filmsunstuck

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2019 RANKED

let’s go 2020 (and honestly, let’s hope it was better than 2019)

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Why are artists the only people we encourage to have feelings?

While rewatching the 2009 MGM remake of “Fame” recently (I know, why do I do this to myself, etc), I found myself watching a trope that I feel like I’ve seen a thousand times before, but had yet to be articulated. Malik (Collins Pennie) is sitting in a room while all of his peers face him. He has just finished detailing the death of his sister, when his teacher jumps in and asks him to expand not on the facts of her passing, but on his feelings surrounding the event. “But I wanna know how you felt, and I think you need to know how you felt,” Mr. Dowd tells him, on the spot, in front of 20 other students. Malik blows up and leaves, but not before his superior informs him that “theater is not a place for cowards.” And just like that, the formula has become clear: learning how you feel and expressing that feeling is is the opposite of cowardice, it is bravery.

This specific type of character development is found in other films too: in “Raise Your Voice” (2004), Terri is unable to process the death of her brother until she shakes off her overpowering father and starts pursuing vocal training. In “Brigsby Bear” (2017), James uses film to learn not only the truth about his upbringing, but to come to terms with it as well. Hell, basically the entire premise of the “High School Musical” franchise is Troy learning to be okay with having feelings, while simultaneously exploring his newfound talent in theater. Time and time again, the idea that it is imperative for creatives to listen to their hearts crops up, even sometimes allowing those around them to be enlightened by whatever final performance takes place, usually with lots of lens flares.

Morality themes are often times found in films targeted at children, and I think the examples I listed above are emblematic of that. However, learning to embrace emotion is nearly always presented in the context of a creative field: sing a song, perform a dance, produce an album, deliver a monologue, direct a film, hit the drums REALLY hard. I can’t think of any other genre, kid-centered or not, where the acceptance of one’s internal state is not just tolerated, but required. Did anyone in “Remember the Titans,” “Hoosiers,” or “Rudy” tell a kid that they need to go home and practice until they don’t just know how to do something, but why, and to verbalize that for the people around them? Has anyone in the entire MCU had a publicly therapeutic moment, where their emotions were considered a true necessity for success? I’m talking more than a knowing glance or an offscreen change of heart. These are common moments in theater kid movies, and at best subtleties everywhere else. And that’s kind of worrying to me.

It makes logical sense that if your job is to create things out of thin air, you probably need to keep tabs on your brain. Emotions provide the juice for that motor; they allow your brain the energy to travel off in some strange direction, where hopefully you can make some new connections and get the job done. But most of us will never have to be creative in our day-to-day lives. Sure, we could get fancy with some problem solving skills, maybe buy an adult coloring book or two, but there isn’t much actually encouraging us to keep in touch with our current mental state. Too often, most of us view emotions as things to be handled at best or squashed at worst. Happiness is great, yes, but it can be quickly replaced with much more difficult responses like hurt or frustration or regret. And for those of us who were never taught the value of those things, they morph from quiet internal alerts to being issues in and of themselves. In essence, it becomes too easy to forget to actually feel your feelings.

Despite the gung-ho attitude provided by these films, creatives aren’t immune to this either. When your feelings guide your work, suddenly it can feel like currency. Once relying on creative energy for your livelihood, feelings are wasted if not utilized, but difficult to utilize under so much pressure. And when the tank runs out and the motivation isn’t there, it can be tough to jump start that engine again. There are reasons why so many people experience writer’s block, why so many creators recommend if you’re gonna start a new venture to just start it, don’t wait for any particular spark of motivation. Because you have to learn to grind it out, even if you aren’t feeling it, and you may as well get used to it now. Plus, burnout is almost inevitable; making yourself vulnerable over and over is exhausting, tapping into your psyche all the time can very easily sap you of the energy you need to make that effort worth it, to turn it into a product. There’s a cycle in that mess of emotions, with lots of loops that turn in and around and behind each other, and creatives don’t always come out the other side loving that experience.

I find myself, as usual, in between these two poles. I am not creative as a profession, but I do have responsibilities that require creative energy. I co-run a website where I have to put out weekly content with varying levels of monotony involved, I write and podcast a few times a month for a different website, and I consume and analyze a lot of media in order to prepare myself for those roles. I’ve also been in therapy for a little over a year: long enough to know how much I intellectualize my emotions, but not long enough to have re-learned a healthy way of handling them. So when I heard Mr. Dowd later in the movie tell Malik that harnessing his feelings will not only make him a better person, but a better actor, part of me was ecstatic. “Finally,” I thought to myself, “a character who will learn to prioritize what he feels, who will actually process it.” But the longer I sat with it, the more I realized how untrue that is. Because Malik didn’t learn to forgive himself or become closer with his mother. No, in the next scene, he went onstage and bared his soul in front of the crowd, and they all cheered, and his arc ended. His struggle became his brand, and his own personal cycle began.

Unfortunately folks, if you are keeping score at home, you’ll find that my conclusion here is a bit of a downer. It seems to me that other genres don’t encourage this attitude for precisely the reasons that artists are: in those worlds, it’s not deemed necessary to accomplish a goal, and in the creative world, it is. To these films, it’s not about growing as a person, it’s about growing as a character, and those two things are not synonymous, and that’s a real shame.

To those too young to know this yet: learning to accept who you are, to understand what makes you tick, it doesn’t just affect how good you are at your job, or your love life, or how many friends you have. It affects every single aspect of your existence, it allows you to grow exponentially. It’s perhaps the most important thing you could ever do, if only  because it is the first step you must take. And to those who already understand that: make sure you pass the knowledge along to someone who needs it. Knowledge only finds value when it is shared, and is probably the simplest way to create the highest impact.

