All American horror films that really matter can be separated into two time periods: before and after Vietnam, an event that epitomized an era and transmogrified the nationâs concept of âhorrorâ forever. Whereas the horror films of yore would invariably depict true red-white-and-blue protagonists dealing xenophobically with foreign evil (vampires and cat people often represented all of Eastern Europe), a new wave of horror film presented terror in America as a messy, brutally honest implosion from within. The Vietnam War seemed to be the cataclysm that ended the idea that America was the worldâs âcontrol group,â at least for a while. Typically, Hitchcockâs Psycho is referred to as the film that sliced horror history in half along socio-political lines, but for all its subversions of the rules of horror, the film still faithfully presents mainstream American society (as represented by Vera Miles) as the norm. No, it took a series of social uprisings, the gradual unraveling of a deceptive image that American soldiers were swaggering like pimps in Vietnam, and a seemingly endless cycle of political assassinations to fuel a new breed of scare-mongering films. These films exposed and subverted everything America held trueâopen spaces, machinery, industry, and country-gravy hospitalityâand amplified the nationâs capacity for superior terror.
The first big success story of this wave was George A. Romeroâs Night of the Living Dead, which evoked a country coming apart at the seams even as it portrayed a more threatening apocalypse. While not the first film to break the gore barrier (give Herschell Gordon Lewisâs mid-â60s work credit for that), it was the most successful at transplanting a genuine social dread into a metaphorical house of mirrors. Though zombies are busting down doors and chewing the flesh off of young couples outside, the protagonists whoâve barricaded themselves inside a farmhouse are more concerned with who among their cultural cross-section (a black man, an angry WASP man, a catatonic blond pinup) gets to wear the political crown in their small kingdom. Other films that turned American unrest into a catalyst for considerable horrors included Wes Cravenâs The Last House on the Left and, later, The Hills Have Eyes. But the only other film to truly capture that uniquely unsettling promise of Romeroâs first zombie epic and to deliver that threat to an unsuspecting mass audience was Tobe Hooperâs absolutely perverted directorial debut, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. A spare and entirely unsentimental tale of five teenagers who one by one stumble into the clutches of a backwoods family of cannibalistic inbreds, the film has a far less traditional narrative thrust than Night of the Living Dead. But Hooper spikes his scenario with the baggage of the societal umbrages undercutting the era: Vietnam, the vegetarian movement, human jobs being taken over by machinery, and cult-family values.
The introductory montage (narrated by a somber John Larroquette) informs the audience that the filmâs events are a true-life tragedy, but the film opens on a note of chicken-fried slapstick. The tubby, wheelchair-bound Franklin (played with porcine zeal by Paul A. Partain) is led out of the road-tripping van to take a piss in an old coffee can. A semi drives by and the tailwind blasts him from the side of the road down into a ditch. Itâs not going to be the last time in the film that the invalid Franklin is beaten down, or worse, ignored. Probably the most significant social aura that Texas Chainsaw Massacre invokes, but doesnât specify, is the disillusioned mood of the nation in the final, bitter stages of the Vietnam War. The useless Franklin, who the other four teenagers are forced to wheel around everywhere, represents the most tangible image that connects Hooperâs film to the daily newsreel footage of the war as seen on network television. Itâs not made clear whether his handicap is recent or whether heâs been dealing with it for years (if anything, his constant whining suggests itâs a new obstacle in his life), but Franklinâs comical predicaments mask the horrifying reality that faced many Vietnam veterans upon their return to America. Because he suffers a series of funny embarrassments early on in the film, this demoralization only makes his violent slaughter that more shocking.
What separates Texas Chainsaw Massacre from its predecessors is its anarchic, cynical hysteriaâits bizarre and dark-as-hell gallows humor. Watching Night of the Living Dead today with the wrong audience can turn the one-time king of terror films into a monotonous and campy affair, thereby sabotaging the filmâs 11th-hour plunge into hell. But because Texas Chainsaw Massacre is often as audaciously funny as it is distressing, no one dares laugh. In many cases, the juxtaposition of horror with comedy is so confrontational, it can have a stultifying, choking effect. When the first victim wanders into the lair of the infamous Leatherface and is beaten to death by a sledgehammer, Hooper mutes the manâs screams and substitutes them with a frightened hogâs squeals. Thatâs just one of many examples of Hooper using the friction of stylistic dichotomies to create an atmosphere of perversion and dread. In addition to the horror-comedy split, thereâs also a persistent tension between the filmâs monochromatic, grainy, hand-held veritĂ© cinematography and the abstract rusty-razor editing, and between the campy tin-pan guitar on the vanâs radio and the mechanical nightmare music score (which had to have been a primary influence on Trent Reznorâs Downward Spiral). The only place where some semblance of balance exists is in Franklinâs sister, Sally (Marilyn Burns), and when her stolid composure is brutalized by the Leatherface family, it damn well knocks the filmâs fragile grip on sanity into the void. In the final, prolonged dinner sequence, the filmâs pseudo-documentary realism gives way to arrhythmic editing, more non-diegetic animal sound effects, and extreme close-ups of the broken, red capillaries in Sallyâs eyes.
Texas Chainsaw Massacre is not as split on its subtextual social stances, though. Its plea for vegetarianism could scarcely be more succinct. Besides the sound effects equating the slaughter of the teenagers with the slaughter of cattle and pigs, Hooper seems to be saying in many scenes that meat-is-meat, and meat-is-gore. When one of the teens stumbles into a room full of grisly upholstery made from bones, skin, and chicken feathers, itâs never clear what animals any of these bones originally came from. Franklin buys a sausage from the truck stop (which we later find out is being run by the oldest brother of the cannibal family) that may or may not be made from a human penis. Head cheese? Donât ask.
Texas Chainsaw Massacre also updates the notion of encroaching mechanization in the American production industry from Upton Sinclairâs classic novel The Jungle. In an early scene, a hitchhiker the teens pick up complains that the machinery has put him and his family (guess who?) out of work at the local slaughterhouse. Itâs easy for the characters (and the audience, for that matter) to dismiss the hitchhikerâs advocacy of the sledgehammer instead of the automatic, assembly-line air gun as an example of his insane bloodlust, but Hooper is more canny than that. He seemingly makes the audacious and outraged postulation that Americaâs profit-minded ethos of creating less jobs through technology and thereby destroying livelihoods will in turn result in rage, betrayal, and madness. DepressionâŠcannibalismâŠoffice-building machine-gun rampages. What indeed is the difference?
Throughout the film, Hooper maintains a level of miasmic, grimy funk that is just about unparalleled in horror cinema. Much has been made of how Texas Chainsaw Massacre is hardly as gory as its reputation suggests and that much of its ingenuity is attributable to its power to strongly suggest gore and blood. One could add that itâs infinitely more impressive how Hooper elevates human sweat, clinging dirt, and tangled hair to the harrowing effect of gore. When Pam (Teri McMinn) wanders into the aforementioned room of bones-on-twine, itâs almost as distressing to see her collapse, choke back vomit, and struggle not to inhale the floating chicken feathers as it is to see her walking toward the house (in a stunningly non-veritĂ© low-angle tracking shot earlier in the film) or later being hung up on a meat hook. And Sallyâs night escape from Leatherface through the woods is made terrifying not so much by Franklin being sawed to death in his wheelchair moments earlier, but by the way her wispy, long hair seems to constantly wrap itself around tree branches and thorns as she herself runs around in an ever-tightening circle like a clueless farm animal.
Hooperâs reputation has since waned and heâs regarded at best as a one-hit wonder. Some have suggested that the beginning of the end was a high-profile gig basically co-directing Poltergeist with Steven Spielberg. Hooper reportedly had âcreative differencesâ with the superstar mogul regarding the filmâs necessary scare quotient. Spielberg was fulfilling his boyhood fantasies over on the set of E.T., and Hooper might have ended up damning any further chances at getting into Hollywoodâs good graces after that (though his reputation had already been damaged from going over budget on his previous film, 1981âs The Funhouse). One recent and significant work by this sadly neglected auteur was a cartoonish sequel to Texas Chainsaw Massacre starring Dennis Hopper that, though considered by some to be equal to the original, unfortunately also literalizes the first filmâs implicit reaction to Vietnamâs effect on America.
In the end, both The Funhouse and Poltergeist are underrated as late-breaking entries in the American Nightmare canon of vanguard horror. Indeed, the latter is almost a freakish bookend to the period: trickily political (the invading paranormal deviants are actually vengeful westward explorersâ spirits upon whose graveyard a suburb was built) as well as a societal mirror in that Americaâs community standard had shifted from the countryside to the upwardly mobile suburbs. But Hooper may well end up being remembered solely for Texas Chainsaw Massacre, the film that fully earns him a place alongside the greatest malaise-shredding horror mavericks.
Cast: Marilyn Burns, Allen Danziger, Paul A. Partain, William Vail, Teri McMinn, Edwin Neal, Jim Siedow, Gunnar Hansen Director: Tobe Hooper Screenwriter: Kim Henkel, Tobe Hooper Distributor: Bryanston Films Running Time: 83 min Rating: R Year: 1974 Buy: Video
David Fincherâs Films Ranked, from AlienÂł to Mank
On the occasion of Mankâs release, hereâs a ranking of every Fincher feature film, from worst to best.
