The Personal History of David Copperfield (2019) | Directed by Armando Iannucci

 4.5/5

Armando Iannucci’s The Personal History of David Copperfield is a relentlessly charming, joyous work of literary adaptation. Who knew that Iannuchi, known mainly for his mercilessly cynical political satires, would be the perfect person to adapt Charles Dickens? In face, this may end up being my favorite adaptation of his work, much of which has to do with Iannuchi remaining true to the spirit of the work (and its author) without being slavish to the text. The film’s almost breathless pacing (captured through the lightning fast cuts and overlapping transitions) as we careen from scene to scene echoes Dickens’s own writing method. And Iannuchi’s bent toward satire keeps the film from veering into Dickens’s more mawkish tendencies. It’s refreshing to see the film correct and even comment on some of the novel’s more troubling Victorian sensibilities by casting the same actress as both Copperfield’s mother and first love, remarking that both characters are awfully young (to be married or to be having children), and allowing the young love interest (who is destined to die in childbirth in the novel) to have a moment of meta-fictional agency and awareness. And these meta-fictional elements throughout the film that blend Copperfield’s life with that of Dickens’s, creates a rich and surprisingly moving tale of finding your place in the world. It may not be the complete or authoritative fifteen-hour miniseries adaptation Dickens purists are looking for, but it is one of the most successful transmutations of the novelist’s work onto the big screen.

Small Axe 2: Lovers Rock (2020) | Directed by Steve McQueen

 5/5

Steve McQueen’s Lovers Rock is an absolutely glorious entry into his Small Axe anthology of films. Once again, McQueen captures all of the textures and sensations of a specific moment in time – where the previous film in this series captures the course of several years, this captures just a few brief hours. The camera glides across the dance floor, placing us in the midst of the dancers, allowing us to observe, to get caught up in the music, the rhythms, the emotions of the moment. The “Silly Games” sequence that comes at about the halfway point of the film is one of the most amazing moments of cinema – full stop. McQueen slows down time in a way that only film is able to do, giving us that sensation that comes when you first fall in love, when everything else falls away, but at the same time you’re hyper-aware of everything around you. And he does it all by simply letting his camera float through the room. It’s breathtaking. But this dance party isn’t all connection and love and joy. The racism we saw on display in the first film threatens to intrude in a few key moments, and we’re also briefly witness to the perils of being a young woman in this community. While the darkness is quickly vanquished, its presence is integral to the tapestry McQueen is weaving – the sorrow and the pain, the oppression and the suffering all go hand-in-hand with the joy and the connection. And sometimes, as in this chapter, joy and love will win the day.

Small Axe 1: Mangrove (2020) | Directed by Steve McQueen

 5/5

Steve McQueen’s Mangrove, the first film in his Small Axe cycle of films exploring the Black West Indian community in London from the ’60s to the ’80s, is an exquisite, deeply moving, film filled with incredible performances. The very first thing that struck me while watching this was that this is exactly what we need in this moment – more films, more television, more works of art that show the police as bullies, as racists, as authoritarians who target Black and brown communities rather than the heroes they’re typically depicted as onscreen. It seems like a small thing, and yet, in showing the naked cruelty and the toxic masculinity that pervades law enforcement, McQueen draws direct parallels between police harassment in the late ‘60s and today, along with the protest movements in both time to seek change to such “wicked” justice systems as our protagonists describe it. For a film that tackles such weighty material, it’s a wonder that McQueen never lets it collapse under the burden of sorrow or rage or pain. He consistently manages to find moments of deep joy and connection for his characters and their community – and even moments of authentic humor. McQueen has always been a master of finding moments of visual poetry within his films, and here is no exception: a still shot of a colander rocking back and forth on the floor until it stops after police have torn apart a restaurant; the reflection of a protest leader in a window becoming a silhouette in the rain; and at the show trial of the Mangrove 9, the light that comes in from outside their holding cells – blinding, brilliant, rapturous. The story itself is moving and an important work that still has resonance for us here and now, but the way that McQueen tells this story is transcendent.