Five years ago, I would have benefited greatly from knowing what I have learned about myself and how my brain works. Five years from now, self-reflection and embracing my emotions will allow me to feel more at home in my mind and body than i currently do. Whether I’m a damn creative or not.

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2018 RANKED

i moved my 2018 to letterboxd to make room for my 2019 rankings, but they are saved here for posterity.

also, for anyone interested, some friends and i made a website where we talk about movies, video games, and other things we enjoy. you can find us here or subscribe to us on iTunes here.

[filmsunstuck]

Hearts Beat Loud packs a quiet punch

                 “When life hands you conundrums, you turn them into art.”

I’ve never been in a band before, but Hearts Beat Loud opens on a scene any vinyl collector knows too well: a White Man is holding a Radiohead record, and then he acts like a jerk. The movie is filled with acknowledgments of the current music industry like this: our protagonists Frank and Sam Fisher first hit it big (or really, hit it at all) by landing a spot on a Spotify-curated playlist; a music representative approaches them not with a record deal, but with an offer to “monetize this thing;” the entire band consists of a few instruments, two members, a looper, and a sampler. Hearts Beat Loud does not just embrace the Soundcloud-era, it relies on it. The ease of access to music, not just for consumers but for artists as well, allows space for a story about what it means to have potential, and what to do when you reach the other side.

I have never been in a band before, but growing up, I played a lot of Rockband. An absurd amount of Rockband. We never found a place for the instrument-controllers, because they just stayed in our living room permanently, knowing that there was always a minimum 20% chance someone would want to play at any given moment. I would play the drums, my dad and brother would play the guitars, and my mom (and the rest of us!) would sing. I remember once, we accidentally hit ‘Enter’ too early and didn’t get to enter a band name in the high score box. But rather than input a long row of As, the row was just left blank. To this day, some 10 years later, we still talk about how our band name is _________. We just stop talking in the middle of the sentence, as if something shiny caught our eyes and that thought is no longer relevant.

I’ve never been in a band before, but I have graduated from high school. I’ve even graduated from college! I’ve prepared and planned and panicked about the future, and I’ve almost given up, in more ways than I can count. I have figured out a new relationship with my father: some concoction of what it used to be and what it will be later, with a dash of therapy and buckets of patience. I have cried, and lost, and fallen in love, and let it go, and held it close to my heart, and chosen to move on. So has Sam. So has Frank.

I’ve never been in a band, but Frank has. Frank, sitting on his stool, looping his own melancholic, hopeful melody, wearing beat up New Balances and ankle high white socks. Just a man, playing an instrument. The only glory he seeks is the glory that comes with resolution, with security, and with promise. I want that too, but I won’t find it in frets or cymbals, or even a sampler that happens to be on sale. Most of us won’t find it there, and some of us won’t find it at all. One day, you’re the kid with all the potential, and the next, you have bills to pay. But when the time for your potential has passed, Hearts Beat Loud shows us that the best way to recover is by simply passing it on.

I saw Hearts Beat Loud once, at the AMC Seattle 10, on June 15, 2018.

Additional Readings:

‘Hearts Beat Loud’ is a sweet drama about learning to love — and when to let go.

Review: Sweet, Wistful Hearts Beat Loud Is a Lovely Entrée into Summer

Nick Offerman and Kiersey Clemons make beautiful music in 'Hearts Beat Loud'

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In THE POST, We Can All Be Activists

                               “What comes next might not be so kind”

If you are anything like me, when you saw that The Post would be arriving just in time for Oscar season, you thought to yourself: “Another movie about journalism, eh? In this political climate? Well, this should be fun.” While I walked into the theater expecting Spotlight: Part Two, I’m happy to say that I left the theater with quite a different lesson.

All throughout the film, Spielberg focused on the people in the background. Of course, Tom Hanks did well playing a Man Who Does His Job, and Meryl Streep expertly portrayed a woman coming into her own later in life, but the moments that captured me most were the small ones. I was more blown away by Tony Bradlee (Sarah Paulson) feeding scatterbrained reporters, keeping track of the runaway board members, and checking her husband’s egotistical tendencies, all without leaving her preordained position as the Wife Of An Important Man. I was more impressed by the young girl, actively being squashed by the professional setting of the 1970s, still taking the time out of her day to help another woman get where she needed to go. Every shot of printing press workers and newspaper packagers and truck drivers reminded me that while Kay Graham may have shouldered the burden of her difficult choice, that choice would have gone nowhere without her deep and wide network of support. Yes, one person had to take the first step, but in order for that first step to mean anything, the rest of us had to follow. Whether Kay’s support came from her advisers, her employees, or other newspapers across the country, it was not important. What was important was that her supporters were committed, and they were everywhere.

There are a thousand other thinkpieces that will pick apart all of the parallels between The Post and our current president’s attitude towards the press, so I won’t spend any time belaboring the point. All I will say is: The Post is a reminder that history doesn’t just happen to us; it happens because of us. You may not be the one who takes the first step, but you can make sure that you follow the lead. Following is just as important.

I saw The Post once at the Majestic Bay Theatre on January 15th.

Additional Readings:

The Post Review: The Best Meryl Streep Vehicle in Years

Steven Spielberg’s Ode to Journalism in “The Post”

In ‘The Post,’ Streep and Hanks lead a stirring homage to the pursuit of truth

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i moved my 2017 rankings to letterboxd to make way for 2018 releases, but if you want a refresher, here’s the link.

you can also follow me on there if that’s what you’re into!!

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LADY BIRD: Thoughts From A Former 17-Year-Old Girl

                          “You both have such strong personalities.”

Anyone who has seen Lady Bird will probably tell you one thing: it’s real.

I’m not Catholic and I’m not from Sacramento, but not that long ago, I was a 17-year-old girl. I’d like to inform you that the consensus is correct. This movie is real.