The controversy of authorship that continues to engulf Orson Wellesâs Citizen Kane hinges on whether or not Herman J. Mankiewicz deserves primary credit for the filmâs sensibility. Such insistence rests on the naĂŻve notion that screenplays are pearls that remain unchanged and uninfluenced by other craftspeople throughout a filmâs production. Mankiewiczâs acerbic wit is very alive in Citizen Kane, but so is Wellesâs beautiful brioâhis formal flourishes and innate instinct for lacing a punchline with ironic tragedy. These two elements combust, in fact, to yield a film that suggests a link between the fast-paced, no-bullshit American newspaper comedies of the 1930s, many of which Mankiewicz worked on, and the German expressionism of the 1920s, among other things. This irresistible union brokered a new idea of the American auteur.
David Fincherâs Mank opens in 1940 with Mankiewicz (Gary Oldman) en route to a ranch in Victorville, northeast of Los Angeles. This idle has been arranged for Mank by Welles (Tom Burke) so that the former may recover from a broken leg, as well as, more pressingly, dry out from booze so as to knock out a draft of a project called American in three months, which is to be Wellesâs cinematic debut after blazing a glorious trail in the worlds of theater and radio. Riffing on the flashback structure of Citizen Kane, Fincher jumps around in time throughout the â30s, as Mank alienates himself from Hollywood and its true, subterranean source of power, which is represented by publishing giant William Randolph Hearst (Charles Dance).
With his sharp tongue and profound alcoholism, Mank gradually works his way toward a fate of sitting in a cabin, ailing, essentially alone, penning a screenplay thatâs probably intended as a form of revenge against those who rejected him over the years, while also serving as a Proustian expression of longing over lost days and unrealized promises. In real life, the script would be retitled, stripped down, haggled over and shotâtransformed into a film that would be viciously contended with, hailed as a classic, and debated endlessly throughout the epochs of time. For cinephiles, Mank may rekindle such a debate. Chuck Bowen
On the occasion of Mankâs release, hereâs a ranking of every Fincher feature film, from worst to best.
11. AlienÂł (1992)
AlienÂł may be the only film ever made to peak with its logo. As the 20th Century Fox fanfare crescendos over the studioâs familiar logo, the music holds on the minor chord before the usual last note, replacing jubilant bombast with a dissonant groan of strings. The alteration produces an immediate sense of discomfort and unease, setting the tone for something ominous and fearsome. Itâs an ingenious shot across the bow from Fincher, ushering in a feature career dotted with immaculately ordered, carefully scored works of blockbuster entertainment that veered from audience-pleasing major keys to their grim underbellies. The perversion of the Fox theme epitomizes a succinct grasp of horror that only occasionally surfaces in the film proper. Too often, AlienÂł shows its seams, whether in its thematic arc or the design of the xenomorph, and at not even two hours it still feels weighed down by unnecessary exposition and padded suspense scenes. Jake Cole
10. Panic Room (2002)
In one way or another, Se7en, The Game, Fight Club, and Panic Room are all about the same things: confrontations between classes in capitalistic society; the extreme measures necessary to jolt people out of complacency; the ways in which class distinctions suppress the natural instincts and morality of citizens. The most style-forward of these films, Panic Room is a violent ballet between a representative of the upper class (Jodie Foster) and the representatives of the lower classes. Thereâs a formalist sensibility in Fincher that often shows itself even in small or seemingly unimportant moments. But in Panic Room, his love for objects and abstract composition takes over the film, sacrificing too much of the characterization and narrative drive that have propelled his more successful work. Still, his fluid camerawork, augmented by computer tricks, is wondrous to behold, for the way it gives the impression of flowing through anything in the cameraâs path, peeking inside to see how objects are assembled and how things are laid out. Ed Howard
9. Gone Girl (2014)
The sea-sawing motions of the novelâs he-said-she-said structure, which so cunningly toys with our expectations of narrative and relationships, clearly appealed to Fincher, whose art has always been devoted to the enigma of personality and memory. But he catalogues the events of the novel with an elegant brusqueness that feels wiped clean of potential resonances, like the kitchen floor where Amy (Rosamund Pike) lost copious amounts of blood. Fincherâs detachment is fitting here only insofar as heâs dealing with characters who are always on guard. But thereâs detachment, and then thereâs disinterest. In flashbacks that punctuate the film, Amy is scrutinized with a transparency thatâs laughable. Woe is Amy, a practically brick-to-the-head example of Freudâs concept of the uncanny, and woe is Nick (Ben Affleck), the prototypical nebbish whoâs unlucky to have gotten caught in her crosshairs. Or any womanâs crosshairs, for that matter, which is consistent with the bookâs vision of Nick being incessantly victimized by the other sex, women who are depicted only as shrill, lecherous, petty, or conniving. Thereâs a comic streak to the film that suggests Fincher may understand the material as trash, but itâs the kind of affectation that only reinforces, rather than dulls, its insults. Ed Gonzalez
8. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2011)
While Fincherâs deliberate, rather perceptible âreimaginings, compressions and reductionsâ of the novelâs lurid, soap-operatic plot, which is rife with the familiar intrigue of your average mass market paperback (rape, incest, serial murder, Nazis, and a shitload of clue-solving), canât elevate trash to art, they do give one the impression of attending the most handsome funeral procession ever mountedâwhich is, in the end, better than feeling like youâre the corpse lying inside the coffin. If Lisbethâs goth armature feels less like a stunt this time around, itâs because Rooney Mara understands it as such, a calculated bit of theater that the character is only committed to in the abstract; itâs a purposeful exaggeration meant to deliberately alienate the world. Of course, that Lisbeth, in the end, is at her most vulnerable when pining for Mikael may flesh her out as a character, but it also confirms that Dragon Tattoo, in all its incarnations, is really nothing more than the story of girls running to and from their daddies, and no matter how you dress it up, itâs inherently retrograde. Gonzalez
7. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (2008)
Fincher would seem an unlikely choice to helm The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, an era-spanning epic whose sweeping, poignant romance doesnât seem a natural fit for a digital-era auteur whose films are generally typified by cool, sleek, exacting meticulousness. And yet that measured, distant disposition is, in fact, what prevents his latest from sliding into the mawkishness for which it so often seems destined. As written by Eric Roth, the saga (adaptedâand, more fundamentally, expandedâfrom an F. Scott Fitzgerald short story) is in many ways a kindred spirit to the screenwriterâs Forrest Gump, in that its center is an especially unique individual whose life, and unflagging amour for a beauty he can only temporarily be with, plays out against the backdrop of 20th-century America. However, whereas Rothâs prior, Robert Zemeckis-helmed Oscar darling was as mushy as a box of chocolates melted by the midday sun, Fincherâs is a far more reserved portrait of everlasting love, a work whose aspirations for grandeur are, more often than not, mitigated by a controlled aesthetic and emotional rigor that situates the film in a comfortableâif nonetheless sometimes problematicâmiddle ground between the sentimental and the standoffish. Nick Schager
6. Mank (2020)
As he was in The Social Network, Fincher is conscious throughout Mank of the explanatory clichĂ©s of the biopic and avoids them. Penned by his late father, Jack Fincher, the film abounds in barely articulated cross-associations that suggest a bygone society driven by an infrastructure of unknowable vastness. And the opportunity to conjure such a labyrinthine and increasingly sinister impression of community is what excites Fincher throughout. Like many of his other films, especially Fight Club, Zodiac, and The Social Network, Mank is a parable on the limits of control, fashioned with rueful self-awareness by one of Hollywoodâs most famous contemporary control freaks. As a cartoonist had to live with his inability to crack the riddle of the Zodiac killer, Herman Mankiewicz (Gary Oldman) must live with an existence, fashioned in part by his own self-loathing and lack of discipline, in which heâs to ineffectually bear witness to the flexing of American corruption as represented by an intersection between the press, Hollywood, and the government. Such a theme also very consciously aligns Mank with the âfallen, not-quite-great manâ themes of Citizen Kane. Bowen
Review: Steven Soderberghâs Let Them All Talk Is an Exhilarating Comedy of Regret
Soderberghâs formal gamesmanship enlivens what could have been a stodgy scenario.3
On the surface, Let Them All Talk suggests a routine dramedy about late-life crisis, in this case concerning a successful author who reaches out to old friends in an attempt to deal with longstanding regrets. Alice (Meryl Streep) won the Pulitzer Prize long ago for a bestselling novel whose success she resents. Sparked by a suggestion from her literary agent, Rachel (Gemma Chan), whoâs eager for Alice to deliver her latest manuscript, the author makes a transatlantic crossing on the Queen Mary 2 from New York to Britain, where sheâs to accept a prestigious literary award. Joining Alice are two friends from college, Roberta (Candice Bergen) and Susan (Dianne Wiest), as well as her nephew, Tyler (Lucas Hedges), who wishes to study people who came of age before social media. With such a setup, one could normally devise a flowchart predicting when each character will learn to live out loud.
