

I’ll tell you what I find the most stunning about the film Weird: The Al Yankovic Story. You can just google this title, navigate your way to therokuchannel.roku.com, and watch it online in its entirety, for free—without commercials. Never before have I encountered a movie with this high a profile, albeit only “high” among “Weird Al” Yankovic fans (and it’s still a streamer release, after all), that is so easy to watch, commercial free, at no cost. How is this movie getting paid for? Apparently the Roku Channel invested $8 million for the production costs. I’ve never subscribed to Roku, but its Wikipedia page says the challen is ad-supported. Why is Weird not ad supported, then? Maybe they are presenting this movie as a sort of commercial for their service.

I don’t need anything else Roku has to offer but whatever. This web page offers a trick on how to watch it without ads, but when I went straight to the Roku Channel page it played entirely without ads. Perhaps it was a mistake? Watch the movie, quick! Get it while the getting’s good!

The other thing I keep thinking about this movie, which is a much more amusing detail, is how many viewers must have approached it thinking it was a straightforward telling of “Weird Al” Yankovic’s life and work—which it absolutely is not; with just a couple minor exceptions (such as the recording of “My Balogna” in a university bathroom), almost everything is either fabricated or wildly exaggerated. I keep imagining people staring this movie and taking several deeply confused minutes before they realize this. I even got a text from my sister telling me she wanted to love this movie but couldn’t, for this very reason.

In fact, Weird: The Al Yankovic Story is itself a parody, specifically of biopics. The script, cowritten by Eric Appel and Weird Al himself (a fitting project for this late in his career, at age 63), has an impressively sophisticated overall arc, following every by-the-numbers beat of all the biopics you’ve ever seen: the struggle of being misunderstood in childhood; clueless and abusive parents; overindulgence during a rise to fame. In this case, the movie presents Yankovic’s career as though he became the biggest pop star in the world, fueled by wildly popular song parodies.

This is the first straight-up parody motion picture I have gone out of my way to watch in ages, and there’s a reason well-made spoof movies are so few and far between: they are practically impossible to pull off anymore. Weird does a respectably successful job of it, giving me regular chuckles and giggles. But, I have to be honest. I wish it had a better rate of gags per minute. It’s easy to get impatient with a movie like this.

Casting Daniel Radcliffe, however big a fan of Yankovic he might be, in the title role is an odd choice. I suppose it’s part of the joke: Radcliffe stands at 5’5” tall, whereas Yankovic himself is an even 6’. It brings to mind the casting of 5’7” Tom Cruise in the role of Jack Reacher, a character who is supposed to be 6’5”. Radcliffe does an adequate job in the part, in spite of his jawline being radically different from Yankovic’s.

Furthermore, Weird goes deep into a fictionalize romance between Yankovic and Madonna (Evan Rachel Wood), who famously did ask Yankovic to parody one of her songs in the eighties. They did not, however, become drunken lovers until Madonna was kidnapped by Pablo Escobar (Arturo Castro), nor did Yankovic—spoiler alert!—murder Escobar and all of his henchmen. To be fair, Weird taking a sudden genre turn into action-movie is one of the more amusing things about it. I’m kind of dying to know what Madonna herself thinks of this movie.

It’s widely known that “Weird Al” Yankovic is a beloved figure, among both comedy legends and comedy fans; the man has an insane amount of goodwill, built up over decades. Thus, Weird is packed with cameos by famous people, from Lyn-Manuel Miranda as a surgeon to Josh Groban as an abused waiter, and plenty more. Yankovic himself has a supporting part in the film, not as himself, but as a record executive. It’s his first notable motion picture role since his single starring turn, in 1989’s UHF.

Weird: The Al Yankovic Story is deeply on brand for Yankovic, which is one of the most fun things about it—as is the fact that he even recorded a couple new original songs for the soundtrack, the first album release of any kind he’s given us since Mandatory Fun in 2014. He clearly decided to take his career in new directions once it became clear there was no longer money in album releases, hence this very film. And I found it a worthy diversion for about an hour and forty minutes, in the realm of the mildly amusing, anyway. Maybe I’m just spoiled because I was hoping for something more genuinely hilarious.

I’ll tell you this much about Daniel Radcliffe. The man is fit.

Overall: B

ARMAGEDDON TIME

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

It takes a while for what Armageddon Time is really about to sink in. It’s so subtle, it’s easy to imagine many viewers missing it. But in the end, it’s quite clear: this is the story of a marginalized group using recently acquired privilege to its own advantage. “Survival of the fittest” among competing communities, you might say. On the surface it’s just about one family—a deeply autobiographical reflection of writer-director James Gray’s childhood—but with far broader implications.

Every so often, a movie comes along as a period piece that so piercingly alludes to the present day, it’s eerie. The setting is in 1980, during the presidential election that brought us the Reagan administration. There’s a scene late in the film when the family is watching Reagan’s landslide victory on the news, and the young protagonist’s father, Irving, says, “Morons. From sea to shining sea, morons!” Leaving the movie, I checked Twitter, and came upon this: Deeply depressing that an actual election issue this year is that the absolute stupidest people in the world sincerely believe that school kids are shitting in litter boxes and a decent number of those idiots are running for office. The only way you can not see a connection here is if you’re not paying attention.

It’s always tricky when a movie’s plot deals significantly with Black people (or, in this case, one Black person) and yet the story centers the White people and how they are affected by the Black friend, or neighbor, or whatever. The trick in the case of Armageddon Time is that there are now “White saviors” or “magical Negros.” Instead, we see a Jewish American family, the grandfather (played valiantly by Anthony Hopkins), completely oblivious to the privilege of their Whiteness in America. They have very typical middle-class White America problems and concerns, by which they are entirely preoccupied. Only Grandpa Rabinowitz, whose mother witnessed the murder of both her parents when she was just a teenager, has any real concept of standing up for the marginalized.