I’ve fallen for boys like Danny, only to immediately leave them for boys like Kyle. I’ve had friends like Julie who I treated just as poorly, and I’ve longed to be included by people like Jenna. These are high school clichés, but the space they take up in your brain doesn’t feel redundant or pointless, not like they should. Of course, it’s easy to look back at these small problems and realize just how above them you are now, how silly it was to care.

But these seemingly useless worries mix together with honest to god fear.

I’ve sat in my living room, desperately trying to explain to my parents that I understood I was wrong, that I didn’t mean it. I’ve stood next to my mother, praying to be acknowledged. I’ve wondered, in my head and out loud, that I know my father loves me, but does he actually like me? I’ve thought to myself, terrified, what if this was the best I was going to get? How could that possibly be enough?

When you’re young, these problems seem to be on equal footing. In the movie that is your life, they deserve equal screen time. You don’t see how they feed into one another, how deeply connected they are, how deeply connected they have to be. You don’t understand how you are the common denominator in all of it. Sometimes, you don’t even recognize this when you��re old. Sometimes, you stagnate, and don’t learn how to become the best version of yourself. Sometimes, 17-year-old you is as good as it gets.

I’m only 21 now, and I know I have more growing to do. But I also know my perspective offers something unique, something time can blur from view. I can recognize the nonsensical nature of parents who won’t give their kids the ounce of support they are so blatantly asking for, even while I watch myself make similar, selfish decisions. Hypocrisy is not desirable, but it is inevitable, and while Lady Bird begs to feel supported, she will also refuse to be seen in her father’s car. People will call themselves by names assigned by their parents, but refuse to believe in God. I can see the frustrating ridiculousness of how people function, and I haven’t blocked it out yet.

When I started this piece, I knew how I wanted it to start, but I wasn’t sure how I wanted it to end. Maybe that’s something I lack in general: knowing how to let something go, how to find closure. They don’t teach you that when you’re young; they force you to learn it the hard way. I’m still learning, still growing. This won’t be as good as it gets for me, and Lady Bird may not realize it yet, but the same is true for her. To all the Christine McPherson’s out there: I’m pulling for you.

I saw Lady Bird once, at the Regal Meridian 16, on November 24th.

Additional Readings:

Greta Gerwig’s Exquisite, Flawed “Lady Bird”

Review: Greta Gerwig’s ‘Lady Bird’ Is Big-Screen Perfection

‘Lady Bird’ Becomes Best-Reviewed Movie In Rotten Tomatoes’ History

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THE KILLING OF A SACRED DEER Bites Off More Than It Can Chew

      “If you had to choose between them, which would you say is the best?”

Upon stepping outside after THE KILLING OF A SACRED DEER, I felt small and very confused. So much had happened on the screen, and yet none of it was sticking. Brief flashes of insight were shrouded by dark images of children dragging themselves along the ground and the thumping sound of a young boy collapsing over and over again. The minute I thought I knew where it was going, my eyes were shocked closed, and I had to start rethinking what, if anything, I was going to say about this film afterwards. It’s been a few days and I think it’s safe to say I’ve settled on an opinion: this movie warrants multiple watches, but I doubt I will ever watch it again.

(Potential Spoilers Ahead)

Directed by Yorgos Lanthimos, this film could be considered a sequel to THE LOBSTER. Tonally it’s practically identical, with dark humor and straight faces to spare. The color palette is similar, and it even shares a star in Colin Farrell. However, it also improves upon its predecessor’s ideas of commitment and what it means to be honest with yourself. Where I thought The Lobster could feel didactic and overdone, Killing upped the subtlety and added some realism that made the film truly terrifying. As an audience member, I had absolutely no clue what I would do in that situation, so, when we watch as Steven (Colin Farrell) thinks of ways to make his final decision, all I could do was agree and wonder if I would be strong enough to handle it any differently.

While not the only conflict occurring, the audience is watching is the story of a desperate man. He has overcome his alcoholism, a disease often times triggered by desperate circumstances, only to have a mistake he made while drinking re-enter his life in the form of a boy named Martin (Barry Keoghan). Martin tells Steven that he must choose one of his family members to die, and if he does not choose, they will all die. His kids begin to drop, literally, so Steven starts devising plans for how to choose a family member. First, he asks his wife Anna (Nicole Kidman), who says it would be best to kill one of the children, because they can always have another one. Then, he asks their school principal which of his kids is better. Finally, he settles on spinning in a circle holding a rifle and shooting until someone dies. Always, he’s desperate for something else to provide an answer to his question, whether it’s his wife, or fate. Never, does he look inside himself to question what is right.

There are many echoes of Steven’s inability to take responsibility for his actions, both past and present. The audience watches him lie so smoothly that they question if anything he says is true. It could be something as simple as why Martin shouldn’t stop by the hospital, to something as egregious as whether he was responsible for the death of Martin’s father. Then, in his final act, leaving the death of his son to “fate,” we realize just how deep Steven’s lack of self-awareness runs. He never once suggests taking his own life to save his family’s; not when the impossible situation is placed in front of him and definitely not when his children become aware and start doing what they can to ease his decision. He doesn’t blink when his son begins to, in his own way, beg for his life, nor when his daughter offers up hers as sacrifice. At the end of the day, everyone was still equally at risk. Steven never once accepts that he was the one that put his family in danger.

While I think the film follows this thread exceptionally well, there were some things I was left confused by. For example, we see many times where Anna is talked over, walked over, and generally ignored due to her status as “the doctor’s wife.” She speaks about how she is re-decorating the clinic, and never about the fact that she actually runs it. We see both her and her daughter Kim (Raffey Cassidy), lie down as if they were on an operating table, waiting for sex. Kim continuously warns her brother Bob (Sunny Suljic) about what will happen to him and what their father must do, yet no one takes action. It seems particularly ironic that the film would introduce a topic like women not being taken seriously enough, and then proceed to not take it seriously. There was no purpose implied, no redemption to be had. The women were simply brushed aside, both in the context of the film and by the film itself. Also, the movie is extremely dense, and could at times feel like it was built with just enough enigma to be taught in some film studies course 10 years from now, which is not always a tonally pleasant experience.