Let Them All Talk, though, is directed by the ever-adventurous Steven Soderbergh, who has a thorny relationship with formula. The filmmaker prizes genres for their iconography and sense of ritual, though he scrambles and slows them down so as to concentrate on atmosphere and suppressed emotions. Refreshingly, Soderbergh has a particular distaste for characters telling audiences what they want to hear, especially for the sake of the latterâs orientation. In the case of Let Them All Talk, scenes are often nipped in the bud just when they appear to be reaching a crescendo, forcing us to recognize that the anticipation of a climax, whether or not itâs experienced, is the filmâs real subject. Alice, Roberta, and Susan are sad and conditioned by experience to guard themselves, while Tyler is on the verge of encountering the sort of disappointment and heartbreak that compel people to guard themselves in the first place.
Almost to a fault, Soderbergh resists the boisterousness that we expect from a reunion comedy, as Let Them All Talkâs central trio of characters are often separated, cordoned off into different factions that sometimes include Tyler and Rachel, and this sense of fragmentation becomes a dry running joke. Alice routinely asks Roberta to have a drink with her only to be matter-of-factly rebuffed, as thereâs tension between the two women that threatens to dwarf the poignantly modest Susan, whoâs often recruited as Robertaâs partner for board games over tea and coffee, where they primarily discuss Robertaâs animus and Aliceâs pretension. In a sharp, surreal joke, a game of Scrabble reveals the subtext of a fraught conversation.
The film was shot over two weeks on the real Queen Mary 2 and improvised under Soderbergh and screenwriter Deborah Eisenbergâs supervision, and the actorsâ sense of control is especially phenomenal given these circumstances. The dialogue isnât shaggy in the tradition of most improvisatory comedies, but precise and finely honed in order to draw blood, accentuated by richly comic and melancholic body language. At the head of a superb cast, Streep allows one to see that Aliceâs pretension is inseparable from her loneliness, serving as an expression of her insecurity, creativity, and desire for connection. These longings are made manifestly clear in one of the filmâs most moving scenes, in which Alice gives a lecture on the ship, paying a tribute to an obscure author that announces her desire to be understood. Streep is too electrically brittle, too alive with inner furies, to resort to platitude, rendering her character recognizably maddening and lost in this sequence and many others.
The film inevitably invites comparison to Azazel Jacobsâs French Exit, which also stars Hedges as a young man attempting to make sense of family and friendship in a virtually identical setting. In its most vivid passages, French Exit luxuriated in the glamorous mystery of a cruise ship, which Soderbergh mines less for intrigue than for the emptiness felt by people who need to go looking for it. Thereâs a sense that this self-conscious artist isnât allowing his characters to surprise themselves, and so Let Them All Talk can feel locked in a holding pattern of disappointment and miscommunication, even if thatâs by design. Itâs as if Soderbergh is hesitant to let his characters cut loose for fear of turning the film into something routinely uproarious, making us want for a vulgar curveball or two, or even simply a joke thatâs rooted in warmth rather than detachment. As such, itâs bracing when one scene, which finds Alice transcending her myopia to comfort Tyler, disrupts Let Them All Talkâs moroseness.
That isnât to say that Let Them All Talk lacks for the exhilaration of Soderberghâs signature formal gamesmanship, which here enlivens what could have been a stodgy scenario. His compositions abound in characters suspended in negative space, emphasizing their sense of longing, while also suggesting the intricate bowels of a ship thatâs playing host to other unseen stories. Meanwhile, Soderberghâs editing is characteristically sharp throughout, transforming the charactersâ conversations into curt and rhythmic sonatas. These techniques arenât examples of style for its own sake, as they show Soderbergh regarding the trio of legends at the filmâs center with curiosity and respect as co-conspirators, as the ferocious stars of an atmospheric comedy of regret, rather than as potential gold-watch recipients whoâre headlining condescendingly life-affirming pabulum.
Cast: Meryl Streep, Candice Bergen, Dianne Wiest, Gemma Chan, Lucas Hedges Director: Steven Soderbergh Screenwriter: Deborah Eisenberg Distributor: HBO Max Running Time: 113 min Rating: R Year: 2020
The Best Sci-Fi Movies on Netflix Right Now
These films show us utopias, dystopias, distant planets, and our own Earth destroyed.
“The [sci-fi] film has never really been more than an offshoot of its literary precursor, which to date has provided all the ideas, themes and inventiveness. [Sci-fi] cinema has been notoriously prone to cycles of exploitation and neglect, unsatisfactory mergings with horror films, thrillers, environmental and disaster movies.â So wrote J.G. Ballard about George Lucasâs Star Wars in a 1977 piece for Time Out. If Ballardâs view of science-fiction cinema was highly uncharitable and, as demonstrated by some of the imaginative and mind-expanding films below, essentially off-base, he nevertheless touched on a significant point: that literary and cinematic sci-fi are two fundamentally different art forms.
Fritz Langâs Metropolis, a visionary depiction of a near-future dystopia, is almost impossible to imagine as a work of prose fiction. Strip away the Art Deco glory of its towering cityscapes and factories and the synchronized movements of those who move through those environments and whatâs even left? Itâs no accident that some of the greatest cinematic adaptations of sci-fi novels bear only a passing resemblance to their source material. Ridley Scottâs Blade Runner, for example, simply mines some of the concepts from Phillip K. Dickâs Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? about human-looking androids, using them as the raw material for a haunting urban future-noir that owes more to visual artists like Moebius and Antonio SantâElia than it does to Dick himself. Then thereâs Andrei Tarkovskyâs Stalker, which transfigures Arkady and Boris Strugatskyâs briskly paced novella Roadside Picnic into a slow, mesmerizing journey into an uncanny space.
Ballard may have been right that literary sci-fi has provided all the interesting themes and ideas for which sci-fi in general has become known, but he failed to grasp how cinema has expanded our understanding of sci-fi by pricking at our collective visual consciousness. The titles below (all presently streaming on Netflix) have shown us utopias, dystopias, distant planets, and our own Earth destroyed. Some of these depictions are humorous, others haunting. Some rely on complicated special effects, others use none at all. But theyâre united by their fearlessness in breaking down boundaries and thrusting us into worlds beyond our own. Keith Watson
10. Midnight Special (Jeff Nichols, 2016)
With Mud and Take Shelter, writer-director Jeff Nichols has already used withholding narratives to weave distinctly Southern tales about fringe believers, survivalists who could also be seen as evangelists. Nichols was forthright about the motives of his protagonists, but cagey about whether their causes were worth believing in. Alton Meyer (Jaeden Lieberher) is another in Nicholsâs lineage of would-be prophets, but no one here doubts the world-changing potential of the childâs visions. If in Midnight Special is, at its heart, a work of science fiction, it rolls out like a chase film. With the help of his childhood friend, Lucas (Joel Edgerton), Altonâs father, Roy (Michael Shannon), has kidnapped the child from captivity at a compound run by a Branch Davidian-like cult that once counted Roy as a member. Given its twilit suburban adventures and encroaching security forces, the story exudes a superficially classical sensibility, recalling Starman and Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Nichols has an easy mastery of pacing and tension, employing a churning sound design (and a pulsing score by David Wingo) that allows moments of occasionally bloody action to arrive with a frightening blast or a deep, quaking rumble of bass, and the film moves with purpose to its final destination. Christopher Gray
9. Mad Max (George Miller, 1979)
The Mad Max trilogy is the work of a talented virtuoso who blended seemingly every trope of every movie genre into a series of punk-rock action films. The plots, which are nearly irrelevant, are always similarly primitive even by the standards of low-budget genre films: In a bombed-out future version of the outback, a vicious gang pisses off a brilliant highway daredevil, Max (Mel Gibson), and stunning vehicular mayhem ensues. Though the second film, most commonly known in America as The Road Warrior, is often cited as the masterpiece of the series, the original Mad Max is still the most ferocious and subversive. The 1979 film most explicitly riffs on delinquent racing movies and the kinds of crudely effective 1970s horror movies that would sometimes show a family being violated in a prolonged fashion, and there are sequences in Mad Max that could be edited, probably with few seams, into, say, Wes Cravenâs The Last House on the Left. Mad Max also has a distinctly Australian masculine tension thatâs reminiscent of other outback-set classics such as Wake in Fright, as itâs concerned with the pronounced sexual repression and frustration of a predominantly male population thatâs all dressed up in tight leather with little to do apart from mounting their bikes and revving up their big noisy engines. Chuck Bowen
8. Jurassic Park (Steven Spielberg, 1993)