Grandpa tells his grandson, Paul (a stellar Banks Repeta), stories of their family’s past, asserting that it should not be forgotten. And yet, perhaps just because of separate degrees of severity, even Grandpa has a bit of a blind spot when it comes to the type of people running the private school he finally suggests to his daughter and son-in-law that they send him to, which is bank rolled by the Trump family. When Paul attends this school for the first time, he meets Fred Trump (Donald’s father) in the hallway; we see him in a few different scenes. That same day, Paul attends an assembly in which Jessica Chastain makes a single, but deeply memorable appearance as Maryanne Trump (Donald’s sister).

Maryanne gives a stern lecture on success, and how she got where she was without ever once getting “ a handout.” All I could think about—and this is the point—is how little credence she clearly gave to having been born into a wealthy family. And whether Paul realizes it or not, he’s got a similar leg up just by getting into this private school, which his parents could never afford, but the tuition for which is being paid for by his hard-working, long-saving grandparents, whose sole intent is to give Paul the opportunities they didn’t have. That’s the essence of what matters to them, far more than what kind of people they’re sending him to be educated by.

And this is where we come to Paul’s friend, Johnny (Jaylin Webb, also excellent), the troublemaking classmate with whom we see Paul become friends with while still in public school over the course of the first half of the film. Trailers make it seem as though this relationship is more like a supblot, but this is really what the entire movie comes down to. Paul takes his cues from Johnny, engages in similar antics of his own, and immediately discovers how teachers, while strict, are quicker to give him the benefit of the doubt, and to assume the worst of Johnny—even assume Johnny is the culprit when in fact it’s Paul. With the exception of his grandpa, Paul’s parents (played by Anne Hathaway and Jeremy Strong, both of them blending into their roles stunningly well) also assume the worst of Johnny, “the Black kid.” The family on the whole displays a casual racism that it’s easy for White people to forget permeates throughout this country, now as then. Like most such people, they are convinced they aren’t racist, even as they make wild assumptions about a young boy’s circumstances and potential influence.

Ultimately, Armageddon Time is about privilege, and how context can change it—both to someone’s detriment, or in the case of the Graff family (noting that “Graff” is changed from “Rabinowitz” a generation back—to make them less of a target), to their benefit. Unsurprisingly, Johnny displays a deep understanding of these nuances far earlier than anyone in the Graff family does. They are subtle enough in James Gray’s very telling of this story that I do wonder to what extent viewers will even get it. If you know to look for these subtleties, however, they are unmistakable.

It’s too bad the degree to which some people have demonized the very term “privilege,” and willfully misunderstood its true meaning—which, again, is nuanced. I almost hesitated even to use the word here, given the way people shut down at the very sound of it. No one in this movie utters the word, which actually makes it better, not to mention more realistic, since 1980 was long before it became the buzz word it is now. But that is absolutely what this movie is about. We know who is going to move forward with a better life by the end of the movie, and yet it’s difficult to feel particularly good about any single character’s future. You might say that Armageddon Time is a microcosm of the American story over the past forty years, a story about getting ahead at the expense of others, feeling temporarily guilty about it, and then forging ahead anyway. It’s safe to say this is not a feel-good movie, but it is provocative in all the right ways.

The Kids Are Not All Right

Overall: A-

TILL

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

Whether or not to recommend Till is an unusually tricky question. It’s a very well made film overall, but that skirts the real question here, which is whether the world needed this movie right now or not. Or I suppose more specifically, whether Black America needs this film right now. There are reasonable arguments either way, although I lean toward the idea that White America particularly needs to see this film, as it, in a way, represents the steady weakening of awareness of and empathy for shocking ongoing violence against Black Americans.

On the other hand, there is the very pertinent question: is Till profiting off of Black trauma? The marketing for this film struck an unusual tone in some of its theatrical trailers, featuring interviews with director and co-writer Chinonye Chukwu, who is seen noting that the film begins and ends with Black joy. What goes unsaid there is the fact that said Black joy merely serves as bookends to Black trauma, and especially Black grief, which makes up the majority of the film’s run time. It’s both right and a relief that no Black violence is actually seen onscreen, and Till is objectively better for it—but that doesn’t change the fact that violence against Black people, and specifically a real-life case of horrific violence against a 14-year-old Black boy, is what the entire movie is about.

To clarify, Till is less about the murder of Emmet Till himself—twenty years ago and in the hands of a different director, we would have been subject to a horrific sequence of the attack in great detail, serving only to traumatize and re-traumatize audiences—than it is about the fallout of that murder. The fact of that attack, which occurred in 1955—is widely known, but it could be argued that how his mother, Mamie, handled it is less known. Wisely deducing that “no one would believe what I just saw,” Mamie Till-Mobley not only invited a reporter to take a photo of her mutilated son’s body, but insisted on an open casket funeral with no reconstruction done on his body. Horrific, yes—but also effective.

Admittedly I was a little trepidatious myself going into this movie, having mixed feelings about what I may see onscreen and how it would be depicted. I am happy to report that, in a world where the movie Till has to exist, it’s done with about as much sensitivity as one could hope for. I keep thinking of the shocking and horrifying attack depicted in the 1999 film Boys Don’t Cry, winning Hilary Swank an Academy Award, and in retrospect it’s easy to wonder what purpose that sequence truly served. Possibly a sequence like that served greater purpose in 1999 than it would in 2022, I don’t know. All I can say is, not only does Till not feature any scene so graphic (although, full disclosure, there is a brief, wide shot from across a field, in which you can hear Emmet screaming from inside a distant cabin), but Till understands that it’s not the story most worth telling. It’s the way Mamie’s insistence on defiantly publicizing what was done to her son changed people’s lives.

To be clear, however, a lot of Till is still very hard to watch. Not because of violence, but because of raw, primal grief—of which there is a lot. (And isn’t there trauma inherent in either case?) Danielle Deadwyler is incredible in the lead part, heart wrenching in both her grief and her resolve; her embodiment of Mamie is unforgettable.

If you were to look up the real life Emmett Till, you would see that Jalyn Hall is a dead wringer for him, and thus also very well cast. It would be tempting to feel, in the film’s early scenes, that his innocence and bright-eyed ignorance is laid on a little thick, but it does us good to remember this was the mid-fifties, a far less cynical time, and Emmett being “a jokester” is on the record by people who knew him. He was just fourteen years old, significantly sheltered in their Chicago existence by his mother. Brushing away the 21st-century tendency to regard even fourteen-year-olds as corruptible regardless of race, there’s really no reason not to trust this depiction of him.