This film is beautiful and incredibly well-made, with great performances, a great score, and an intriguing plot that warrants its two hour runtime. I’m sure there’s plenty of re-watch value, with the mystery being slowly unveiled and lots of character work. However, I can’t imagine another time where I’d be in the mood to watch something this dark, and honestly, at times, this frustrating. I’m glad I saw it but I think that’s enough for me.

I saw The Killing of a Sacred Deer once at the AMC Seattle 10 on October 30th.

Additional Readings:

The Killing Of A Sacred Deer Is As Scary As Anything You'll Ever See

Film Review: ‘The Killing of a Sacred Deer’

“The Killing of a Sacred Deer” and “The Square”

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Controversy Sells: How mother! Provides Surface Level Commentary And Nothing Else

Disliking mother! is not a particularly “fresh” opinion, but apparently it’s an opinion that Paramount is happy to advertise.

A couple of weeks ago, a new poster was released for mother! that focuses on its divisiveness. In the center of the image, Jennifer Lawrence’s face is split down the middle, with the left half untouched and the right half beaten to near-zombie levels of bruising. On either side, there are pull quotes citing either positive or negative reviews of the film. In other words, to Paramount, there are two things that audiences should see this film for: the arguments you’ll get to have afterwards, and watching the slow destruction of a normally healthy-looking woman.

This poster comes after Paramount’s defense of the film as "audacious and brave.” Sure, those are two words for it. Another two words could be “exploitative and unnecessary.”

For those who have yet to see the film, Lawrence’s unnamed character in mother! spends most of her time watching as her husband and her home falls into chaos. She is an unheard victim, screaming at the strangers around her to stop what they’re doing, to stop touching her, to leave her alone. Aronofsky, the director and writer of the film, intended for this to mirror the abuse humanity does to Mother Earth, and Lawrence’s victimhood is part of that symbolism. Through hurricanes and snowstorms and heat waves, the Earth is screaming at us to stop, but we don’t listen to her. The violence done to Lawrence in the film is a hyperbolic representation of less purposeful, less violent acts done against nature. Unfortunately for many women, this isn’t hyperbolic. This is their life. The right half of the face in the poster above isn’t movie makeup that can be wiped off after work, it’s the face that they see when they look in the mirror.

There are many moments in the film that are used for dramatic tension, that in really aren’t particularly “dramatic.” There’s a moment where Lawrence is walking past a group of people, where a man suddenly reaches into her dress and grabs her breast. She seems bewildered for a moment, and then escapes his grasp, before moving on to the next visually horrifying scene, all set to a soundtrack of screams for help that go unanswered. A sound many of us have heard, or even created ourselves.

This poster, and the film that it advertises, is difficult to stomach. It’s truly a nightmare projected onto a screen, a nightmare that hits far too close to home for many women, despite it’s seemingly ridiculous nature. At my local theater, this movie played alongside An Inconvenient Sequel, a film which provides compelling and scientific evidence for why we should be good to our Mother, as well as Wind River, a film which handles violence against Native American women with delicacy and respect.

In Paramount’s eyes, a shock to the system is more important than an effective, nuanced film, and if that’s where they’re priorities will lie, then I think I’ll pass.

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MARJORIE PRIME: A Meditation On Memory And Legacy

                                  “Oh Marjorie, the things you forget.”

It’s curious how movies affect us. Often times, you can leave the theater enjoying something, but forget its existence completely within a few days, or maybe even a few hours. Less often, when you leave a film, it takes a while for it to catch up to you. You could leave feeling nothing, and then after a couple of hours, connect with it in a way you couldn’t before. It reopens, like a fresh wound, forcing you to relive the emotions you felt when you first witnessed it. Rarely, a film holds you and doesn’t let you go. It changes the way you look at the world when you leave. For me, MARJORIE PRIME was one of the latter.

In Marjorie Prime, memories were less about who you were and more about who you are, now, today. They are bent and molded and created and destroyed, not based on truth, but based on what you think you need. Love wasn’t a fairytale. Love was a confusing combination of obligation, respect, and indebtedness. Death wasn’t an event. It was merely a mark on a timeline so fluid that if you blinked, you might miss it. In this futuristic setting, death marked the shift from you as an individual, to you as a convoluted set of memories that is forever changing. But, of course, we know that isn’t so different from how it already works. We may not talk to our dead mother’s hologram, but we do repeat the same stories in our heads, over and over, never noticing how they change just slightly each time we do so.

When I was a preteen, my grandmother began suffering from dementia. I witnessed first-hand how memories were not the solid things that I thought they were. I watched my mother pretend to be somebody else, for the sake of my Nana’s comfort. She was living proof that memories weren’t foolproof, that love wasn’t always easy. And then one day, she was gone, despite being there the day before. It was less like an event and more like a moment. One day you weren’t dealing with it, and the next day you were. If you weren’t watching closely, it was easy to shake your head in confusion and wonder how you got there. Did you miss something? How could you not realize something so big had occurred?

I don’t think everyone will love Marjorie Prime the same way I did. The structure is something I had never experienced, it seemed almost comprised of many short films, as if any scene could be an appropriate ending. This, while being paired with many fade-to-blacks, made the pacing feel very slow. On the surface, the conversations might feel shallow and unimportant. Most characters only had a cursory level of nuance due to the film’s focus on their relationships. I could see how this might make an audience member feel a bit lost at sea. But I don’t care about those things. For me, Marjorie Prime was a perfect rendering of what it means to be left behind, and how we remember the people who did the leaving.