Even detached from the fuzzy flow of nostalgia, Jurassic Parkâs splendor remains firmly rooted in a fixed set of attributes, particularly the way Steven Spielberg girds his high-flown fantasy within a context of concise, carefully constructed filmmaking. Itâs this combination of flashy thrills and solid fundamentals that makes for whatâs perhaps the most perfect distillation of the Spielberg brand, with its giddy embrace of the fringe possibilities of special effects, its blending of swashbuckling adventure with overtones of genuine terror, the fondness for small personal stories couched within impossibly large narratives. While even his best films involve a certain measure of hokey schmaltz, he should be equally noted for the precise craftsmanlike qualities that turn them into uniquely rewarding experiences, his insistent focus on assembling worlds from the ground up, accounting for visceral details, no matter how ridiculously fantastical the story may be otherwise. In Jurassic Park this means building an outlandish dream kingdom on a bedrock of scientific detail, on a narrative level, and mixing still-shaky CGI effects with more large-scale models, on a visual one, qualities which help make that grandiosity tactile. Jesse Cataldo
7. Her (Spike Jonze, 2013)
Spike Jonzeâs Her begins with a love letterâa misdirect. Itâs a billet-doux by proxy, ghost-authored, dictated to a machine. We open on the wide-eyed mug of Theodore Twombly (Joaquin Phoenix), seeming to speak from the heart, recalling fondly a first love that proves, with the reveal of an incongruous anniversary, to belong to somebody else. So the âhandwritten lettersâ of beautifulhandwrittenletters.com are merely approximations of the form: our near-futureâs phantom memorandum. But what matters here is that the love is real. Theodoreâs letters, in a sense the filmâs emotional through line, are never less than deeply felt, swelling with earnest affection. That heâs talking through and to another canât reduce the depth of feeling in the sentiments. The genius of Her is that it doesnât ask you to believe in the truth of its speculative science fiction so much as it does the truth of its romance, which is to say that Samantha (Scarlett Johansson) means more as metaphorâfor a hard-won connection, long-distance or otherwise remoteâthan as a prediction of future tech. Her is about âthe modern condition,â but not, importantly, in the strictly satirical sense: It tells us less about how we live than how we love. Calum Marsh
6. Back to the Future (Robert Zemeckis, 1986)
Long before Robert Zemeckis re-envisioned the 1960s as the era America gave itself over to stupidity (to the delight of Rush Limbaughâs dittoheads nationwide), he blasted the 1980s back into the 1950s with Back to the Future. Or, rather, he blasted the 1980s specifically for its return to a 1950s-reminiscent moral and political agenda. Looking back on it with the same sense of from-the-future assurance that informed the movieâs own creation, Back to the Future is a logistically beautiful but almost inhumanly perfect confluence of internal logic and external forces. It stands up on its own as a well-oiled, brilliantly edited example of new-school, Spielberg-cultivated thrill-craft, one that endures even now that its visual effects and haw-haw references to Pepsi Free and reruns seem as dated as full-service gas stations apparently did in 1985. Its schematic organization of what Marty McFly (Michael J. Fox) and Doc Brown (Christopher Lloyd) need to accomplish and its steadily mounting series of mishaps demonstrating how they can go wrong represent probably the most carefully scripted blockbuster in Hollywood history, but the filmâs real coup (and what separates it from the increasingly fluent pack of Spielberg knockoffs) is in how it subtly mocks the political pretensions of the eraânot the 1950s, but rather the 1980s. Eric Henderson
5. E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial (Steven Spielberg, 1982)
As omniscient as E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial is about the bond a lonely young boy shares with the alien he all-too-briefly calls his best friend, some of the filmâs most pitch-perfect moments subtly suggest how children regard the inscrutable behavior of adults, especially parents. The film, among other things, pulls grown-ups back into the vortex of feelings theyâve either repressed with age or have allowed to break toward bitter instead of sweet. Steven Spielberg in his prime was so adept at reflecting the innocent simplicity of childhood feelings that his talent seems to draw out the worst suspicions among lifeâs lost souls, those to whom the concepts of purity and simplicity have somehow become weapons in the mindâs battle with the heart. E.T., a visitor whose biological makeup ensures his stay on Earth wonât be for long (which he realizes when he makes the tear-jerking decision to sever the bio-rhythmic tether between him and Henry Thomasâs Elliott), is something of an abstraction for the grief Elliott feels upon his fatherâs abandonment. His departing aphorism, âIâll be right here,â is sage advice for someone who understands profoundly the loss Elliott feels and the capacity for him to forgive. Henderson
4. The End of Evangelion (Hideaki Anno, 1997)
When Hideaki Anno ended Neon Genesis Evangelion, his elaborate analogy for his own untreated depression, with a moment of calming, redemptive group therapy, the backlash he received from fans who wanted a cataclysmic climax was overwhelming. In response, Anno crafted this theatrical alternate ending, in which he brutally and unsparingly gave fans all the nihilistic chaos they could ever want. If the anime seriesâs finale was a psychological breakthrough, End of Evangelion is the relapse, an implosion of self-annihilating revulsion and anger rendered in cosmic terms. Religious, sci-fi, and psychosexual imagery intersect in chaotic, kaleidoscopic visions of personal and global hell, all passing through the shattered mind of the show’s child soldier protagonist. Its finale is the most fully annihilative visualization of the Rapture ever put to screen, a mass death rendered as cathartic release from the hell of existence that, in a parting act of cruelty, leaves the broken, suicidal protagonist alive to bear witness to oblivion. Jake Cole
3. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (Michel Gondry, 2004)
Introverted nice guy Joel (Jim Carrey) hears of an experimental procedure to erase troubling memories, and dives right in when his impulsive girlfriend, Clementine (Kate Winslet), washes her brain clean of their love-shattered relationship. Joelâs memories go backward in time from the last gasp of their love to their initial spark, but there are sideways detours along the way that take him to infancy and memories of his first childhood humiliation. James Joyce might have applauded this Phil Dick-caustic/Gnostic rendition of his Nighttown from Ulysses, with Clementine as Joelâs face-changing Penelope/Molly Bloom. Joel attempts to fight the erasure in his own mind, and the film admits early on that itâs a fight he cannot win. That he keeps on fighting anyway is the crux of Eternal Sunshine, and a breakthrough for Charlie Kaufmanâwriting about the human condition more than questioning our lives as self-made fictions. The fantasies of the film are more ârealâ than anything he’d written before, because they define who we think we are. Joel rediscovers his love for Clementine through fantasy, which is to say through his clouded memories of her. Such things are precious, and Gondry revels in that world in all its fleeting, flickering, ever-mutating joys. Jeremiah Kipp
2. A Clockwork Orange (Stanley Kubrick, 1971)
Stanley Kubrickâs A Clockwork Orange is about uninspired moral negligence, and about its hero tuning into violence as entertainment and institutions using violence and brainwashing as a means of control. Itâs Kubrickâs most prescient work, more astute and unsparing than any of his other films (and he had more where that came from) in putting the bleakest parts of human behavior under the microscope and laughing in disgust. It was made right after his other high watermark, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and as he returns to Earth from his mind-blowing brush with the cosmic, itâs a sort of sequel about our planet rotting away from the inside. As a drunk says to Alex (Malcolm McDowell) right before taking a vicious beating: âI donât want to live anyway! Not in a stinking world like this! Men on the moon and men spinning around the Earth, and no attention paid to earthly law and order no more!â One could say this was ripped straight from the headlines, only nowadays one could argue thereâs no attention paid to anything, be it outer space or earthly matters, just an endless feeding to audiences who have developed a voracious taste for, as Alex would say, âthe [good] old ultra-violence.â Kipp
1. Total Recall (Paul Verhoeven, 1990)
An imaginative expansion of the brisk Philip K. Dick short story, âWe Can Remember It for You Wholesale,â this film about fake memories and a real interplanetary crisis now stands redolent with nostalgia, both for its time, as well as for itself. Beneath its show of smoke and mirrors, mercenary babes, and treacherous holograms, Total Recall is a story about a man who must choose between two possible, contradictory realities. In one timeline, heâs an earthbound schmuck; in the far less likely one, heâs a hero who must save an oppressed people on a faraway planet. He canât afford to waver, but itâs our privilege to do so. As viewers, weâre welcome to consider the persistent motif of walls collapsing, subterfuges dissolving, and rugs being pulled out from still more rugs. The film now exists in a twilight of an era in which factory-produced entertainment could still serve as a keyhole into a dimension of weird, through which we might glimpse the otherworldly, and contemplate fondling the third breast. Jaime Christley
The Best Horror Movies on Netflix Right Now
These great horror films are currently streaming on Netflix.
Ever since audiences ran screaming from the premiere of Auguste and Louis LumiĂšreâs 1895 short black-and-white silent documentary Arrival of a Train at La Ciotat, the histories of filmgoing and horror have been inextricably intertwined. Through the decadesâand subsequent crazes for color and sound, stereoscopy and anamorphosisâsince that train threatened to barrel into the front row, thereâs never been a time when audiences didnât clamor for the palpating fingers of fear. Horror films remain perennially popular, despite periodic (and always exaggerated) rumors of their demise, even in the face of steadily declining ticket sales and desperately shifting models of distribution.
