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Role Playing

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The Father

by George Wolf

How much you’re moved by The Father will likely depend on how you see the central narrative device employed by director/co-writer Florian Zeller.

Is it a gimmick that cheapens the very subject he’s digging into, or is it an effective – even logical – new frame for a familiar picture?

Anthony Hopkins and Olivia Colman star as father and daughter Anthony and Anne. Now, with these Oscar winners as your leads, your device could be the mail-in offer from the back of a cereal box and it would most likely be riveting, but Zeller has more lofty ambitions.

Anthony’s memory is fading fast, forcing Anne to navigate his mood swings and growing combativeness while she looks for an in-home caregiver who can handle him. Young Laura (Imogen Poots) looks promising, but Anthony’s initial charm at their meeting gives way to insults and accusations about a plan to force him from his well-appointed flat.

But is it his flat? And who is the man in the living room (Mark Gatiss) who says he lives there?

Is Anne really planning to move to Paris with a new boyfriend, or is she still married to the impatient and angry Paul (Rufus Sewell)? And just who is that other woman who looks like Anne (Olivia Williams)? Zeller adapts his own stage play with a profound intimacy that feeds the intentional confusion.

In the last several years, movies such as Away From Her and Amour have mined their greatness through the effect of dementia on the longtime spouse of the afflicted.

But here, not only does Zeller make a sympathetic pivot to the adult child of an ailing parent, but his chamber piece finds its greatest resonance through the heartbreaking empathy that comes from giving us Anthony’s point of view.

And even if the whole affair does strike you as gimmicky, the transcendent heights hit by Hopkins and Colman (and indeed, the entire ensemble) make spending time with The Father more than worthwhile.

As artistic as it is nuanced, as lyrical as it is devastating, it’s a film with not only something to say, but a welcome new approach to saying it.

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Up All Night

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The Vigil

by Hope Madden

For the garden variety movie viewer (myself included), it can be hard to get comfortable with the idea of spending a bunch of time alone in a room with a corpse, even if that’s your job.

We always expect to see a figure sit up under that drawn sheet.

When done well, movies that pick that particular scab can be incredibly effective. Keith Thomas’s The Vigil is one such movie. He leaves us alone in a house with the late Mr. Litvak. But we’re not really alone, are we?

An endlessly tender Dave Davis plays Yakov, who has recently left the Hasidic Jewish community in Brooklyn. It’s so recent, in fact, that he goes to a support group of others like himself, all of them in need of some kind of training to figure out how to live a “normal” life. And as much as Yakov really does want to distance himself, when his former rabbi approaches him about Mr. Litvak, well, Yakov just needs the money.

Yakov will serve as Mr. Litvak’s shomer, sitting with the body for the night to protect Mr. Litvak’s soul until his body can be interred in the morning. Mrs. Litvak (Lynn Cohen, remarkable as always) doesn’t want him there.

It’s a straightforward enough premise, something Thomas executes with plenty of spectral dread. What the basic outline and many of the jump scares lack in originality, The Vigil makes up for with the underexplored folklore and customs specific to Orthodox Judaism. The general ideas are common to the genre, but the specific acts and images are precise and certainly new to horror cinema.

As Yakov’s night wares dangerously forward, he faces a Mazzik. But, as is usually the case in films such as these, the real demons Yakov faces are his own.

Thomas’s screenplay may present that metaphor more bluntly than necessary, and certain scenes are just so obvious (old footage projecting on a wall near a diorama of newspaper clippings and photos). But the compassion the filmmaker has for both Yakov and Mrs. Litvak, combined with the impressive performances from both actors, gives the film a soft spot that heightens the dread and terror.

It’s a solid effort, one that reframes a story you’re used to in a way that gives it more depth and emotional power.

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Enter at Your Own Risk

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Wrong Turn

by Hope Madden

Writer/director Mark P. Nelson is kind of fixated on the social rifts in America.

His 2018 film Domestics followed the aftermath of an apocalypse intentionally deployed by a ruling class looking to thin the herd. The smaller herds only fracture into groups of radicalized, violent maniacs, though, and even your white bread nuclear family types are threatened.