I saw Marjorie Prime once on September 17th, at the Varsity Theatre

Additional Readings:

Marjorie Prime Is a Quietly Heartbreaking Sci-Fi Drama

MARJORIE PRIME

‘Marjorie Prime’: A not-too-distant future haunted by an unnervingly recent past

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BoJack Horseman Season 4: The Depression Horse Isn’t So Depressing

         It’s just like a dumb teenage girl thing and then it goes away, right?

I love The Depression Horse.

Season 4 of BoJack Horseman achieved what no other television has, including past seasons of the same show. It handled depression, anxiety, and unforgivable behavior with a level of empathy that I’ve never seen before. It served up my neuroses on a silver platter, without an ounce of judgment. I stared at my flaws, right under my nose, and refused to fall apart. This time, it was not about everything wrong with me. No, this season was about tenacity. It was about forgiveness. It was proof that maybe, even after failing a hundred times, an old horse could learn some new tricks.

I relate so deeply to BoJack because it reflects the most frustrating parts of my humanity back to me. It holds a mirror to every awful, undeniable thing that I cannot stand about myself. Yet, season 4 was not depressing. It was therapeutic. It was hard to watch. It was cathartic. It was recognition of my deepest faults. However, for the first time, instead of culminating in a breakdown, I was rewarded with something I have never experienced while watching this show: hope. Hope that, maybe, there’s a chance that I can break my own patterns. Perhaps I am not doomed to repeat everything bred into me so deep it feels like the mistakes come from my very bones. Because I can’t always change my emotions, but I can change my behaviors. And as Diane once said, “all you are is just the things that you do.”

There’s hope for me yet.

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GOOD TIME Proves That Being Unforgivable Can Make For A Good Movie

        “Are you feeling this? Are you feeling as good as I'm feeling right now?”

                        ***************SPOILERS AHEAD*****************

GOOD TIME was not a movie I looked forward to seeing. The hype got to me. I heard everyone raving about Robert Pattinson’s performance, and then I found out it was coming to my local theater, so I figured I would give it a shot. Boy, am I glad I did. In Good Time, everyone and everything is horrible, but the film is so good. There is nuance, and emotion, and depth, and decisiveness. Good Time is a story about exploitation and a man who will do whatever it takes to get what he wants, no matter what.

Technical stuff, first. The score is like nothing I have ever heard. In my opinion, it was better than the score for Dunkirk, which I understand some people would consider blasphemous. The score did an amazing job of creating tension and urgency, without exhausting the audience. The cinematography was beautiful and stylistic, without taking away from the grittiness of the plot. There was not much dialogue, but the dialogue that was present felt real and earned. Somehow, it is very interesting to watch Robert Pattinson walking around while looking worried. And with a runtime of an hour and 40 minutes, I had no complaints on the length.

So, let’s get into what makes GOOD TIME special.

Connie Nikas (Robert Pattinson) is just a man who wants to escape from his grandmother’s house with his mentally disabled brother. But Connie doesn’t have any money. So Connie robs a bank, and gets his brother arrested in the process. Now, Connie wants to get him out, under any circumstances.

Or does he?

Every life Connie touched was destroyed. Nearly every character we met ended up arrested, dead, or somewhere in the middle, after interacting with our beloved main character, who simply wanted to help his brother. Then, we realized that Connie wasn’t trying to bust his brother out, he was trying to save his own ass. The cops were onto him, and Connie didn’t trust Nick to not to rat on him. However, Connie justified all of his actions, so the audience couldn’t help but believe that he was being genuine. As the film continued, Connie’s behavior kept escalating, wreaking destruction at nearly every turn, until finally, like all of the people in Connie’s life, the audience realized who he really was. And like all of the people in his life, we realized it too late. A security guard was drugged. A teenage girl was sent to prison. A man died. And we let it happen.

Connie’s last moments were spent in the courtyard of an apartment building, while we looked down from above. He was a mouse stuck in a maze, and we watched as he just missed his opportunity for his escape.

Nick’s last moments were spent in a room full of other mentally disabled adults. He crossed the room over and over, never getting anywhere.

Good Time was not fun. It was not enjoyable. But it was a well-crafted look into what it is like to know someone deeply manipulative and unhealthy. It was a feeling we have all experienced: realizing that the person you were supposed to care about doesn’t deserve any of your sympathy. It stared you in the face and challenged you, asking “when have you had enough? When are you going to end this?” It was about learning how to cut someone out of your life. It was a film worth seeing.

I saw Good Time once at the AMC Seattle 10 on August 31

Additional Readings:

“Good Time” Is an Instant-Classic Crime Drama for the Age of Trump

Good Time Is a Thrilling Turn for Robert Pattinson

Robert Pattinson is at his best in gritty, powerful ‘Good Time’

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INGRID GOES WEST And How “Dark Comedy” Doesn’t Mean Deep

                                       “I just want to be her friend.”

Let’s talk about INGRID GOES WEST.

We should get something straight. Ingrid Goes West is a comedy in the same way The Martian is a comedy, in the sense that it isn’t.  Sure, there are funny lines and awkward moments, and Aubrey Plaza uses her comedic timing for her character’s advantage, however, Ingrid falls a lot closer to a thriller than anything else. I’ve heard more than a few people compare it to a Black Mirror episode, which is spot on. Ingrid’s whole first scene is nearly ripped from the ending of “Nosedive” and the lead from “Playtest” is also a supporting character in Ingrid. Most importantly, it also echoes the same creepy tone that many Black Mirror episodes utilize. The reality created in Ingrid feels just slightly left of center. Close enough to everyday life for us to relate to it, but punched up a notch so it feels uncomfortable. You could consider it the tonal version of the “uncanny valley,” and it succeeds in making the audience tense while watching, what they thought would be, a comedy. You feel this in the score, in the shot length, in the empty stares of the cast members. Watching Ingrid, the audience can’t help but notice that nothing is as it seems.