Into the new millennium, horror films have retained their power to shock and outrage by continuing to plumb our deepest primordial terrors and incarnate our sickest, most socially unpalatable fantasies. They are, in what amounts to a particularly delicious irony, a âsafe spaceâ in which we can explore these otherwise unfathomable facets of our true selves, while yet consoling ourselves with the knowledge that âitâs only a movie.â
At the same time, the genre manages to find fresh and powerful metaphors for where weâre at as a society and how we endure fractious, fearful times. For every eviscerated remake or toothless throwback, thereâs a startlingly fresh take on the genreâs most time-honored tropes; for every milquetoast PG-13 compromise, thereâs a ferocious take-no-prisoners attempt to push the envelope on what we can honestly say about ourselves. And some of our favorites are currently streaming on Netflix. Budd Wilkins
10. Cam (2018)
When Wilhelm Reich developed the concept of âsex economyâ in 1931, he had in mind something like the way societal expectations or advertising may compel someone toward compulsory masturbation. Almost 90 years later, compulsion is but one of an array of factors informing Cam, Daniel Goldhaberâs lithely satirical and startling take on the present state of online sex work. Based on screenwriter Isa Mazzeiâs own experiences as a cam model, the film is neither plainly sex positive nor outright cautionary in its depiction of Alice (Madeline Brewer), an up-and-coming streamer whose account is hacked and stolen by someone appearing to be her doppelgĂ€nger. Even as Cam gives new meaning to âghostingâ when Alice watches âherselfâ online, the filmâs strengths come from an intimate familiarity with the anxieties that accompany a life predicated on thriving in a gig economy still owned and operated by impenetrable customer service mechanisms and corporate channels of older, sweaty white men. Cam is also one of the first American films to grapple with the realities of being doxed to family and friends, further demonstrating its primary acumen as a check on the social pulse of a particular strain of U.S. conservatism that continues to think about and patrol sex work, and those who participate in it, in even pre-Reichian terms. Clayton Dillard
9. The Monster (2016)
In The Strangers, Bryan Bertino exhibited a masterfully lush style that owed quite a bit to the elegant camera pirouettes of John Carpenter. Here, the filmmaker utilizes his command of medium for more individualized purposes. By the time that The Monster reveals itself to be a horror film, weâre so engrossed in Kathy (Zoe Kazan) and Lizzyâs (Ella Ballentine) pain that the arrival of the titular menace strikes us as an authentic violation of normality, rather than as a ghoul arriving on demand per the dictates of the screenplay. The film has an eerily WTF arbitrariness that should be the domain of more films in the genre. Chuck Bowen
8. The Blackcoatâs Daughter (2015)
The Blackcoatâs Daughter has a sad, macabre integrity. Kiernan Shipka, Lucy Boynton, Emma Roberts, Lauren Holly, and James Remar are poignant in their minimalist roles, and writer-director Oz Perkins arranges their characters in a cleverly constructed narrative prism that simultaneously dramatizes violence and its aftermath in an endless chain reaction of perpetual cause and effect. And the carnage, when it arrives, is staged with an aura of guttural bitterness that refuses to give gore-hounds their jollies, elaborating, instead, on the desolation of the characters committing the acts. When the demons appear in the film, and in terrifyingly fleeting glimpses, Perkins understands them to spring from the deepest chasms of human despair. Bowen
7. 1922 (2017)
In 1922, Wilfred James (Thomas Jane) initially scans as a broadly brutish characterization given by an actor looking to disrupt his handsomely aloof image, following a cinematic tradition of expressively filthy, monosyllabic and flamboyantly antisocial characters such as Daniel Plainview and Karl Childers. Though Janeâs dramatization of rage is haunting and shrewdly comical in its overt and ultimately moving ĂŒber-manliness. The casual violence of Wilfredâs physicality is subtly calibrated, particularly the tension in his muscled back as he drinks lemonade on the porch after a hard day of murder. Complementing Janeâs portrait of coiled wrath, Molly Parker physicalizes the fear that informs every minute wrinkle of Arletteâs relationship with her husband, which the character attempts to paper over with bravado, inadvertently sealing her doom. Arlette is one of countless women whoâre damned if they do and if they donât, yet somehow the men are able to rationalize themselves as the victims. 1922 informs Stephen Kingâs pulp feminism with primordial, biblically ugly force. Bowen
6. The Invitation (2015)
The Invitation filters each sinister development through Willâs (Logan Marshall-Green) unreliable perspective, to the point that one friendâs failure to turn up at a lavish dinner, or anotherâs precipitous departure, appear as if submerged, changing with each shift in the emotional current. Returning to the rambling house where he and Eden once lived for the first time since the death of their son, Will finds himself inundated anew by his heartache, and the film, which otherwise hews to crisp, clean realism, is run through with these painful stabs of memory. Eden slashes her wrists in the kitchen sink, the sounds of children playing emanate from the empty yard, inane talk of the Internetâs funny cats and penguins becomes white noise against Willâs screaming: The question of whether or not to trust his sense of foreboding is perhaps not so open as director Karyn Kusama and company might wish, but against the terrors of continuing on after losing a child, the issue of narrative suspense is almost immaterial. Matt Brennan
5. Session 9 (2001)
As in real estate, the three most important factors in Brad Andersonâs brooding Session 9 are: location, location, location. The filmmakers have hit upon something special with the Danvers State Mental Hospital, whose sprawling Victorian edifice looms large over the narrative: A motley crew of asbestos-removal workers, led by matrimonially challenged Gordon (Peter Mullan), run afoul of a baleful, possibly supernatural, influence within its decaying walls. Anderson uses to brilliant effect a series of archived audio recordingsâleading up to the titular âbreakthroughâ sessionâthat document a disturbing case of split personality. While the film doesnât entirely stick its murderous finale, no one who hears those scarifying final lines of dialogue will soon forget them. Wilkins
4. Before I Wake (2016)
Director Mike Flanaganâs Before I Wake hintsâin flashesâat a remarkably cruel psychodrama, physicalizing one of the worst and most common fears that orphans share: that theyâre awful and unlovable, and therefore undeserving of parents. This fear is similar to the terror that parents have of inadvertently destroying or disappointing their children, and Flanagan unites these anxieties with a ghoulishly inventive plot turn that he doesnât fully explore. Flanagan is deeply invested in Codyâs (Jacob Tremblay) welfare, to the point of rigidly signifying the various manifestations of the boyâs nightmares, pigeonholing irrationality into a rational framework so as to justify a moving yet literal-minded finale. Chaos couldâve opened Before I Wake up, allowing it to breathe, though Flanaganâs beautiful and empathetic film cannot be taken for granted. Bowen
3. The Evil Dead (1981)
The Evil Dead still feels like the punchiest horror flick this side of a Dario Argento giallo. Sam Raimi relentlessly fashions the filmâs first half as a creepy-crawly sweat chamber with evil seemingly taking the form of an omniscient, roaming camera, gleefully poking fun at his five protagonists along the way. Despite the signsâthe difficult-to-start vehicle, the fallen bridgeâno one else believes the woods are alive. Ash (Bruce Campbell), horrordomâs most memorable wuss, and his girlfriend, Linda (Betsy Baker), share an intimate, peek-a-boo moment in which he gives her a necklace, and when heâs later forced to kill her, Raimi takes great joy in referencing this coquettish exchange of affection. Now infamous for its over-the-top gore and cheesy effects sequences, The Evil Dead is most impressive for Raimiâs unnerving wide angle work and his uncanny, almost unreal ability to suggest the presence of intangible evil via distant headlights, bleeding light sockets, and, in the filmâs most awesome set piece, a simple game of cards. Gonzalez
2. The Guest (2014)
The Guest is carried by an intense and surprising mood of erotic melancholia. Adam Wingard leans real heavy on 1980sâor 1980s-soundingâmusic in the grandly, outwardly wounded key of Joy Division, and he accompanies the music with visual sequences that sometimes appear to stop in their tracks for the sake of absorbing the soundtrack. The film is a nostalgia act for sure, particularly for The Hitcher, but it injects that nostalgia with something hard, sad, and contemporary, or, perhaps more accurately, it reveals that our hang-upsâdisenfranchisement, rootlessness, war-mongering, hypocritical evasionâhavenât changed all that much since the 1980s, or ever. Bowen
1. Poltergeist (1982)
Tobe Hooper is officially credited for having directed Poltergeist, but itâs co-scripter Steven Spielbergâs fingerprints that are all over this dark-mirror image of E.T. and Close Encounters of a Third Kind, about unseen spirits tormenting a suburban family. Itâs structured as an escalating series of reveals, from the frisson elicited by inexplicably mobile furniture on up to third-act hysteria derived from birth imagery, child peril, and the eternal creep factor of video snow in a dark room. Hooperâs Grand Guignol flourishes are occasionally evident, particularly when a paranormal investigator pulls his own face off, but the technical proficiency is all Spielbergâs, as is the abiding interest in families and the influences (supernatural or otherwise) that disrupt them. Abhimanyu Das
Review: Netflixâs The Prom Is the Dream Date It Wasnât on Broadway
Ryan Murphyâs vibrant film adaptation makes a closer-to-seamless whole of the storyâs disparate parts.3
When The Prom opened on Broadway in 2018, it wasnât quite the dream date it might have been. Despite amassing a small, passionate following and six Tony nods, the musicalâwhich fizzled in trying to fuse a gentle queer teen romance set in rural America with a sardonic, self-referential satire on show businessâclosed in less than a year.
Now, though, The Prom has found its proper soulmate in Netflix, as Ryan Murphyâs vibrant film adaptation makes a closer-to-seamless whole of the storyâs disparate parts, thanks to a cast that smooths over the musicalâs roughest edges. Thereâs still buoyancy in the backflip-saturated choreography of Casey Nicholaw (who directed the Broadway production) and in the often-charming score from Matthew Sklar and Chad Beguelin, but itâs the newly enriched humanity of the showâs most extreme charactersâboth the Broadway bigwigs and the backwater bigotsâthat allows The Prom to soar on the screen.