Which is to say, this filmmaker brings a different perspective to the inbred cannibal franchise, Wrong Turn.

Yes, big city liberals on a hiking trip run afoul of Virginia rednecks. But where Nelson varies from the script of the 2003 original is in reimagining the antagonists.

We know there’s trouble afoot from the opening scene when Matthew Modine drives into the quaint Virginia town looking for his character Scott’s missing daughter (Charlotte Vega). The lovely blonde was last seen here, along with her African American boyfriend, another heterosexual couple, and a gay couple, one of whom is Muslim.

Because apparently not one of these people has ever seen a horror movie.

The film gets into trouble early by conjuring moments from Tucker and Dale vs Evil, which is a great movie. It’s an insightful lampooning of movies just like the one Nelson is trying to make, though.

Nelson’s more successful when he borrows a bit from the likes of Green Room and The Ritual, although he plants Wrong Turn’s folkloric barbarism firmly on American soil. This is a film about America.

If you’re looking for a movie about cannibal families, you will most definitely be disappointed.

The horror is less unseemly, all of it in support of Nelson’s image of a divided America. There are some startling moments of gore, and other more harrowing ideas that suit the picture well.

Nelson takes too long getting to the point, unfortunately. The film runs just under two hours, which is at least 20 minutes too long. A trimmer runtime might have helped the film leave more of a mark. Instead, Wrong Turn is a decent if unremarkable backwoods thriller.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fkoCo1bpNRs

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I’d Vote for Him

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My Name is Pedro

by Rachel Willis

Pedro Santana is the bright, innovative, caring teacher/school administrator that every child deserves and some desperately need.

It’s not surprising that in her first documentary feature, director Lillian LaSalle chose such a larger-than-life personality to concentrate on.

Most of LaSalle’s doc focuses on one-on-one time with Santana, but there are plenty of interviews with those who have been touched by him: students, parents, and co-workers. All have glowing praise for Santana’s inventiveness and compassion.

The film’s extraordinary subject helps hide the more mediocre elements. Apart from from Santana himself, there isn’t much that stands out. Some of the shots are distractingly blurry, and harried animation sequences detract from the spoken words. With someone as animated as Santana, why would you ever take the camera off him in favor of line-drawn cartoons?

But the audience gets to see inside struggling school systems – sadly, something already too familiar to many parents and students – and how someone like Pedro Santana can make a world of difference in a short time. The children who have been impacted by Mr. Santana over the course of his career brim with self-confidence in their interviews.

We’re also shown the dynamics of school politics at one suburban school district in upstate New York. A school board at odds with members of the community makes for heated scenes in which parents confront the board over decisions made for their children. The bulk of the board is comprised of men whose own children don’t attend the local public schools, yet in whose hands rests hiring decisions and money matters for those schools.  

These scenes make for some of the most interesting, and infuriating, moments.

But at its heart, this is a movie about the impact caring educators have on children. Santana recalls his own experience with such a teacher and how she drove him forward in life. From a stint in the Peace Corps to the Teacher’s College at Columbia University and beyond, we see how a good teacher does make a difference.

Santana’s approach to education is a good lesson for anyone who works with children. He pushes them to be their best, and the results speak to his skills in the field of education. And that’s probably because Mr. Santana is interested in more than test scores and homework. He is fundamentally invested in seeing children succeed – at school and in life.

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Flower Power

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In Full Bloom

by Hope Madden

Where many filmmakers find brutality in the to-the-death mindset of contests of will and might, filmmakers Reza Ghassemi and Adam VillaSenor find beauty. Delicate, flowering beauty.

Every living thing is at the height of its natural power for a brief moment. After that, it’s just a rush toward death. In Full Bloom circles that one moment.

American Clint Sullivan (Tyler Wood) and Japanese Masahiro (Yusuke Ogasawara) are those peak specimens. Both boxers will meet in post WWII Tokyo with the world watching.

The fight means a lot of things to a lot of people. To Japan, it’s an opportunity to reclaim some pride. To the US, it reestablishes dominance. To Sullivan’s team, it’s about the money. But to the two men in the ring, the moment will simply determine which of them is in full bloom.