If nothing else, what Till does lay on a little thick is the unneeded foreshadowing, especially in Bobby Bukwosky’s cinematography and Abel Korzeniowski’s score. In the early scenes, even while we’re supposed to be witnessing their “Black joy,” there are tracking close-ups on faces that clearly telegraph something horrible is about to happen to these people. This is especially the case with the camera closing in on Mamie’s face, the score shifting to ominous horns that fall one step short of sounding like a horror movie: she has no idea what’s coming!

Emmett Till was from Chicago, but was killed in the deeply racist town of Money, Mississippi, visiting an uncle and cousins. Chukwu’s direction takes care to make sure we know racism also exists in Chicago, but there are degrees, and as Mamie puts it, “the rules are different down there.” Mamie’s divorced parents also live in Chicago, and her guilt-ridden mother, Alma, is played by Whoopi Goldberg, in perhaps her highest-profile dramatic film role in twenty years. She largely disappears into the part (an no, she’s not in a fat suit) , barely recognizable as a woman irrationally but understandably kicking herself for encouraging her grandson to go on this trip.

On the whole, I fall on the side of Till being slightly imperfect and certainly not for everyone but well worth seeing. I wouldn’t go out of may way to pressure any Black people—or any people of color, really—to see it, even if by chance they’ve never heard of Emmett Till. (“Knowing your history” would never be a valid argument here. Even if a person of color isn’t familiar with Emmett Till, they are surely well aware of countless more recent examples of very similar kinds of violence; there’s no need to tell anyone to sit through any depiction of yet another one, no matter how sensitively done.) Some may bristle at my deliberately racializing what audiences to recommend Till to, but I don’t particularly care. It’s White Americans, really, who have the most to gain, some level of historical perspective and insight, from seeing this movie—and to be clear, it still doesn’t really feel like “homework” either. It’s a compelling narrative on its own terms, with its own means of reaching audiences. I suspect this is something Chinonye Chukwu understands.

You’ll get a sense of who he was as a person, with great potential, rather than just as a victim.

Overall: B+

THE BANSHEES OF INISHERIN

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

You could say that The Banshees of Inisherin is writer-director Martin McDonagh’s return to form, or at least to his roots: his previous film set in Ireland—not native to McDonagh himself, who was born in London, but native to his parents—was the excellent, incredible debut feature film In Bruges (2008). That film also featured the same two lead actors, Irishmen Brendan Gleeson and Colin Farrell. Both films mix comedy and drama, and both go dark places. The key difference really, is that In Bruges offers more overt laughs and The Banshees of Inisherin has a singular depth of vision on its character’s tragedy.

That certainly shouldn’t dissuade you from seeing it, however: this is easily one of the best films of the year. And even though McDonagh’s previous film, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri (2017) garnered the most Oscars of any—two wins, alongside five other nominations—it quickly faced a great deal of legitimate criticism, not least of which was its centering of whiteness in a story ostensibly addressing racial injustice. The fundamental issue with McDonagh’s telling of such a story is his position widely removed from the Black, or even an American, experience. Thus, what elevates both In Bruges and especially The Banshees of Inisherin is McDonagh’s own Irish heritage, and a clear depth of knowledge of his own peoples’ history.

In fact, this film is so steeped in Irish history, set on a remote and deeply rural island off the coast of Ireland in the 1920s during the Irish Civil War, which lasted just under a year from 1922 to 1923. There are almost certainly nuances that either reference or mirror that conflict, even though the film doesn’t come any closer to directly portraying any battles than the islanders hearing gunfire or seeing smoke rising from the mainland (which is, of course, itself an island). As someone whose knowledge of this conflict basically begins and ends with this very movie, I likely missed many such nuances. That does not make the film any less great than it is.

On the surface, anyway, this is a film about a breakup, not between romantic lovers, but between good friends, who are widely known to their community as men who spend their time daily drinking at the local pub together. But there comes a point—and this is where the film begins—when Colm (Gleeson) has come to realize he’s wasting his time, needs the space to pursue his musical passions before his days are numbered, and thus declares to said friend, Pádraic (Farrell), that “I just don’t like you no more,” and he wants to be left alone.

It sounds deceptively simple as a concept, and this is where once again McDonagh proves a uniquely adept storyteller (so long as he fully understands the environment in which he’s placed his characters). Farrell has never been better than his performance as Pádraic, a simple, kind man whose simplicity skirts the border of dullness, and whose emotionally intelligence cannot comprehend such a jarring removal of affection or companionship. Colm quickly grows so frustrated with Pádraic’s persistence in speaking to him, he declares that for every time Pádraic “bothers’ him again, he will take his pair of shears and cut off one of his own fingers.

As a viewer, I really hoped it wouldn’t actually come to that. But, Pádraic makes it difficult to hold onto that hope. This is a guy who declares the young man Dominic (a stupendous Barry Keoghan, for once not playing a villain or an unsettling creep) the dumbest guy on the island, only to start seeing evidence of this guy being, if not any more emotionally intelligent, then a bit more educated than him.

The Banshees of Inisherin is the kind of movie that, where other films might hint of an uncomfortable path and then pivot, instead leans right into those paths. Colm’s and Pádraic’s story is one of cascading wrong moves, the kind that turn friends into enemies. You know, kind of like a civil war.

I must also mention Kerry Condon as Siobhan, Pádraic’s sister he lives with. She is the stealth MVP of this film’s cast, playing the local woman increasingly exasperated with both her brother and Colm. She gets a fantastic, unforgettable scene with Gleeson, as Colm complains of how boring Pádraic is, only to have Siobhan reference all the men on the island and shout, “You’re all fecking boring!” There is some irony here, given the film’s full focus on men in the story, and it barely passes the Bechdel Test (at first I thought it didn’t, but then I remembered her conversation about her main with the woman at the shop in town).