Of course, this is the point. Throughout the entire film, everyone we meet ends up being different than what they portray themselves as online. From the start, Ingrid doesn’t hide its condemnation of social media. It’s a careful balance, somehow managing to focus in on social media specifically, and not Millennials Who Just Can’t Get Off Their Phones. Smartphones are simply a conduit to the larger evil, not necessarily the evil themselves. We meet characters who each have a unique relationship with internet culture, and here is where the film gets sticky for me.

Everyone is bad. Ingrid is bad because she is a stalker. Taylor is bad because she views everything through the lens of her Instagram. Ezra is bad because he hates it and is just so annoying about it. Like, he talks about how much he hates it more than anyone else talks about enjoying it. Nicky is bad for a lot of reasons (that ONE scene between he and Ingrid was legitimately terrifying), but especially because he doesn’t care about it. He just uses the internet, and by extension, people, to get whatever he wants, no matter what he says his priorities are. These people are all bad people, no matter how they feel about social media.

So then, I have to ask, what’s the point? If Ingrid is following Black Mirror’s lead, then we know the writers are using hyperbole and satire to make a commentary on trends they see in the current day. But what is Ingrid trying to say? That social media is bad? Open a Time magazine and flip to any page, I guarantee there is already commentary on the dangers of social media. Is the point that having an opinion about social media is bad? That feeling anything other than apathy is dangerous? If that’s the point, I don’t think I’m really interested. I hear that hot take everywhere I go, I don’t need to hear it anymore.

This film is very well-acted and well-written and well-paced and gripping. Time flew by while I watched this movie and I was never bored, not even for a moment. And look, I’m fine with films not necessarily providing any answers. But if you’re not going to provide an answer, you need to at least provide some depth. Some nuance. The conclusion of “everyone is bad and this thing you do is unhealthy,” doesn’t count as adding nuance. Ingrid seems big and deep, but once you think about it, it really doesn’t have much to say.

I saw Ingrid Goes West once at the AMC Seattle 10 on August 24.

Additional Readings:

Review: ‘Ingrid Goes West,’ and Social Media Is Her Road Map

‘Ingrid Goes West’ Review: Aubrey Plaza Goes Psycho in Dark Social Media Comedy

Film Review: ‘Ingrid Goes West’

[filmsunstuck]

A Quick Peek Inside BRIGSBY BEAR

              “We’re your family, James, and we love you for who you are.”

The first thought I had during Brigsby Bear was “if only all of our problems could be solved by summoning the power of light.”

Writing this feels wrong. Brigsby Bear is something that has already found a home close to my heart, despite seeing it for the first time a few hours ago. Revealing why I resonated with Brigsby Bear means revealing myself, in a way that Game of Thrones or Twin Peaks recaps will never demand from their authors. This shit got real.

I saw James (Kyle Mooney) become disillusioned with his parents in a completely unrelatable scenario, that managed to feel not so unfamiliar. I watched him hold tight to the one thing that got him through the day, a thing not so different from my own coping mechanisms. I witnessed him reach out to those around him, invite strangers into his life in a way I could only envy.

Brigsby Bear is a lot of things to me. It is motivation to keep on creating. It is reassurance that the things you love are good because you love them, not the other way around. It is a reminder that there are people out there who will understand you.

It is a promise that those people are worth looking for.

The final thought I had during Brigsby Bear was “it is not the thing you create that matters. What matters is the creation of the thing.” Whether you are making a movie, writing a dumb movie review, or even just constructing a normal life from the fragments around you. It is not the end result that matters. What matters is that you did it at all.

I don’t have a lot to say about Brigsby Bear, and this piece may not have offered any sort of clarity. All I can say is, you should give it a watch. I think you will find that it was worth your time.

I saw Brigsby Bear once at the AMC Seattle 10 on August 18th.

Additional Readings:

Film Crit Hulk SMASH: Goodnight, Adventure Zone

Brigsby Bear is the warmest, sweetest movie about creativity since Be Kind Rewind

Brigsby Bear Is a Clever Bit of Fake ’80s Nostalgia

[filmsunstuck]

Diane Nguyen vs. Media Defensiveness: A Look At BoJack Horseman Episode 207

              “If Hank did anything wrong, they wouldn’t let him on TV, right?”

I never thought I would write about television. There was something about the idea of balancing both episode and season plots that seemed so unapproachable and difficult. However, I am currently re-watching BoJack Horseman to prepare for the fourth season, and after episode 207: “Hank After Dark,” I cannot stay silent anymore. This is one of the tightest, funniest, most meaningful episodes of TV that I have ever watched. In 26 minutes, this episode managed to expose shameful practices within the entertainment industry, expand on the gray area for responses to these practices, and beautifully reveal a beloved character’s fatal flaw, all while making me smile. That is some damn good television.

On the surface, “Hank After Dark” is an episode about what happens when a powerful man is accused of sexual harassment in his workplace. An amalgam of Bill Cosby and David Letterman, Hank Hippopopalous is presented as everyone’s favorite TV uncle, the guy that no one can beat. When Diane happens to mention that there are lots of celebrities out there worse than BoJack - namely, Hank - the world seems to explode. Suddenly, it is all anyone on the news can talk about, despite a potential genocide occurring in Cordovia. Allegations are flying... except for the fact that they aren’t. At no point in the episode does any character detail exactly what Hank has been accused of doing. This is not the story of the trauma that Hank Hippopopalous has perpetrated. This is the story of how society reacts to accusations, separate from the gory details. The audience is forced to take a side, based not on the extremity of the case, but on principle alone. There is no correct answer to “how much sexual harassment is too much sexual harassment?” and this episode understands that. Instead, the real question is, who will be on Diane’s side?