After the disastrous reviews for their lousy Eleanor Roosevelt musical threaten to end their careers, Broadway has-beens Dee Dee Allen (Meryl Streep) and Barry Glickman (James Corden) hatch a desperate plot to recapture the spotlight: They will become celebrity activists. But every celebrity activist needs, as Dee Dee puts it, a âcause cĂ©lĂšbre,â and a quick Twitter search directs them to Emma Nolan (Jo Ellen Pellman), a teen from Edgewater, Indiana, where the high school PTA has canceled prom to prevent Emma from attending with her girlfriend. Off Dee Dee and Barry go, along with showgirl Angie (Nicole Kidman), Juilliard-educated bartender Trent (Andrew Rannells), and a bus filled with the non-equity touring cast of Godspell, to take a stand against Edgewaterâs ignorant Hoosiers and, if all goes well, go viral.
On stage, The Prom never quite managed to meld the over-the-top self-worship of the Broadway invaders with the small-town sweetness of Emmaâs romance with closeted Alyssa (Ariana DeBose), daughter of PTA chair and local homophobe-in-chief Mrs. Greene (Kerry Washington). As in the stage production, the richest moments are those shared between Emma and Alyssa; here, DeBose sounds especially spectacular, and Murphy sets up the loveliest song, âDance with You,â in a tender swirl of cherry blossoms.
About halfway through, the film starts to commit the same sin as the showboating, self-involved quartet of Broadway divas by sidelining Emma, forgetting why we came to Edgewater in the first place. But while this detour largely sank the stage show, drowning the sincerity of Emmaâs storyline in loud hamminess, two smart choices pull the film back from the brink. One is the deepening of Barryâs backstory: Like Emma, Barry knows what itâs like to come out to an unaccepting family, and the film adds a moving reunion with his mother (Tracey Ullman). When Barry celebrates the opportunity to finally go to prom, a rite of passage robbed from him in adolescence, Murphy shows Barry dancing triumphantly with his younger self. The visual flexibility of filmic storytelling elevates musical moments like theseâand, in this case, takes the focus off Cordenâs performance, which is often hampered by a shoddy American accent.
The even wiser move is casting Streep, who, even when Dee Dee is at her most vain, conveys the plausible performativeness of a woman who cloaks her imposter syndrome and fear of betrayal behind bombast that prevents anyone from getting too close. So when Emma learns that she can affect change in Indiana all on her own, the Broadway gangâs vainglorious sojourn doesnât feel like itâs been a waste of their time or ours. Streep undergirds Dee Deeâs shift toward altruistic action, absurdly outsized as the character may be, with an awareness of her underlying fragility, as she grows stronger and more vulnerable by meeting Emma and a principal (Keegan-Michael Key) who holds Dee Dee accountable for her selfishness.
Less plausible is the en masse about-face of Emmaâs intolerant classmates, but on the individual level, Washingtonâs taut take on a mother torn between her love for her daughter and her entrenched beliefs is less a portrait of radical transformation than a carefully calibrated redefinition of what it means to care for a child. Though her part is small, Washington packs paragraphs of meaning into each worried glance or slowly softening glare. It turns out what this big Broadway musical needed most of all was the precision of a close-up.
Cast: Meryl Streep, James Corden, Jo Ellen Pellman, Nicole Kidman, Keegan-Michael Key, Andrew Rannells, Ariana Debose, Kerry Washington, Tracey Ullman, Kevin Chamberlin, Mary Kay Place Director: Ryan Murphy Screenwriter: Bob Martin, Chad Beguilin Distributor: Netflix Running Time: 131 min Rating: PG-13 Year: 2020
Review: Kill It and Leave This Town Vividly Marries the Mundane and the Dreamlike
Mariusz WilczyĆskiâs animation style strikes an unlikely balance between the childlike and the proficient.3
Composed of sketches in motion, against backdrops of lined paper with the wrinkles, smudges, and tape left visible, Polish artist and performer Mariusz WilczyĆskiâs Kill It and Leave This Town militates against the extinction of traditional animation techniques. Not for a moment is the viewer allowed to forget that these are drawings, sequenced to create the illusion of movement. If the magic of animation is resurrected in WilczyĆskiâs hands, itâs a dark magic, as familiar with the grotesque as it is the lyrical.
Kill It and Leave This Town explores the industrial city in Poland where WilczyĆski grew up. Among factories humming with machinery, along dreary streets lined with beer cans where the only splashes of color are the red stripe of the Polish flag or the ribbon in an old ladyâs hair, WilczyĆskiâs mother and father stumble through their lives. WilczyĆski himself makes cameos from time to time, drawn as a naked giant, at once infantile and overgrown. In one scene, the father attempts to show the family a fairy tale titled âHow Fiki Miki Mouse Sailed Across the Seas and Oceans from Americaâ on a slide projector, raving and cursing when the device gets stuck between slides. In another, the mother babbles on her deathbed to a son too busy drawing to pay her any attention. The film borrows its form from poetry as opposed to traditional narrative cinema, resulting in a loose assemblage of vignettes that loop back on one another, recreating the associative activity of memory and imagination.
The filmâs animation style strikes an unlikely balance between the childlike and the proficient. Dense spirals pouring out of smokestacks, a recurring motif, resemble smoke only insofar as they cite the scribbles that stand in for it in childrenâs drawings, whereas the sequence of a morticianâs hands sewing up the body of WilczyĆskiâs mother exhibits the cold precision of a draftsman. One scene on a trolley is rendered entirely by hand except for the windows, replaced with live-action film of rain droplets streaming down glass. Such atmospheric composites recall Don Hertzfeltâs Everything Will Be Okay, as well as Soyuzmultfilm classics like Yuri Norsteinâs Hedgehog in the Fog. Tadeusz Nalepaâs score, with all the charm of someone improvising songs on a guitar, echoes the animationâs off-the-cuff quality.
WilczyĆski exploits his medium to bind the mundane with the dreamlike, continuing a long tradition of Eastern European surrealism. In a scene at a fishmonger, the fish floating in a barrel of water become people ready to be gutted and beheaded. Later, WilczyĆskiâs mother stumbles off the trolley into an ominous figure, sheathed in a trench coat, hat, and gloves, who gives her change for the fare. When she asks, âWho the devil are you,â his head swivels around to reveal a talking cat, like Behemoth from Buglakovâs Master and Margarita, who claims to be âpart of that power which wills forever evil, yet does forever good.â
Only in hand-drawn animation can such fairy-tale grotesqueries convince, in part because it never aims for photorealism; WilczyĆski leaves in the free-hand scribbles and the stutter between frames for our imagination to iron out. Even in a city only accessible to memory, a world of the past constrained by poverty and despair, anything is possible for WilczyĆski, as it must have seemed in childhoodâand yet no possibility scrubs clean of the stain of death.
Cast: Krystyna Janda, Andrzej Chyra, Maja Ostaszewska, MaĆgorzata KoĆŒuchowska Director: Mariusz WilczyĆski Screenwriter: Mariusz WilczyĆski Distributor: Outsider Pictures Running Time: 88 min Rating: NR Year: 2020
Review: 76 Days Is a Harrowing Document of the Covid Outbreak in Wuhan
The documentary may be the defining portrait of the dawning of the Covid-19 pandemic.3
Like Ai Weiweiâs Coronation, Hao Wu and Wiexi Chenâs 76 Daysâco-directed by another journalist who chose to remain anonymousâdocuments the early days of the Coronavirus outbreak in Wuhan, China. While Aiâs film manages to slip a number of pointed critiques of Chinaâs authoritarian tactics passed the countryâs typically hawk-eyed censors, 76 Days, which takes its title from the length of Wuhanâs lockdown early in 2020, presents China in a more universally flattering light. What the film lacks in political commentary, however, it makes up for with its tight focus on the daily grind of the medical staff and countless volunteers tirelessly working at the Wuhan Red Cross Hospital.
Much of the film follows doctors and nurses, clad in protective gear, as they make their rounds, reassuring patients that everything will be fine, even as theyâre only just beginning to understand the virus and how to treat it. The toll this regiment of 12-plus-hour days takes on the staff is palpable in virtually every frame, with insert shots of the medical team asleep on benches or slumped over in chairs speaking to the sheer exhaustion of being a cog in a medical machine, quickly churning through patients with no light at the end of the tunnel. One nurse, while being comforted as her dying father is taken away to quarantine, is ultimately told that she needs to remain composed so she can ready herself to return to work the next day.
Although the staffâs sacrifice and composure under fire is amply documented, 76 Days never stoops to sentimentality, eschewing fawning talking-head interviews and a musical score. Throughout, weâre left brimming in the immediacy of the chaos at hand; only the glimpses we catch of patients whoâve spent weeks, sometimes months, in the hospital provide a concrete sense of timeâs passage since the start of the lockdown. Most memorable of these patients is an elderly man who repeatedly leaves his room to wander around the hospital and is continually corralled by different nurses back to his room. His exploits lend the film a bit of levity even as his backstory, once revealed, makes his foibles all the more heartbreaking.