This film is far from boring, however, notwithstanding how gradually its greatness truly reveals itself. It starts as a deceptively simple story deceptively told, just two guys whose lifelong friendship has inexplicably splintered. “Inisherin” is the name of the fictional island on which they live (gorgeously shot, by cinematographer Ben Davis, on and near the stunning limestone sea cliffs of the west coast island of Inishmore), and “The Banshees of Inisherin” is the name of the music piece Colm is composing. Or, a subtle reference to the characters themselves.

It may sound like some of this is a little on the nose, but that is not at all how it plays as the story unfolds, which is often as funny as it is sad. It seems fair to warm viewers that this movie is not the least bit upbeat, and its humor is often steeped in very dark themes, but it is also undeniably compelling, some might even say entertaining.

When friends show vulnerability then their friendship is vulnerable.

Overall: A-

TRIANGLE OF SADNESS

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

It is largely by chance that I wound up watching Triangle of Sadness only one day after Tár, but they make very suitable companion pieces—both of them being overlong notwithstanding. Although Tár is two hours and 38 minutes long, and Triangle of Sadness is two hours and 27 minutes long, the latter does a better job of justifying its own length. This one, at least, is edited largely like an anthology: part one focused on a young straight couple who are both models; part two on a luxury cruise to which they were given free tickets as part of the woman’s deals as a social media “influencer”; and part three on the island to which several of the passengers wind up stranded.

That’s not to say I don’t think Triangle of Sadness couldn’t also have been shortened, mind you. There is no question in my mind that this film also could have had certain scenes either cut in half or excised altogether, and left a film with the same overall effect. That said, this one has a pretty great title, to which we are treated in the opening scenes: Carl (Harris Dickinson) is a beautiful, young, blond male model going on an audition, and his beauty still won’t stop his scrutinizers from asking if he can flatten out his “triangle of sadness”—modest wrinkles between the nose and the eyebrows. One of them offers a side comment about whether it can be treated with Botox.

Triangle of Sadness is also a satire, and one which is, if not more successful than Tár, then certainly more accessible. Tár is capital-A “Art,” a commentary on separating art of the artist; whereas Triangle of Sadness tackles wealth and privilege in a much more straightforward way. I am reminded of the common scenario where it doesn’t matter how wealthy a person is, if someone else exists with a great deal more wealth, then they don’t think of themselves as wealthy. And in Part One, we get an extended scene with Lewis and his also-a-model girlfriend Yaya (Charlbi Dean), at a restaurant, devolving into a tense conversation about their respective salaries and who is typically expected to pay. Much is made of the fact that female models earn more than their male counterparts. Presumably successful models of any gender are doing fine. (Admittedly, the gap is wide.) Suddenly I’m wondering how the actor salaries for the two portraying them compares.

Carl and Yaya are but two characters in a huge ensemble cast for Triangle of Sadness—the triptych of parts also supporting its title—and yet, they are the only two who appear in all three parts. It’s as though the micro view of their two lives navigating the nuances and implications of money is broken out into a wider view once we find them on the luxury yacht, especially once we learn they were given their tickets in exchange for “influencing.”

It’s on the yacht that we meet a huge cast of characters, in a unique sort of upstairs/downstairs scenario. First we see the above-deck crew getting a pep talk: no matter what the guests asks or demand, you always say “Yes, sir!” or “Yes. ma’am!” Okay, but what if one of the many filthy rich guests becomes friendly with a young woman on the crew, and demands that she go for a swim? And further demands that the entire crew go or a swim, right this instant, including the kitchen crew, leaving the seafood being prepared for dinner left out and unattended for as long as that takes?

The best thing about the writing and direction here by Ruben Östlund (Force Majeure) is how eclectic the characters are, and how they all ring true. This applies to our model characters (are they even the protagonists, technically?) as well as the yacht guests who are far more wealthy than they are, and the leadership of the yacht crew, right down to the cleaning staff. A woman referred to multiple times as the “Toilet Manager” winds up playing a critical, deliciously subverted role on the island in Part Three.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself—I must mention Woody Harrelson, who we only see in Part Two, in maybe the least plausible part in the film: the wildly irresponsible, drunkard Marxist captain of the yacht. How the hell did this guy even get that job? Maybe it doesn’t matter. Harrelson has become a reliable go-to character actor, a surprise in retrospect considering the persona of his early career, and yet he is perfectly cast here, and provides a great deal of levity in what ultimately becomes a catastrophically tragic situation.

It’s no spoiler to say that the ship winds up sinking. What matters is how it happens, and the chaotic events that lead up to it, many of which aren’t even related. This mishmash of bad luck also strains plausibility, but plausibility is not what Östlund is going for here. One of the many things I loved about Triangle of Sadness is how much we see of the ship lurching back and forth over the waves of a gathering storm, an extended sequence (both darkly entertaining and deeply disgusting) that is all build-up—only for it to cut straight to the handful of survivors on an isolated beach, before we even see the ship actually sink. That part, while it probably would have been thrilling to see, is not relevant to the story being told here.

I must return again to the comparison to Tár, because it fascinates me that this film has received relatively mixed reviews while Tár is being truly fawned over by critics; I genuinely feel both of them are excellent, each with only very minor flaws. I can’t help but wonder, would the amount of critical praise be reversed had Tár been directed by Ruben Östlund starring Charlbi Dean, but Triangle of Sadness were directed by Todd Field and featured Cate Blanchett? How much does the prestigiousness of pedigree color people’s approach to these films? To me, it’s a wonderful thing that such questions are found in the overlapping pools in which both films are wading.

The acting is no less excellent in Triangle of Sadness, the difference only being that they are not as famous (not even Woody Harrelson, by far the most famous actor here, and he’s only in a third of the film). I was particularly impressed with Harris Dickinson as Carl, with his deceptively sweet and expressive face. Would I have been as impressed if he weren’t also gorgeous? In any event, Östlund deftly weaves many threads of nuance as he also impressively makes clear that none of these people are just “rich idiots”—they aren’t idiots at all, not a single one. As a rule, they even openly acknowledge their lack of basic life skills when put to the test on a deserted island, hence the “Toilet Manager” who takes easy control of the group because she is the only one who knows how to cut and clean an octopus.