The answer is short: no one is on Diane’s side. Every single person wants her to shut up about it. Wanda catches wind of what Diane said and becomes furious. Hank is the only thing keeping MBN afloat, and her husband works for MBN. What could Diane have to gain from this? After a horrible appearance on MSNBSea, BoJack needs to ask Diane: what does she have to gain from this? Mr. Peanutbutter, tired after a long day of reading death threats about his wife, can’t help but be frustrated. He asked her not to make a big deal about Hank. Why does she have to be the one to speak up, when she was never involved in the first place? What does she have to gain from this? Diane never has an answer, but the audience does. Diane wants to do something meaningful, even if it burns down everything around her.

So begins the fall of Diane.

Flawed characters make the best characters, and BoJack Horseman is chock full of them. But up until this point, Diane has been an audience surrogate, a seemingly sane character in a sea of dysfunction. Sure, she is a bit neurotic and a tad self-righteous, but aren’t we all? Can’t you see yourself in the sweetly introverted, hard-working, passionate Diane? I know I can. However, in “Hank After Dark,” the show finally displays to the audience exactly why you don’t want to be Diane. Diane’s passions get the best of her. Her self-righteousness puts the survival of everyone around her at risk. Despite being reminded time and time again that there are livelihoods dependent on the success of Hank Hippopopalous, she cannot help but speak truth to power, even if it is very much not the time. Just one episode before, Diane was begging Mr. Peanutbutter to find a new job, otherwise they would lose their house. Now, even after telling him that she wants this to go away, she is physically unable to drop it. BoJack states it perfectly when he says “It’s supposed to be my book tour, and she’s completely upstaging me. Kind of like how it was supposed to be my book. Actually, this might just be a thing she does.”

The audience doesn’t realize it yet, but this is just the beginning of the mistakes Diane will make. In the coming episodes, she will come back from Cordovia and refuse to call her husband because she is afraid of admitting to her failure. Instead, she will opt to sleep on the couch of the man who kissed her when he knew she was engaged. She’ll stay there for months, sleeping in too late and drinking too much. Because if she can’t be morally superior, then why try to be moral at all?

The issue of sexual harassment is still rampant in the entertainment industry, and people still don’t understand how to react to their disappointment (see: Nick Robinson being let go from Polygon). "Hank After Dark” does not offer many answers. It does not tell you what to say when a person you respect is revealed to be worse than you imagined. It does not tell you when you should fight the power or when you should let it lie. The only reasonable message to walk away with is that this shit is complicated, and anyone who acts like it’s not, isn’t thinking about it hard enough. And if you are not careful, what you value in yourself can become the darkest part of you.

I think I will end this piece the way the episode ends. Diane watches Hank Hippopopalous deny any allegations, and just like that, it is old news. A man turns to Diane and tells her to smile. Diane lets out a sigh.

Some things will always stay the same.

[filmsunstuck]

THE KINGS OF SUMMER Doesn’t Follow Through

        “A bear who doesn’t believe in anything will be easier to bring down”

There is something about a coming-of-age film that hits home no matter your age. They are not original, in fact they are usually far too derivative, but more often than not, society is enthralled by them. Jordan Vogt-Roberts’ THE KINGS OF SUMMER fell into the expansive category of “coming-of-age” films, despite the fact that the main character never matured. Equal parts ridiculous and heartfelt, The Kings of Summer had an interesting perspective on what it means to be a man, but it faltered heavily on the execution.

As usual, let’s start with the good stuff. This film was unusually well-casted and extremely well-acted. Boasting parts for comedy veterans such as Nick Offerman, Megan Mullally, and Gillian Vigman, you could tell that this film leaned into its humor. It was genuinely laugh-out-loud funny, but never veered into laugh track territory. It felt like the kind of humor you would find in a regular home, albeit a home with a funnier than average dad. In this cast of recognizable funny people, the newcomers Nick Robinson and Gabriel Basso stood on their own, and they succeeded in portraying angsty youth. I never really bought them as “outsiders” or “losers,” but I don’t think they were supposed to be that. They felt more like adolescent boys who just wanted to grow up, without understanding what growing up means.

In this film, manliness is important, especially for Joe (Nick Robinson). Patrick (Gabriel Basso) was only there to get away from his parents, and Biaggio (Moises Arias) was just along for the ride. They provided good foils, but Joe propelled the film’s main themes. Joe was the one who insisted they hunt their own food, the one who reveled in his newfound oneness with himself, which made it all the more frustrating when he went to Boston Market to buy chickens for dinner, or refused to clean up after himself to deter snakes. For Joe, being a man wasn’t about being responsible or having integrity. No, for Joe, being a man was about being independent and doing whatever you want, whenever you want. Obviously, this is an adolescent thought process, but it wasn’t surprising when you looked at his father. Frank (Nick Offerman) expressed immaturity whenever possible, and even got called out by his own daughter (Alison Brie) for making everyone around him miserable just because he was. Vogt-Roberts got a bit heavy-handed with the parallels between Joe and Frank, resorting to cuts that showed the two characters mirroring each other's movements. Joe was following the example his father set, without realizing that there was a difference between growing old and growing up.

This dissonance wouldn’t matter if the film ever clarified it for the characters, or even for the audience. But instead, there were practically no consequences for any of Joe’s actions. Biaggio got bitten by a snake and taken to the hospital, where everyone apologized to each other and moved on from the incident. The girl that Joe humiliated so horribly that she’ll probably never forget it? She forgave him immediately. His father, who was terrified and furious about the loss of his son? Frank rubbed his shoulder and took him home. Joe’s best friend, who was kicked out of the home that he helped build from the ground up? It was assumed that everything was back to normal after one positive interaction. There was no discussion on how immature Joe was, nothing said about how Frank could improve or what would become of their relationship. Rather, the film decided that something life-threatening happened, and therefore, all was forgotten. Life doesn’t work the way The Kings of Summer portrayed it. Actions are real, hurtful words haunt people, and forgiveness is never instantaneous. These are valuable lessons for young people to learn, and it’s disappointing to watch a film get so close to getting it right, and then take a hard left away from the point.