The nightmare of caring for thousands of patients during a pandemic also extends to the intake and discharge processes. This makes for a few touching and cathartic scenes once certain patients finally receive the approval to return home, such as when the aforementioned older gentleman receives applause and well wishes from many of the nursing staff as he exits the hospital. But the filmâs most poignant moment comes when an endlessly patient young couple finally meets their newborn child for the first time several weeks after her birth.
These brief glimpses of joy are counterbalanced not only by the gravity of the pandemic as itâs being fought on the frontlines, but also by the cumbersome and often tragic logistical tasks that the hospital staff must perform, such as dealing with the belongings of the dead. Among said belongings is the still-functioning cellphone of one deceased patient that displays 31 missed messages, a mere hint of the suffering that even many of the healthy residents of Wuhan endured in those early days of the outbreak. 76 Days is full of small yet revelatory moments like this, and in keeping its gaze so firmly planted on both the medical staff and patients as theyâre forced to navigate the uncharted territory of a deadly new virus, the film may be the defining portrait of the dawning of the Covid-19 pandemic.
Director: Hao Wu, Wiexi Chen, Anonymous Distributor: MTV Documentary Films Running Time: 93 min Rating: NR Year: 2020
Review: Soul More Sublimely Mediates on the Pull of Music Than It Does the Afterlife
In a troubling reversal from Pixar films past, itâs kids who will have to do the most heavy lifting to keep up here.2.5
Joe Gardner (Jamie Foxx), the main character of Pixarâs Soul, is a jazz pianist living in Harlem whoâs desperate for music gigs alongside his part-time job directing the disengaged middle schoolers in his band class. When the school principal offers him full-time hours with benefits, it feels more like a final surrender than a lifeline. The threat of lifelong mediocrity has tightened its grasp around every corner of Joeâs life. In a brilliant stroke, even the classic âWhen You Wish Upon a Starâ tune that plays over the logo before most Disney movies is heard here as if played by Joeâs out-of-tune student ensemble.
Soul, directed by Pete Docter and co-directed by Kemp Powers, quickly reveals that Joe is anything but mediocre. Hearing melody in the wail of sirens and rhythm in the cacophony of a jackhammer, he has music in his, well, soul. When Joe catches his big break auditioning to play with a pro quartet, headlined by imperious jazz saxophonist Dorothea Williams (Angela Bassett), the film follows him into âthe zone.â Not since Fantasia has a Disney film treated music with such reverence, as the seed of all the visual flowering that follows. As pinks and purples swirl around Joe and as his fingers coax unexpected harmonies from the keyboard (Jon Batiste provides the impassioned playing), Soul gives itself over fully to his music.
For these gloriously substantial few minutes, itâs jazz set to animation rather than the other way around. As such, itâs hard not to want Soul to be all about music, not just as metaphor but as the very real engine that drives the filmâs characters forward. Musicâs extraordinary impact is palpable when Joeâs face lights up as one of his students, Connie (Cora Champommier), leans into a trombone solo, and as Joeâs fingers escape his anxiety in their own improvisatory pursuit. Walk away 15 minutes into the film, at the end of what would make, on its own, a snazzy, sublime short, and youâll have seen Pixarâs greatest, purest tribute to the arts.
But Joeâs joy, and soon the filmâs, is cut short when he plummets down an open manhole, and finds himselfâor, rather, his soul, depicted here as a blue-green turnip-shaped substance with glasses and a fedoraâon the pathway to the Great Beyond. Refusing to face death, Joe hurtles into the void toward the Great Before, where not-yet-born souls obtain their personalities in a Youth Seminar. Mistaken for a celebrated psychologist, Joeâs soul is assigned a mentee, a cranky pre-human called 22 (Tina Fey) who refuses to cooperate: Sheâs unwilling, and, so far, unable to find the âsparkâ that will allow her to be born into a human body. Previous famous mentors have tried and failed (the soul of Carl Jung amusingly tells the difficult 22, âStop talkingâmy unconscious mind hates youâ), but Joe sees 22 as his ticket back to Earth.
Itâs somewhere around here that Soul, co-written by Docter, Powers, and Mike Jones, starts to veer down its own wrong path, abandoning its accessible storytelling, along with that vitalizing jazz soundtrack, for a confusing maze of pseudo-spiritual planes of existence. Besides the Great Beyond and the Great Before, souls can also be in the Zone, where tuned-in artists like Joe sometimes find themselves while still alive, or in a desert of Lost Souls, which belong to people whoâve forgotten how to live (hedge fund managers, in particular, weâre told).
In this ever-evolving terrain occupied by 2D and 3D life forms, the filmâs visual adventurousness takes off as contrasting animation styles collide. At the Youth Seminar, flat, geometric figures with transparent features direct the bulbous souls to where they can pick up personality traits (at the Excitable Pavilion, for example). Meanwhile, a New Age-inflected Mystics Without Borders subplot, with Graham Norton voicing the tripped-out Moonwind, adds a daringly vibrant psychedelic color palette to the gentle blues and greens of the Great Before. But as the categories of souls keep expanding, the rules for these overlapping worlds grow foggy, and by the time that Feyâs voice is coming out of Joeâs body in a switcheroo thatâs never quite explained, itâs hard not to feel as if the film has lost track of its internal logic.
At the core of the Pixar model is an exploration of friendship within the familiar parameters of the buddy comedyâJoy and Sadness in Inside Out, Sully and Mike in Monsters, Inc., Marlin and Dory in Finding Nemo, all the way back to Toy Storyâs Buzz and Woodyâand Soul tries hard to plug into the transformative power of friendship in pairing Joe with 22. Despite Feyâs droll delivery, 22, who says she chooses to speak with the voice of a middle-aged white lady in order to be âannoying,â isnât convincing enough as a fully formed character for their relationship, or Joeâs investment in 22âs decision to be born, to ever matter.
The contours of these worlds seem just hazy enough to land on the safe side of blasphemy; sometimes it seems like the filmâs imprecision is a deliberate attempt to draw piecemeal from various belief systems and sidestep offending religious audiences by addressing the presence or absence of higher powers at all. But the viewers that seem most painfully left behind are the ones to which Soul should rightly matter the most: kids. Soul swirls with self-help lingo about finding your spark and seeking your purpose, but thatâs almost entirely in the context of Joeâs midlife crisis, a sliver of the human experience with which children seem unlikely to resonate. In a troubling reversal from Pixar films past, which magnanimously welcomed grownups along for a sophisticated ride, itâs kids who will have to do the most heavy lifting to keep up here.
Cocoâs take on the Land of the Dead and Inside Outâs representation of depression exemplify explorations of âgrownupâ topics with a probing awareness of the ways they also touch kidsâ lives. For a while, it seems that Soul, in its treatment of the Great Before, will have a similar capacity for digging into big, unanswerable questions with care and clarity. But while most Pixar films pride themselves on presenting rich, fantastical responses to real-world wonderings, Soul keeps conjuring up visions that donât correspond precisely enough to anything in the real world. Itâs not clear whether the film ultimately offers a call to arms to pursue a passion or a warning that creative passion alone doesnât provide for a fulfilling life.
Cast: Jamie Foxx, Tina Fey, Graham Norton, Rachel House, Alice Braga, Richard Ayoade, Phylicia Rashad, Donnell Rawlings, Questlove, Angela Bassett, Cora Champommier, Margo Hall, Daveed Diggs, Rhodessa Jones, Wes Studi Director: Pete Docter Screenwriter: Pete Docter, Mike Jones, Kemp Powers Distributor: Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures Running Time: 100 min Rating: PG Year: 2020
Review: Black Bear Is an Unnerving Look at the Baggage that Fuels Creation
Shot through with darkly existentialist humor, the film finds Aubrey Plaza throwing a gauntlet to filmmakers who have typecast her in the past.3
Lawrence Michael Levineâs Black Bear belongs to a long tradition of sexual psychodrama, in which a handful of frustrated and privileged characters hole up in a remote place and exorcize their resentments. This tradition is so venerable that it was parodied by Christopher Guest over 30 years ago in The Big Picture, and thereâs also a dark strand of existentialist humor running through this similarly self-conscious film.
Levine casts doubt on his narrativeâs sense of reality in the opening sequence, wherein a young woman (Aubrey Plaza) is sitting on a pier in a swimsuit looking out at a vast foggy lake. After a moment, she rises and proceeds into a luxurious home, ascends a flight of stairs, and sits at a desk and smokes a cigarette. Soon, she begins to write in a notebook and the narrative segues into whatâs presumably a dramatization of the story she fashions. This scene will be repeated several times in Black Bear, suggesting both a leitmotif and a temporal loop.
We then see this woman, Allison, being dropped off on a road a bit away from the home. Meeting Allison at the drop-off point is Gabe (Christopher Abbott), who immediately sets about flirting with her. Itâs the sort of flirtation indulged by aspiring artists and self-conscious intellectuals-in-training, rife with deflections, fake-outs, and challenges to the nature of reality that complement the suggestion that the entire situation is possibly a projection of some kind. Allison and Gabe arrive at the residence to meet Blair (Sarah Gadon), whoâs pregnant with Gabeâs child, which wasnât mentioned when Gabe was probing Allison about her career as a filmmaker and, especially, her relationship status. The trio have a long and boozy dinner and air a variety of grievances, leading to a shocking accident.