All three parts of this film are as compelling as the other, for different reasons. Part Three becomes a sort of adult, psychological Lord of the Flies (it’s kind of a relief there is no onscreen violence), but one in which race and class take on new meaning based on people’s abilities, as do gender roles. In one particularly memorable scene, Yaya is giving Carl pointers on how to stroke the ego of an older person in a leadership role who has invited him to start sleeping in the life boat with her. It puts into sharp relieve what many young women have to deal with in the real world, and what most young men are oblivious to—until young Carl is forced to face it. And then, much to Östlund’s expert storytelling credit, it is some time before the rest of the group, or even us as viewers, find out exactly what is actually going on in that lifeboat.

Sitting through Triangle of Sadness, regardless of its length, is a surprising experience in richly rewarding ways. Its final moments bring things around perfectly, with just the right amount of ambiguity. Honestly, the more I think about this film the more I feel impressed by it.

Ironically, there is a perimeter of joy in observation of this triangle.

Overall: A-

TÁR

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

Tár is the opposite of populist entertainment, by many accounts a film that succeeds at being a satirical work of staggering genius by being up its own ass about being a satirical work of staggering genius. The way I see it, this film is pretentious about its own commentary on pretension. But, that doesn’t necessarily make it any less genius.

If you wanted to hold a cinema version of a book club, Tár would be a perfect choice for watching and then discussing. Writer-producer-director Todd Field is practically begging us all to intellectualize arguments about it. This is less surprising when you consider his previous (and only other) to films: In the Bedroom in 2001, and Little Children in 2006. Both those other films were excellent in surprising and different ways, as is Tár. Field was 37 upon the first film’s release; 42 upon the second; he’s 58 now. This is a guy who takes his time, and with each film it’s clear that the time is taken to make his art even more polished than the last.

Is he also more self-indulgent? Perhaps. Tár is two hours and 38 minutes long, and I am not convinced it needs to be, every single scene clearly done with intention notwithstanding. Moments after the film opens, we get the first of several very long scenes, this one an interview with our title character, Lydia Tár, onstage in front of an audience, all of her answers to questions about classical music—and her contextualized place in the history of women in it—systematically lay out her slightly emotionally detached, artistic genius. One could argue this scene going on for half as long would have been just as effective.

I can tell you this much: Tár is perhaps the most highly critically acclaimed film of the year thus far, and yet it is among the least immediately compelling, narratively speaking. This may be different for, say, viewers with an education in classical music, who will know all the references of the industry and the art. (I would be very interested in such people’s take on the film and the authenticity of its portrayals, particularly in the details.) Tár almost seems to be daring us to stick it out, the aforementioned extended scene being preceded by countless opening title cards that double as extensive credits, representing maybe two thirds of what would normally have been end credits. I did a rare thing and stayed through the end credits, just to see how brief they would be as a result. Indeed they did not last long—not that that would be much comfort knowing they follow nearly three hours of time in the theater.

Which is to say, the average movie-goer is not likely to have much patience for this film. It’s too bad, because Field very much rewards any patience here. On the other hand, my expectations of Cate Blanchett as the current front-runner for the Academy Award for Best Actress are very much tempered now that I have seen the movie. Not because her performance is not extraordinary (it is), or because the film is any less than excellent (it’s not)—but because of shifts in recent years’ trends among the Oscar voting body. I’m not convinced they will award a third Oscar just yet to a woman who still has many years of a career ahead of her, for a role in a film that will be a challenge for many to sit all the way through.

In spite of all that, let’s assume that you, dear reader—especially if you are still reading thus far—have real interest, some intellectual curiosity, in Tár. For you, this movie indeed comes highly recommended. Probably unlike many other critics, I am not yet convinced that it will be among my ten favorite films of the year, but it probably would if I had to make the choices right now. This film is an odd experience, as it’s easy to spend much of its time wondering what the fuss is all about, and then it proves hard to shake in the wake of finishing it.

For instance, Tár is largely about the question of separating the art from the artist, and what is arguably a fool’s errand in considering someone’s work without considering their moral standing. Lydia Tár makes it blatantly clear that she feels that who a person is has no relevance to their work—only to wind up proven wrong in her own case. Lydia is a figure who is both subtly and deeply manipulative, something that only gradually becomes clear: I wondered how I would have taken in her as a character had I not known beforehand that (spoiler alert! this has been widely reported anyway) she gets caught up in her own version of a #metoo scandal. Nothing in the earlier scenes indicate that she is headed for any kind of downfall, or even necessarily that her artistic genius has warped her own sense of reality. These things are expertly released with slow precision by Field over the course of the film, like a very slow leak from a faucet.

This is what I keep wondering: Tár plays as though Lydia’s gender, and indeed also her sexuality as a self-described “U-Haul lesbian,” are immaterial—and yet, would the film be even half as compelling if it told the exact same story about a predatory straight man? And this question should stress that the story is told the very same way, with “predatory” in quotes, possibly maybe: we never see anything overt happening. Just subtle manipulations by a revered figure surrounded by yes-people who never dare to contradict her, allowing her get what she wants at the end of the day, every day . . . until she finally doesn’t. And she’s so used to being the oblivious center of all the attention, that it doesn’t take much for her to begin unraveling.

Tár is hardly what anyone would call a “lesbian movie,” even though the main character is one. Even with a couple of blithe references to a history of oppression (against both women and queer people), her lesbianism is portrayed as incidental. One might be tempted to think of that as forward-thinking, except that would be sidestepping what Field is doing with this film. It’s almost as though it’s a brand of satire, but one that is, for lack of a better word . . . stealth.

Does satire even work anymore? This strikes me as a valid question, as our daily reality is ever more absurd in a post-Trump world. The 1976 masterpiece Network worked brilliantly as satire because at the time there was still a shared and unspoken agreement to at least the appearance of decorum. Now, exaggeration does little for us, and instead Todd Field takes us in the opposite direction, toward extreme understatement. It goes deeper than nuance, although Tár also features plenty of that.

