The Rescue (2021) | Directed by Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi and Jimmy Chin

 4.5/5

In Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi and Jimmy Chin’s The Rescue, the documentary filmmakers take the techniques they honed and perfected in Free Solo and apply them to the much more compelling and emotionally resonant subject matter of the underwater cave rescue of the Thai soccer team. Even though most viewers will already know the narrative’s ultimate outcome, Vasarhelyi and Chin manage to create an almost unbearable tension through their deliberate pacing and careful recounting of the unique challenges faced in mounting this rescue. Stunningly crafted re-enactments are seamlessly combined with archival materials, and the computer graphics used to visualize the cave helps orient us to the space and gives a real sense of just how difficult the rescue really was. The interviews are all compelling, and it’s essential to get into the motivations that drive individuals to dive into caves during their leisure time – though as with Free Solo, Vasarhelyi and Chin only seem to be able to draw out surface-level reflections from their subjects. Still, it’s refreshing to see how frank and honest the film is about the divers’ reluctance to take on such a difficult rescue, and ultimately, why this group of volunteer divers were the only people in the world with the skill set to attempt such a daring and unprecedented rescue. It’s a remarkable and compelling film that is deeply moving.

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Zola (2020) | Directed by Janicza Bravo

 4.5/5

Janicza Bravo’s Zola is a delightful and exuberantly crafted study of perspective, performance, storytelling, and who has power in any given situation. Bravo treads a very delicate line with the film’s tone and the shifts needed to modulate in order to capture the ironic and playful detachment of the narrator’s voice from the original Twitter thread, while still making certain that we’re always aware of the potential for danger and violence lurking around every twist of the plot. It’s one of those rare films that doesn’t pathologize sex work, while still acknowledging the perils and struggles that those involved in that labor face. And while it’s all handled with a grace and subtlety you wouldn’t expect from a film that is this unapologetically boisterous, the film’s examination of shifting power dynamics based on race, class, and gender are all incredibly astute. Bravo’s use of 16mm is gorgeous, and the precise, heightened compositions echo the heightened and perfected self-images we’re all conditioned to compose for social media. The film’s sonic textures are just as important as its visuals, bringing social media to life on screen in fresh and unique ways. There so much to explore in this film – the narrative’s ties to The Odyssey, the parallels between both boyfriends left behind, the longing to return home – that you could easily spend multiple viewings diving into everything that Bravo’s doing with this extraordinary film.

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Annette (2021) | Directed by Leos Carax

 5/5

Leos Carax’s Annette may not be a film for everyone, but if you’re willing to give yourself over to its aesthetic eccentricities and darker edges, you’re in for a moving musical experience unlike any other. Not quite a traditional song-and-dance extravaganza – and really an opera either, even though every word is sung – the film is closer to a narrative concept album brought to life on celluloid. As such, there are sometimes storytelling leaps that occur between songs (or even within verses) that can make the story frustrating if you aren’t expecting a big screen version of an art rock album (with music, lyrics, and screenplay by Ron and Russell Mael of the band Sparks) or if this kind of narrative just isn’t your cup of tea. but if you’re willing to take the leap, there’s much to love here – the music, the performances, and especially the dissection of toxic masculinity. The story itself weaves dark, fable-like qualities into its exploration of performer and performance, audience and expectation, and the sometimes slippery and toxic nature of the relationship between artists, fame, and the public. Beyond some of the uncanny and unreal design elements in the film that heighten its reality, the use of puppetry to bring the titular character to life evokes questions about the ways in which each of the three principle characters use this child for their own ends – in much the same way that adults often coerce and manipulate the children in their lives, forcing them to play a multitude of roles throughout childhood. And yet, as dark and despairing as the film can seem, it nevertheless leaves us ruminating on whether it is possible to forgive those who wronged us, to seek it from those we have wronged, and what the cost is for us when we hold onto our anger.

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The Card Counter (2021) | Directed by Paul Schrader

 5/5

Paul Schrader’s The Card Counter is another powerful, deeply moving film from the veteran filmmaker, continuing in his spare, quiet, introspective aesthetic. For all of its stillness and quiet, it’s an angry film, exploring our nation’s collective guilt – a country that has all but moved on from the grave moral bankruptcy of the Bush years and our post-9/11 willingness to overlook wartime atrocities in the name of our own feelings of personal safety and security. But in the midst of this anger, in the midst of this exploration of guilt, there are also questions of redemption and forgiveness. Is such a thing possible when we’ve perpetrated one of the worst crimes imaginable? When we as a society have allowed such crimes to occur in our name? Schrader uses the casino as a backdrop for these questions of guilt and redemption and forgiveness – a repetitive and soul-draining purgatory without the joy or life or vibrancy you’d find in most films that take place in the world of gambling. And the bleak, gray purgatory is contrasted by the extreme wide-angle hell of the shots he gives us of Abu Ghraib and the illuminated heaven we see in moments of connection – the potential for forgiveness in the touch of another human being. It’s an extraordinary film that gets better the more you analyze and explore the way Schrader’s visual techniques and aesthetics so thoroughly support the ideas he’s exploring – and it’s anchored by some great performances, especially from Oscar Isaac, who has never been better. It’s an exceptional film.