Allison, initially suggesting a prototypical Plaza character, seemingly prizes hip detachment above all else, in the process enraging the judgmental Blair, who was hoping for help in persecuting Gabe for various slights. This characterization of Allison is a purposeful trap doorâa sop to expectation that Levine detonates. In Black Bearâs first half, Allison is cast as a male fantasyâa sexy, seemingly willing and wandering artist whoâs uninterested in Blairâs sermonizing about gender roles. In effect, Allison gratifies the submerged feelings of men and even women who may feel that women wish to be subjugatedâfeelings that are perversely validated in the moment by Blairâs caustic hectoring, which is realistic of the patter of the blowhard at parties who wishes to bore everyone into submission with rigid political views. The filmâs early scenes are so stacked against Blair that one may forgive Gabeâs own simplistic speechifying, though such forgiveness may prompt us to examine our own biases.
Remarkably, the filmâs emotional intensity is inseparable from its parlor game-like self-consciousness, especially when Allisonâs âcool girlâ demeanor is unexpectedly demolished. At its halfway mark, Black Bear effectively reboots itself, switching the core identities of the women, with only Gabe tellingly gaining more power in the process. Suddenly, Allison becomes the vulnerable and rejected party, and Plaza imbues her transformed character with a raw and frenzied anguish. Plaza throws a gauntlet to filmmakers who have typecast her in the past, while Levine plumbs the various forms of subjugation that fuel the creative process.
In Black Bearâs second half, the remote house is now a set for an independent film with a plot that roughly re-stages the earlier clashes between Allison, Blair, and Gabe, who are now reimagined as two actresses and the director, respectively. The film thusly expands beyond the confines of a chamber play to include a micro community, with sustained, confidently intricate set piecesâreminiscent of the game-show scenes in Paul Thomas Andersonâs Magnoliaâthat explore the exhilaration and terror of corralling dozens of working parts and personalities to create something palatable for audiences. Both films understand such corralling to thrive in part on exploitation, and in the case of Black Bear, the film-within-a-story-within-the-film is constructed around Gabeâs gaslighting of Allison, which Levine stages with a sense of unnerving intimacy that might playfully echo his own experience working with his spouse, filmmaker and actress Sophie Takal, whoâs among Black Bearâs co-producers.
Levine is hunting big game in Black Bear, as the film reflects to varying degrees the influence of dozens of self-reflective film classics, mostly notably Ingmar Bergmanâs Persona and David Lynchâs Mulholland Drive. If Black Bear feels too neat, a little too resolved as a game, it may be because the framing device gives us a convenient exit, though even the conclusion isnât without ambiguities. Given that both stories are sex triangles fueled by exploitation, you may be driven to wonder if Plazaâs writer is attempting to find a way to channel real trauma. Or, perhaps more disturbingly, sheâs conjuring it out of thin air, accessing unvarnished pain out of sheer talent and for the hell of it. This coda restores the smug Plaza stereotype to an extent, while alluding to the vast emotional undertow it suppresses.
Cast: Aubrey Plaza, Christopher Abbott, Sarah Gadon, Lindsay Burdge, Alexander Koch, Paola LĂĄzaro, Jennifer Kim, Shannon OâNeill, Grantham Coleman, Haitao Zeng, Lou Gonzalez Director: Lawrence Michael Levine Screenwriter: Lawrence Michael Levine Distributor: Momentum Pictures Running Time: 105 min Rating: R Year: 2020
Review: Survival Skills Surreally Straddles the Line Between Parody and Pathos
Survival Skills feels like something youâd stumble upon on Adult Swim circa 2014.2.5
Purporting to be an actual VHS-shot police training video unearthed from the last gasp of the Reagan era, Survival Skills feels like something youâd stumble upon on Adult Swim circa 2014, sandwiched between Too Many Cooks and reruns of Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job! Yet writer-director Quinn Armstrongâs debut feature resists indulging the easy trappings of our current cultural obsession with â80s-era aesthetics as it digs into some rather contentious and particularly timely subject matter.
Survival Skills opens on a training guide introducing his lesson on a stagy classroom set. Credited as the Narrator, heâs played by Stacy Keach, a recognizable enough personality to immediately break any illusion of found-footage âauthenticity.â But seeing as Armstrong will continue to break the fourth wall and experiment with meta-fictional ideas throughout, Keach, with his never-failing gravitas, becomes the perfect chaperone for this cracked video project.
The Narratorâs first order of business is creating the ideal police trainee, filtering the expected qualities needed for the job through an ancient computer system to end up with Jim Williams (Vayu OâDonnell), an all-American goody-two-shoes who weâll follow through his first year on the force in quaint Middletown, U.S.A. Speaking in insufferably chipper soundbites, Jim acts and sounds exactly like someone who youâd see in the kind of stilted training video that Survival Skills spoofs throughout. But as we enter Jimâs video world, the joke becomes that heâs almost the only one here who behaves this way, while his hardened partnerâcuriously named Allison Lohmann (Erika Kreutz), in what must be some kind of inside jokeâand the people they encounter are all perplexed by his alien manner. No matter, though, as Jim continues to take his cues from the Narratorâs booming voice, which seems to be heard solely by him.
The line between the staged world and the real one blurs even further when Jim and Allison are tasked with responding to a domestic violence call involving a married couple, the Jennings. After the cops diffuse the situation, Mr. Jennings (Bradford Farwell) assures them that everything is okay while Mrs. Jennings (Emily Chisholm) sheepishly nods along, but Jim canât shake the feeling that something is off. Defying orders from his superiors (and the natural progression of the training video), Jim begins a quixotic attempt to rescue Mrs. Jennings and her daughter (Madeline Anderson) from a situation that no one but him seems to particularly care about, while the Narrator desperately tries to steer him back on track.
Unlike many a throwback that adopts a retro look and doesnât offer much beyond hollow non sequiturs (Jack Henry Robbinsâs VHYes instantly comes to mind), the film avoids cheapening its domestic-abuse storyline by using its formal conceit to also highlight another absurdity that Jim must confront: the impossibility of positive, meaningful police work within a broken legal (and social) system. The only lesson Jim can ultimately take away from his training is how to not get too involved, while his well-meaning suggestions to Mrs. Jennings that she flee her husband and file charges provoke immediate scorn from the same person heâs trying to help, since sheâs already well aware how stacked the system is against her.
While mostly pulling off this tricky balancing act of humor and real-life horror, Survival Skills doesnât quite go far enough in its critiques, especially in a climate where police-community relations are more frayed than ever. The whimsical mechanics of Armstrongâs world occasionally take precedence over the thematic issues at play, making it strange at times that Jim, who for all intents and purposes is a glorified android (Allison tellingly nicknames him âRobocopâ), becomes so obsessed with this one case when he can barely read the room in any other setting. This dichotomy is even more pronounced in scenes with Jimâs hyperbolically domesticated wife, Jenny (Tyra Colar), who, while being the only other person in the film to behave in the same pre-programmed way, is clearly undergoing a stifled breakdown of her own. In these moments, Armstrong hints at but doesnât fully comment on the correlation between the pressures of police work and domestic violence in police families.
The final act of Survival Skills, however, still intrigues, with Jimâs impossible quandary causing his idyllic existence to come unglued at the seams. Armstrong forcefully dives headfirst into the deep end of the meta pool, staging an aptly surreal revenge climax before Keachâs narrator concludes with a blunt lesson in the futility of policing. Itâs a sentiment that ultimately resonates beyond the filmâs stylistic posturing.
Cast: Stacy Keach, Vayu OâDonnell, Spencer Garrett, Ericka Kreutz, Tyra Colar, Emily Chisholm, Bradford Farwell Director: Quinn Armstrong Screenwriter: Quinn Armstrong Distributor: Cranked Up Films Running Time: 88 min Rating: NR Year: 2020
The Best Horror Movies on Netflix Right Now
The Best Sci-Fi Movies on Netflix Right Now
Review: Francis Ford Coppolaâs The Godfather Coda on Paramount Blu-ray
Review: Kill It and Leave This Town Vividly Marries the Mundane and the Dreamlike
Review: Black Bear Is an Unnerving Look at the Baggage that Fuels Creation
David Fincherâs Films Ranked, from AlienÂł to Mank
Review: Steven Soderberghâs Let Them All Talk Is an Exhilarating Comedy of Regret
Review: Haven Is a Technicolor Tone Poem to Falling in Love in a New World
The Best Sci-Fi Movies on Netflix Right Now
The Best Horror Movies on Netflix Right Now
- Features22 hours ago
The Best Horror Movies on Netflix Right Now
- Features22 hours ago
The Best Sci-Fi Movies on Netflix Right Now
- Video2 days ago
Review: Francis Ford Coppolaâs The Godfather Coda on Paramount Blu-ray
- Film4 days ago
Review: Kill It and Leave This Town Vividly Marries the Mundane and the Dreamlike