And this is what I see as the key difference between Tár and a film like Network: a much smaller audience will watch Tár and “get it.” I barely did, although I do think my understanding and appreciation would be deepened with repeat viewings—an irony not lost on me given the film’s run time. A much smaller audience is likely to see this movie, period, whether they “get it” or not. And yet, I would still say more should see it. I merely understand that it’s an uphill battle, in the era of digital effects blockbusters, nearly all of them featuring basically the same story.

Tár, at least, is absolutely in a class of its own. Blanchett is as well, but we all knew that already; it’s Field’s achievement that needs more attention, as he gets performances nearly as memorable from the others in the large cast around her, particularly Nina Hoss as Lydia’s partner. Tár is being marketed as the Cate Blanchett Show, which it is to a large degree, but ultimately Field’s show, one that is almost too finely polished. This is the kind of film so refined that for many it will translate to “boring.” But, when you go in expecting to be rewarded for your patience, as I did, you won’t be disappointed.

If you look for humor in it, you will find a surprising lot of it.

Overall: A-

STILL WORKING 9 TO 5

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

I have a suggestion for Hollywood: I would love to see a contemporary update on 9 to 5. Not just as an attempt at capitalizing on yet another nostalgic revisit to a classic film of the past (though that would unavoidably be part of it), but as an exercise in illustrating how, more than forty years later, so much work is left to be done. A newer film could demonstrate how misogyny in the workplace may not be as blatantly widespread as it was in 1980, but even as women’s presence in management positions has exploded in the ensuing decades, misogyny remains widespread—it’s just a lot subtler and more pernicious these days.

I don’t even care if it’s a reboot or a sequel; either could be fun. Although I don’t usually find this kind of thing necessary, I would actually vote sequel. This way, we could have a story centered on, say, the granddaughters of Violet (Lily Tomlin), who remains close friends with Judy (Jane Fonda) and Doralee (Dolly Parton) in retirement, and we could get a few, super-fun scenes with these three titans of the entertainment industry, dispensing hilarious advise to the young woman professionals about their persistent workplace problems with the men around them.

9 to 5 has already been made into a musical twice (Broadway in 2009 and the West End in 2019). This idea only makes sense! Apparently they came very close to something exactly like this sort of sequel in 2018 but it wound up not working out. Dammit! Because god knows, updating this story to highlight the issues that persist to this day would reach a hell of a lot wider audience than this pleasantly compelling but somewhat forgettable documentary, Still Working 9 to 5.

This documentary film is getting a single showing in local theaters, as part of SIFF’s “Docfest,” tomorrow (Sunday October 10) at 7:00. On the upside, SIFF is also selling virtual tickets all this week (Friday through Thursday) so you can stream the film at home. I cannot find any information on it being available later on streaming services.

So, is it worth the price of paying for a ticket to see this movie? This really depends on your relationship with the original 1980 film. The documentary is much more effective as a companion piece, offering a bit of behind the scenes information but largely contextualizing the film with how it was timed against the history of the women’s liberation movement. The thing is, though, 9 to 5 actually speaks for itself, and if you’ve never seen it, I urge you to find and watch that (currently available on HBO Max). You’ll see how it stands up incredibly well—arguably better now than it did upon its 1980 release, when reviews were decidedly mixed, largely due to most movie critics being, of course, men.

Anyone with a basic understanding of both culture and nuance would watch the original film and already see clearly how far women have come, where they are today in comparison to when women then might have expected to be in another four decades, and how far women still have to go. Plus, that film is wildly entertaining in a way this documentary could never hope to be.

But, for those of us who have already seen 9 to 5 several times and are big fans of it, Still Working 9 to 5 does have its values and insights. I think co-directors Camille Hardman and Gary Lane lean a little heavily on the film’s enduring cultural impact beyond just being a smash success (and to be clear, being the #2 movie of 1980, behind only The Empire Strikes Back, and one of only three movies to earn more than $100 million domestic that year, is deeply impressive). This documentary is kind of two films in one: a film about 9 to 5 and its unprecedented success as a film with women as the three lead roles; and a film about where women’s rights have gone in the late 20th and early 21st centuries.

It’s undeniably fun to see Fonda, Tomlin and Parton in present-day interviews discussing what the movie meant both to them personally and to audiences, both then and now, alongside Dabney Coleman (who played the chauvinist boss) , producers and writers of the film, and even original members of the “9to5” activist organization of working women from whom the film got both its title and its inspiration (that being one of the several fascinating details you actually might learn from this film alone). For those unfamiliar with the original film, Still Working 9 to 5 will either just hold moderate interest or inspire a look at the movie. For the rest of us, it’s a fairly affecting companion piece.

Revisiting old friends is always a comfort, even if they tell us how much work is left to do.

Overall: B

BROS

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

I really wanted to love Bros. And I did like it—it even made me laugh more than most comedies do. And I am a genuine fan of Billy Eichner, his overt obnoxiousness on Billy on the Street being a definitive part of his brand and appeal. And Bros is made for people who love romantic comedies, and even quite knowingly moves through all the same beats as any mainstream film of the genre. This is a film made for everyone lamenting the decline of romantic comedies, and it manages to scratch that itch by being just as serviceable a specimen as any other.

I just wanted it to be better than “serviceable,” which is, admittedly, a tall order. How many “great” romantic comedies are there out there, really? When Harry Met Sally… (1989) is arguably the best ever made; Four Weddings and a Funeral (1994) seems largely lost to history and now rendered criminally underrated (seriously, if you’ve never seen that one, find it and watch it). Moonstruck (1987) is a straight up masterpiece. How long has it been since another romantic comedy came even close to the quality of these examples? Even the American Film Institute’s top 10 romantic comedies lists nothing more recent than 1993 (and Sleepless in Seattle is fun, but, if that makes the top ten of all time? this is not a genre known for most people’s best work).