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Barb & Star Go to Vista Del Mar (2021) | Directed by Josh Greenbaum

 4.5/5

Josh Greenbaum’s Barb & Star Go to Vista Del Mar is an outrageously delightful treat from beginning to end – from the precisely composed and sublimely delightful opening credit sequence, to the multiple musical numbers and the joyous conclusion. Everything about the film’s world is just slightly heightened and off-kilter – creating a charming and awkward comedy that will either click for you or that you’ll find totally off-putting. The film functions as a loving parody of the midlife crisis comedy – usually given over to male protagonists – and by putting two women at its center, it playfully interrogates the things we expect single women in their 40s to want out of life. Greenbaum’s use of visual repetition throughout the film to show Barb and Star’s co-dependence is delightful, setting them on their journey of self-discovery. The spy subplot is a bit over-the-top and unnecessary, but it does give us the delightful performance from Jamie Dornan. With equally wonderful performances from the film’s co-writers, Kristen Wiig and Annie Mumolo, it’s one of the best (and silliest) comedies of the year.

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The American Sector (2020) | Directed by Pacho Velez and Courtney Stephens

 5/5

Pacho Velez and Courtney Stephens’s The American Sector is an astonishing work of nonfiction filmmaking, a patient and well-observed portrait of American society and values. The filmmakers travel the country and hold their patient camera on fragments of the Berlin Wall, while capturing snippets of off-screen conversations from visitors to these monuments or at times directly interviewing the individuals who have procured, maintain, or come as tourists to these relics of the past. In embarking on this project, Velez and Stephens’s camera have transformed these enormous slabs on concrete into windows that let us peer inside our country’s soul. The filmmakers give us space to make connections between the divided Germany of Cold War years and our own deeply divided nation, and it’s hard to avoid thoughts of our own borders and the ways so many fiercely attempt to keep out our neighbors to the south. Then there are the strange ways Americans attempt to either present or possess history – all on full display here. Without making any grand statements or giving us a thesis in bullet points, this may well end up being one of the most profound cinematic portraits of the American psyche to come out in recent years.

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In The Heights (2021) | Directed by Jon M. Chu

 3.5/5

Jon M. Chu’s In The Heights is an incredibly charming, visually dazzling musical filled with an infectious joy that’s nearly impossible to resist. So much of the source material translated well from stage to screen, but there were a number of places in which – even if you’re unfamiliar with the stage production – story points and character beats felts as if they were missing or out-of-place, keeping the narrative from being as satisfying as if could have been. The framing device that has been inserted into the story is the film’s biggest misstep, emotionally manipulating the audience and attempting to raise the stakes through narrative deception. Still, the cast is excellent across the board and it’s a delight to see the ways Chu places these the musical numbers in conversation with the entire history of movie musicals. There’s still so much work to do in terms of BIPOC representation , and it’s wonderful to see an almost entirely Latino cast in a major motion picture – it’s something to be celebrated. But it’s also important to note that Afro Latinos, who make up a significant part of the neighborhood depicted in film, are absent from the main cast. Again, there is so much to enjoy about this film, in spite of its flaws and imperfections. It’s one that I’ll undoubtedly see again and again.

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The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It (2021) | Directed by Michael Chaves

 2/5

Michael Chaves’s The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It suffers from the same problems that plague the rest of The Conjuring franchise – the filmmakers believe that computer generated monsters are the most terrifying thing imaginable, and that enough misdirected jump scares can make up for themes that are never fully explored or developed. The biggest problem that all of these films have is that they want to have their cake and eat it too – they make feints at being serious horror films with something important to say, but they never actually follow through with any of the ideas or themes that could give these films any weight or substance. Instead, they rely on the cheap scares and computer effects that become less effective with each iteration. While this installment may not rely on the haunted house tropes of previous films, the remix of conventions is so slight that you can still feel all of the plot points coming at every turn. If Chaves and his writers hadn’t tipped their hand so early, this had the potential to be a compelling mystery about faith and doubt. But since we know right away that supernatural forces are at work, any chance for substance or nuance is lost. This would all be fine if the film was willing to lean into the schlock, but it takes itself so seriously that it’s hard to have the “good time” you sense the filmmakers are trying to engineer.

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Shiva Baby 2020 | Directed by Emma Seligman

 5/5

Emma Seligman’s Shiva Baby is a fantastic, gripping comedy about what it’s like to feel out-of-place in your mid-twenties and about the constantly shifting power dynamics within relationships. Seligman creates a claustrophobic atmosphere throughout the film and constantly ratchets up an unbearable amount of tension as the film progresses. Tight closeups on our protagonist’s face as she’s in conversation with people we don’t see, the unsteadiness of the handheld camerawork as the tension ramps up, and the horror movie score all work together to keep us on edge. Seligman understands that, as funny as young adulthood can be, it can also be comically horrific for young women navigating parental expectations, the norms of any tight knit community to which you might belong, predatory men, and the prospect of finding your way forward. It’s a sharp, funny, painfully honest about what it means to be a young woman today.

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Labyrinth of Cinema (2019) | Directed by Nobuhiko Obayashi

 5/5

Nobuhiko Obayashi’s Labyrinth of Cinema is a gorgeous and deeply moving cinematic experience. It’s a collage of moments and moods, references to previous Japanese films, historical facts and little known incidents, emotional beats and character digressions that all add up to a profound meditation on war, violence, and the power of cinema. The film is densely layered and textured, peppered with literary and cinematic allusions, the screen filled with poetry and historical footnotes that intrude upon the frame – all of which collide in a dizzying time-travel musical fantasia. And yet, with all of the historical and meta-textual references, the film manages to maintain a sense of playfulness and joy, moving toward its powerfully emotional and moving finale. His final film, you can see Obayashi pouring his considerable passion and energy into each frame – and how important he sees the film’s themes and ideas. As the film explores different genres and periods of Japanese cinema, we’ve given the impression that war and nationalism are not just problems of the past, but that these are deeply ingrained problems that need to be addressed on a human level. This is exquisite filmmaking, a work that deserves close examination.