It’s a heavy metaphor, but Ghassemi and VillaSenor back it up with style to spare. The film is saturated with bruised masculinity, heightened emotion and existential panic. And like a lot of films of this nature, (Gavin O’Connor’s 2011 Warrior, in particular), the struggle at the core of In Full Bloom concerns animal strength versus disciplined grace.

Ghessemi and VillaSenor set things moving in the moments leading up to the fight. As Sullivan waxes brute philosophy with his sketchy manager and angling wife, the film flashes back to Masahiro’s training.

Here we leave the confines of the boxing arena in favor of gorgeous, snowy landscapes where the fighter has tracked down warrior legend Tetsuro (Hiroyuki Watanabe, bringing much needed humor to the film), hoping to learn from the master.

The filmmakers don’t introduce many new ideas here. They simply strip away any breathing room, leaving only scene upon scene of hyperbolic emotion. Their film takes on a surreal quality that’s visually lovely, often intriguing, and sometimes borderline silly.

Wood delivers a stiff performance that is nearly the film’s undoing. A posturing Eastwood type, Wood rarely generates enough depth of character to carry the symbolism and metaphor swimming around him.

As with any bout film, the fight choreography is the deal breaker. Here, taking a cue from Raging Bull and Cinderella Man, the action itself takes on a dreamy quality that supports the film’s overall themes and imagery.

It’s a solid if flawed poem, an ode to the apex predator.

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Pros and Cons

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Choir Girl

by Hope Madden

Life imitates art in a film about a struggling photographer, a young prostitute, and an art world more interested in profit than humanity (or art).

Choir Girl, writer/director John Fraser’s thriller, sets itself inside and outside the world of art. Eugene (Peter Flaherty) takes old school film photos of what he sees around him in his dicey neighborhood: kids overdosing, violence, prostitution.

The photos, like the movie itself, use pristine black and white to give even the most awful content an artful sheen. One photo, in particular, gets Eugene the attention of an ambitious art magazine editor with big things in mind. In it, an underaged girl (Sarah Timm) stares desperately from the abyss of the darkness around her.  

From here Fraser’s film turns quickly to gritty thriller with overtones of Cronenberg’s masterpiece Eastern Promises and, even more strikingly, Gerard Johnson’s underseen 2014 thriller Hyena.

The separation and commingling of the two worlds—dangerous streets and high-end art—offers Fraser opportunities to compare and contrast. Who is being prostituted, exactly?

It’s not an uncommon critique of the industry of art, but Fraser’s insights are sincere.

Choir Girl’s success rises and falls with Flaherty’s performance. Eugene needs to be simultaneously sketchy and innocent—not one or the other—even in his own mind. Flaherty pulls off this balancing act with a performance that’s sometimes tender, often nasty, but one that never feels manufactured.

The surrounding performances are not as strong, although veteran Jillian Murphy brings layers to an important role.

Choir Girl asks ugly questions and gets ugly as it looks for answers. At times, the story feels dependent on too many contrivances. Never is that more evident than with the harrowing dramatic climax—a scene that is inevitable and yet unearned.

Credit to Fraser, the scene itself is not filmed to feel gratuitous. For a scene this lengthy and torturous to truly work, however, every element leading to it needed to justify it. Stronger storytelling would have helped.

It’s a big risk to take, and one that will undoubtedly displease some viewers, but that doesn’t limit the film’s powerful central performance or imaginative execution.

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Speak Up and Sing

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Truth to Power

by George Wolf

Serj Tankian is a passionate guy.

As frontman for System of a Down (and as a solo artist), he’s passionate about music. As an American of Armenian descent, he’s passionate about America’s foreign policy – specifically the U.S. stance on recognizing the Armenian genocide of 1915.

In Truth to Power, director Garin Hovannisian not only gets us closer to a charismatic and multi-talented performer, but he also tackles the sometimes thorny relationship between art and activism.

For Tankian, shutting up and singing is a ridiculous notion. And though he freely admits he seldom knows what he’s going to say before an onstage rant, Tankian’s social consciousness only increases when the lights come up.

Hovannisian gives us a satisfactory trip through Tankian’s life story and the forming of SOAD with three other Armenian-Americans, then brings us along as the band plays its first Armenian show in 2015. Tankian especially is regarded as a national hero, and the intimate moments where we see how deeply this treatment touches him are among the film’s strongest.