How does Bros compare within a 21st-century context, then, which, frankly, lowers the bar? Four years ago Collider compiled a list of the best romantic comedies of the 21st century, and a lot of them are better films. The crucial difference with Bros is, of course, that it centers a same-sex couple instead of a straight one. And a whole lot has been made of how that breaks new ground, this being “the first American gay romantic comedy from a major studio featuring an entirely LGBTQ principal cast”—which is, it must be said, a lot of qualifiers. After all, Fire Island was already released this past spring, and it fits all but one of those same qualifiers, the only difference being it was released on Hulu. And that movie is certainly as good as Bros; some might say it’s better (on average I liked them about the same, for slightly different reasons) and they would have solid arguments to stand on. Hell, that one stars Bowen Yang as one of the principal characters, and he’s also in this movie.

And not for nothing, but Fire Island has a leg up on Bros in that its principal characters are mostly people of color. Bros is a little self-conscious about its “diversity casting” (a loaded term if ever there was one) while never directly addressing how it still centers white characters—which in itself is not necessarily something to criticize it for, except for how it quite blatantly “checks all the boxes,” or at least all the boxes it can, in its supporting cast. Eichner’s Bobby character is the Executive Director of an LGBTQ+ museum (was it absolutely necessary for him to the the Executive Director?), but the rest of his Board consists of two trans women (one White and one Black), a Black non-binary person, a White bisexual man, and a White lesbian. This is a knowing nod to the obsession with “covering all the bases,” like the self-conscious diversity of models on a college brochure, while still managing to actually check a lot of the boxes. (Incidentally, this Board does not include any people of color who aren’t Black, nor does it have any intersex or asexual people—which, I would bet anything, it would if the movie were made another ten years from now.)

The museum itself is a clear way for the film to “educate” viewers on queer history, which I have mixed feelings about. On the one hand, this aspect of Bros did not teach me anything I didn’t already know, which made it feel kind of like a movie made to educate straight people. On the other hand, plenty of queer people also don’t know their own history, and if this movie teaches them anything at all, I’m not going to complain about that. That said, Eichner has so many extensive monologues in this movie—this guy talks, and talks—that a lot of the time, in the museum scenes, he’s throwing out so much information so fast that it often feels, again, like checking off boxes.

Bros opens with one of Eichner’s monologues, by the way, his being a podcast host (of course) offering an excuse for an introduction consisting of a large amount of voiceover. This opening bit kind of goes hard, though, which Eichner’s delivery that’s both rapid and extensive, and I got a little stuck on the idea that a solo podcast host, who evidently doesn’t even have guests on, would be a wildly popular one with a million subscribers. Bros barely gives an indication of the basic premise of his podcast (again, queer history), then mostly shows him waxing poetic about his frustrating sex life, what it’s like being gay these days, or answering live listener calls. Why the hell would so many people be listening to this?

It should be noted that Bros may be a gay story in which all the queer characters are (quite pointedly) played by queer actors, and all of that is indeed stuff to be proud of. But the director, Nicholas Stoller, is not gay, and I think this actually makes a difference, Eichnier having co-written the script with him notwithstanding. (Side note: Fire Island was directed by Andrew Ahn, an openly gay Asian American man.) There’s been an element of a lot of the press and buzz for Bros that feels a lot like straight guys patting themselves on the back for helping their queer friends get their movie made. And it’s not to say they have no reason to be proud of this movie, but there has been this widespread industry expectation that the movie will be a hit, and its opening weekend earned 40% less than projected. There is already hand-wringing about whether this means audiences aren’t “ready” for a movie like this, but there remains the possibility that the film just isn’t as great as everyone who made it thought it was.

And I know I’ve spent a lot of time picking it apart here, but I must stress that I did enjoy this movie. The more salient point is, I enjoyed it about as much as any average romantic comedy—the key word here being “average,” although I would even say this was above average, not that there’s a high bar there either; it doesn’t take much for a romantic comedy to rise just slightly above mediocrity. And to be fair, there’s a lot of things I did love about Bros, not least of which was its acknowledgment of how gay relationships are actually different from straight ones (yet no less valid); its sex scenes just as frank as any in a romantic comedy about straight people; and its unusually honest depiction of day to day queer life. (Although, and I’m sorry for constantly making the comparison in spite of its inevitability, Fire Island has a lot more casual drug use. Bros does depict the use of poppers in a sex scene, though, treating it as just a normal part of it, which for many it is.)

Plus, Bros does have a lot of very effective punch lines, and I laughed a good amount at it—albeit a little further into the film than I would have preferred; that opening sequence with the podcast-host voiceover really had me worried the movie would be actively bad. Thankfully, although there are many valid criticisms, the movie is actively good. And to be fair, it’s not trying to be anything it isn’t, either; the film itself doesn’t seem to think it’s any paragon of cinema, and only tries to offer what fans of romantic comedies want. And by and large, what those fans want is something of a specific formula, which this very much is.

Eichner’s love interest is Aaron, played by Luke Macfarlane, a guy largely known for Hallmark Channel romantic comedies—so, another example of slightly in-joke casting. Eichner plays a character I would likely find insufferable in real life, but these two men have genuine chemistry, which alone goes a long way toward making Bros work overall. It’s heartening to see even two perfectly attractive men (granted, one is much “hunkier” than the other) struggling to overcome very different insecurities, and sort of tentatively succeeding. Honestly, I would happily watch Bros again, and would likely enjoy it even more a second time, having already gotten the criticisms out of my system and allowing myself just to give into it without intellectualizing what is just meant to be a fun time at the movies. Which, to be fair, is exactly what this is in the end.

It’s unapologetically queer, unapologetically romantic, and unapologetically formulaic.

Overall: B

2009'S AVATAR IN 2022

Directing: B-
Acting: B
Writing: C+
Cinematography: A-
Editing: A
Special Effects: A-

When I first saw Avatar in 2009, I was impressed enough with it that not only did I give it an A-, by the end of the year I put it on my annual top 10, placing it at #10.

With the film’s first sequel finally coming to theaters this December, the first film is once again in theaters now, this time only available in 3D—in 2009, I went to see it first in 3D, then again in 2D, and very much preferred the latter. I suspect I would feel the same way now, even though I must say, when viewed superficially as nothing more than blockbuster entertainment, that film remains a spectacular specimen. I cannot deny that I was wowed by the effects, the visual inventiveness, and how imaginative it was—possibly even more than I was thirteen years ago, when I spent an inordinate amount of time discussing the uselessness of 3D in my review.