The thing is, I wasn’t frustrated about most of this until I started thinking about it. Initially, I was just happy to watch a funny, entertaining film with a happy ending that had good acting. Unfortunately, upon further reflection, I realized that this coming-of-age film is about a boy who never really comes-of-age. Perhaps this is an attempt at subtle filmmaking, but as a viewer, it felt like they wanted to tell a funny story and couldn’t figure out how to wrap it up. It’s hard to watch a movie get so close, but still be so, so far.  All in all, The Kings of Summer is worth a watch, but probably not worth thinking about much past that.

I saw The Kings of Summer once on August 9th, on Amazon Prime.

Additional Readings:

THE KINGS OF SUMMER Movie Review: A Great Growing Up Movie

Movie Review: Comedy and Naturalism Clash in The Kings of Summer

The Kings Of Summer

[filmsunstuck]

A GHOST STORY Finds Success In Its Failures

       “You do what you can to make sure you're still around after you're gone.”

It is difficult to introduce a film like Lowery’s A GHOST STORY. It is not mainstream, but it still feels familiar. It is simple, but it is complicated. It is about time and life and love and grief, but it struggles to fit these pieces into a tonally consistent experience. At some points, my heart genuinely hurt for the couple at the core of this story, but at other moments, I could not understand what the point was. Surprisingly, when the credits rolled, I felt like my audience had experienced something meaningful which tied us all together, despite its heavy-handedness. Somehow, it still worked. Let’s talk about why.

This film succeeded at depicting daily experiences. The audience felt like a fly on the wall, not only witnessing a person’s grief, but also their happiness, their fear, their entire life. There is one scene where Rooney Mara headed out the front door over and over again, and you could physically feel the days ticking by with each slam. When the next family moved in, you saw the mother talking on the phone, the children playing, a Christmas pass by, all in the blink of an eye. A Ghost Story captured what life feels like. Sometimes, life is a house party. Other times, life is sitting on the floor eating pumpkin pie for four straight minutes and then vomiting (cue the “if David Lynch directed this” jokes). Yet, these scenes felt like they were meant to be set dressing for some greater meaning.

This film tried to be about a lot of things, and as I write, I still struggle to put my finger on the point. The most dialogue heavy scene in the movie was a stranger describing how creation is both futile and necessary for humanity’s survival. The unnamed ghost was a musician in his former life and would understand this futility first hand, so perhaps this was a film about how no matter our impermanence on this Earth, we must find it within ourselves to endure. However, shortly after this scene, the film takes a sharp turn into an anti-capitalism fever dream that climaxes in an Interstellar-esque twist, before settling down back into what we started with at the beginning: the couple. As a viewer, I could not tell which message was most important. The existentialism felt like it was supposed to be the resolution, but I just could not connect with it fully. I could only fully connect with the conflict we were introduced to originally.

The sense of intimacy between the two main characters was emotional and real, and I felt myself in it. It’s not often that simply watching two people lie next to each other makes me reflect inward, and I respect Lowery for inspiring that reflection. Even the ghost’s performance had moments of heartbreak, despite being a literal bedsheet with two holes for eyes. It was incredible how a simple stare or a slow turn could convey human emotions so readily. I have spoken before about how I appreciate less “acting” and more realism, but I did not realize just how bare bones a performance could be and still invoke emotional reactions. When the ghost stared at the photo of him and his past love, my chest ached for him. However, these simple moments would turn into intense bouts of anger that felt unearned. One minute he was somber, the next he was enraged, and the audience never learned enough about his character to understand the tonal shifts. I wanted to follow the breadcrumbs Lowery left, but I often lost the trail.

The only common thread I could find throughout all of these different tones was the idea that death was not important. What was important was what happened with you around, and what happened after you were gone. As another example of conflicting ideas, death was depicted both brutally and subtly. There are two scenes where, in any other film, the deaths would have been drawn out in order to maximize the horror the audience would feel at the loss of these characters. But in A Ghost Story, death itself is not what is meaningful. Instead, Lowery opted to show the immediate aftermath of the deaths, specifically the surrounding characters’ reactions to them. However, with no names or true character development, it does not feel like there is much to learn from their loss. Perhaps Lowery wanted us to understand that life is meaningless and everything will end and the world will go on and your skeleton will melt back into the dirt where it came from. Maybe Lowery thought this was an idea we were supposed to take comfort in. Most likely, not even Lowery knew the answer, and he just wanted us to question why we do what we do. Because money is just money, and when you take away the money, all you have left is people.

At the end of the day, that is what I keep coming back to when I think about this film. People. I may not appreciate the movie’s nihilistic undertones, but I do relate to what it says about people. In A Ghost Story’s characteristic fashion, people are inherently conflicted. A person can believe in the importance of creating art, but refuse to do it without money. They can wish the best for a person, but get mad when that person pursues their happiness. They can love someone, and then leave them. Unfortunately, I can’t help but feel that is not the message I was supposed to walk away with. A part of me wishes Lowery had been more decisive in telling either the whole story of humanity or the story of this core relationship. But then it would not have been this film.

Even after writing all of this, I am still not sure what A Ghost Story is about. I just know that I am still thinking about it. Maybe, that is the point.

I saw A Ghost Story once on July 30th at the AMC Dine-In 10.

Additional Readings:

‘A Ghost Story’: David Lowery’s Sundance Sensation Gets Haunting Soundtrack From Daniel Hart

'A Ghost Story' movie review: Weird? Or wonderful?

A Ghost Story may haunt you, even if you think the ghost looks silly