But the broader focus is on Tankian’s push for Turkey to admit to the Armenian genocide, as well as his inspirational role in the Armenian revolution of 2018. And though the film makes an often powerful case for art’s ability to affect change, it ignores a very obvious conflict.

In the last few years, SOAD drummer John Dolmayan has been an outspoken supporter of Donald Trump and various hard right political postures. Though we hear Tankian worry about the rise of such views, Hovannisian never broaches the subject of how the band members co-exist.

Even if the bulk of the film was completed before Dolmayan spoke out, the somewhat slight running time suggests an epilogue would only add relevant context to the entire conversation.

Without it, there’s a pretty major question just sitting there unanswered, and Truth to Power – despite its commendable passion – feels incomplete.

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No Moose, Just Squirrel

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Flora & Ulysses

by George Wolf

Is “Holy Bagumba!” gonna happen?

Too early to tell, but Flora & Ulysses wants it to happen.

Ten year-old Flora (Matilda Lawler) likes to blurt the phrase out in excited surprise, and there have been plenty of surprises since Ulysses got super powers.

Ulysses (a CGI squirrel with noises courtesy of John Kassir) has skills, no doubt, and in between trashing donut shops and learning how to type, he just might teach a self-described young cynic that there is some magic in this world after all.

Director Lena Khan brings the latest animal adventure tale from novelist Kate DiCamillo (The Tale of Despereaux, Because of Winn-Dixie) to the screen with broad brushes, easily digestible messages and family-friendly hijinks.

Khan does try to keep the parents interested through winking nods to E.T, Alien, and The Shining, along with a curious amount of music montages. The playlist ain’t bad (Bill Withers, Tom Jones) but it’s big enough to make you wonder how much was added just to get the film to feature length.

Young Lawler is a treat, with spunky charm to spare and a seemingly natural sense of comic timing (especially with a CGI co-star). But the adapted script from Brad Copeland (Spies in Disguise, Ferdinand) is all surface-level spoon feeding, where the family strife is sanitized, the danger little more than silly and the squirrel is a furry, slo-mo ninja.

In other words, perfectly fetch for the younger set transitioning from picture books to family films.

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Bitches of the Badlands

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Nomadland

by Hope Madden

Nobody sees American poverty as honestly or as poetically as filmmaker Chloé Zhao.

Those who saw Zhao’s sublime 2018 cowboy story The Rider will recognize her romantic fascination with the American West. That’s not the only thumbprint the filmmaker leaves on her third feature, Nomadland.

She weaves a spontaneous, near-verite style into lonesome, wide vistas of a rugged America we think of as lost to time. In doing so, Zhao creates a lucid dream where struggle as reality is somehow beautiful but never sentimental.

The incandescent Frances McDormand stars as Fern, an itinerant widow since her hometown of Empire, Nevada ceased to exist once the gypsum mine closed. We join Fern on her journey sometime after that collapse. She’s just beginning to customize “Vanguard,” the van that serves as her new home.

In that same loose style that’s marked Zhao’s previous films, Nomadland follows Fern through her days, boxing product for Amazon in the winter, working vacation rest stops and tourist destinations in season, and traveling the country in the meantime following work, looking for a safe place to park, and getting to know this country.

Zhao—who writes, edits, and produces as well as directs—based the screenplay on Jessica Bruder’s nonfiction book. Empire was a real place. Fern is a fictional character, but those who mentor her in her new life—including the endlessly endearing Linda May and brilliantly saucy Swankie—are, indeed, real nomads.

McDormand is perhaps the only perennial Oscar contender who could fit so seamlessly in this tapestry. Without an ounce of vanity or artifice, her performance allows this film to be one of resilience and promise. Given that Normadland is, in fact, the story of a penniless Sixtysomething widow who lives in a van, that is in itself a minor miracle.

But that’s the film—a minor miracle. Perhaps only in a year when the billion-dollar franchises were mainly held at bay could we make enough space to appreciate this vital and beautiful reimagining of the rugged American tale of individualism and freedom, which is almost always also a story of poverty.