And now, I am doing something I never did before: re-reviewing a movie in re-release many years later. My rule has always been against this because, well, I already reviewed it. Except in this case, there is the unusual burning question of how well the film holds up after all this time, both because of the amount of time that has passed, and the massive cultural shifts in the zeitgeist in that time, particularly when it comes to race.

There is no question that the “white savior” concept came up in criticism of this film in 2009, but I am somewhat disappointed in myself not to have mentioned it at all in my original review. In the year 2022, for anyone with any concerns about social justice at all, James Cameron’s narrative in this film certainly sits uncomfortably—and for many white people, less comfortably now than it did in 2009.

James Cameron is another massively successful straight white man, after all, and certainly there will be some who read my commentary now as just shitting on straight white men. It cannot be denied, however, that his gender and race informs the story he is telling here, about a white man (Jake Sully, played by Sam Worthington) who enters the “indigenous humanoid” population of a moon called Pandora, gets accepted as one of them, and then leads them in successful resistance to the “white people.” A lot of the problematic characterizations of this indigenous population are more glaring now, and further reading comes recommended. There is plenty out there about this if you make the slightest effort to look for it; I am hardly alone in thinking about these things.

One wonders whether Cameron will take any of these frankly fair criticisms to heart in the upcoming sequel. I have my doubts, but also I suppose it’s not impossible. The internal struggle I have with the original Avatar now is how much I genuinely enjoyed it. And surely, plenty of people might sensibly ask why we can’t just give ourselves over to blockbuster entertainment and simply be entertained. I can tell you this much: if you do that with Avatar, you absolutely will not be disappointed. Cameron’s script may be packed with stereotypes and tropes, but it is also incredibly tightly constructed, and the film is riveting from beginning to end. I just also had the space in my head for recognition of its many faults, some more subtle than others. I wasn’t even as bothered by the 3D this time around; the film is so wildly entertaining that you quickly forget about the sometimes awkward visual experience.

Would I recommend that you see this in the theater now, again? Only if you are a purist regarding the cinema experience: there is no question the stunning visuals work better in a theater, no matter how big your home TV screen is.

Also, there has been regular mention over the years that Avatar has the distinction of being the only film ever to become the biggest box office earner of all time which people don’t really still talk about, and no one can even remember what the characters names were. Sigourney Weaver plays Grace, the doctor who heads the “Avatar” program that links humans to hybrid Na’vi that can breathe and function in the local environment. Zoe Saldana plays Neytiri, the Na’vi woman Jake falls in love with. Michelle Rodriguez plays Trudy, a rebellious company employee. Stephen Lang plays Colonel Miles Quaritch, the man who becomes the very Cameronian villain of the film. Giovanni Ribisi is Parker, the corporate shill intent on ruining the Na’vi land in pursuit of the idiotically named “unobtanium.” Very seldom are any of these people’s names actually said onscreen.

Setting the problematic narrative aside, the reason to see Avatar remains its groundbreaking special effects. The Na’vi are CGI rendered in a way that precludes any genuine photorealism, and yet their environment on Pandora is so colorful and inventive, it is an unusually immersive experience. It feels very much like a fully realized world, wholly separate from the one we live in. Cameron simply grafts a very Dances with Wolves story onto it. I spent a lot of time not minding that so much, thinking maybe I should mind it more, and escaping into a science fiction fantasy. That descriptor can be applied in more ways than one, and which angle you take on it is really up to you. But, even the most spectacular entertainment is not above a more deeply critical look.

A Series of Unfortunate Events, Rendered Spectacularly

Overall: B+

SEE HOW THEY RUN

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

There’s historically a bit of a problem with star studded ensemble casts—which is to say, they always disappoint under the expectation of their star power. In the case of See How They Run, the movie poster highlights fully twelve people in the cast, but the star wattage is basically limited to Sam Rockwell, Saoirse Ronan, Adrien Brody, and David Oyelowo. Your mileage may vary with the rest of the cast, as with Ruth Wilson, or if you were a big fan of “Moaning Myrtle” in a few of the Harry Potter films, Shirley Henderson pops up in a delightful performance as Agatha Christie.

Which immediately brings me to my other point: I can remember when I first learned what “meta fiction” was, after having it defined in my own creative writing in a college class. At the time it was a gimmick not widely discussed, and it was a point of pride. Now, every writer and their mother seems to be making their work “meta” in one way or another, and See How They Run hops right on that bandwagon. Most of the time it’s mildly amusing, and to the film’s credit. it never crosses the line into annoying.

Still, there’s no getting around that this is a movie with a large ensemble cast that is clearly very amused with itself, which is rarely a recipe for success. What I can say for this example is that, at the very least, it’s not a failure.

See How They Run is a “whodunnit” regarding a murder amongst the people in or involved with an Agatha Christie play called The Mousetrap, running in 1950s London’s West End. They play is also a whodunnit, and of course director Tom George and writer Mark Chappell offer us a movie with cleverly knowing beats that mirror those of the play. There is some debate among the players as to how the play should be adapted into a film, and the initial murder victim figures prominently into the discussion.

Even the opening voiceover narrator turns out to be surprisingly relevant. See How They Run has relative unpredictability going for it; I don’t think it’s easy for the average viewer to suss out who the murderer is—and, as always in stories like this, there’s a veritable crowd of suspects. I just wish that opening voiceover didn’t go on for quite as long as it does, or the movie itself for that matter: this film has a slight editing problem, even at only 98 minutes in length. This is a kind of movie that would benefit from much tighter editing, and keeping it at an even 90 minutes would alone have made a notable difference. This is clearly intended as a comedy, and it gave me a great many chuckles, but there’s a few too many lulls between them.

Still, See How They Run has surprisingly artful cinematography for a film of its sort, and the performances are as good as you could ask for across the board. I do find myself wondering if this would even have been considered for production without the success of the far superior Knives Out, which has its own highly anticipated sequel coming this winter. See How They Run certainly has its own tone and sensibility, but it’s not particularly memorable either. I had a nice time with it, at least. It’s amusing enough.

Inspector. Constable.

Overall: B