A Christmas Story (1983) | Directed by Bob Clark

 4/5

Bob Clark’s A Christmas Story is one of those holiday classics that I don’t typically revisit every year, allowing the film to feel fresh every time I do watch it. This tends to let me appreciate new things about the film without ever settling into that familiar rhythm that often occurs with films the you watch over and over again out of habit or tradition. On this viewing, I appreciated the economy of storytelling – especially evident in the bullying subplot. We’re introduced to the bullies in one scene, we’re given manic and sped up encounters throughout the rest of the film, and then we’re shown the final confrontation. It’s a stroke of genius, using these simple cinematic tricks to effectively build up to the final showdown, without letting the entire film get bogged down needlessly by the weight of multiple encounters. This time through, I also loved the relish with which the adult performers throw themselves into the childhood fantasies, and the ways in which the “real life” sequences are tinged with elements of the surreal, showing us this Christmas memory from the vantage point of childhood. There are definitely moments that date the film and show it to be a product of its time, but there’s also a subtle feminist undercurrent that is striking. It’s a charming film, imperfect, but charming nonetheless, and it’s one I’m glad to revisit every few years.

Where to Watch

Roma (2018) | Directed by Alfonso Cuarón

 4/5

Alfonso Cuarón’s Roma is an astonishing technical achievement that is beautiful to look at, has an impressive sound design, features lovely performances, includes several nice moments… and yet it leaves me cold. Unlike other memory films that attempt to evoke a sense of time and place rather than character, this film is so firmly centered in the story of Cleo, the family’s live-in maid and nanny, that all of the background episodes are incidental to her story. Yet Cuarón’s insistence on keeping us at a distance from Cleo in the film’s gorgeous wide, panning shots keeps us from fully engaging with her narrative – they’re packed to edges of the screen with so much obsessive detail that Cleo is frequently lost. And there is a sentimentality, a rose-colored view on the family’s dynamic with Cleo that still doesn’t quite sit right – even after multiple viewings. Even though the family (and the film itself) gives lip service to the idea that Cleo is part of the extended family, there is a fundamental classism to the way that she is treated by every member of the family. A more self-aware film would have at least one moment to reflect on this, but Cuarón is so awash in this sentimental view of the dynamic between Cleo and the family that any class inquiries are quickly brushed aside. Still, he allows the camera to stop and focus on Cleo’s face for more than a moment, when his panning camera works in service to the story rather than as a technical gimmick, the film soars and you can see a master filmmaker at the top of his craft.

Boys State (2020) | Directed by Jesse Moss and Amanda McBaine

 4/5

Jesse Moss and Amanda McBaine’s Boys State is a captivating, if imperfect, documentary that examines the current state of American politics by examining the American Legion’s annual Texas Boys State conference, which gathers hundreds of teenage boys from across the state of Texas to build a representative government from the ground up. There’s much to appreciate about the film, and it is especially heartening to see the filmmakers actively look for participants who don’t fit the traditional white, ultra-conservative, hyper-masculine mode that so many of these teenage boys have embraced wholeheartedly. The film is at its best when it leans on its vérité roots and simply observes the proceedings – be it the campaigns for Boys State governor or the annual talent show. It’s at its worst and most predictable when it leans into the tropes of reality TV with its simplistic heroes and villains, the couch confessionals, the semi-staged shots for artistic effect, or the self-consciously ironic editing beats. That said, as imperfect as the film may be, the film’s central exploration of politics and the questions it asks about the ways this generation of youth is being shaped by the divisiveness and rancor of our political leaders is still of vital importance today. And if we’re showing our youth that power is the only thing that matters, what kind of lessons are we teaching them about public service and the common good? The film may not provide the answers, but it does ask us to reflect on the essential questions.

Where to Watch

Teorema (1968) | Directed by Pier Paolo Pasolini

 4/5

Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Teorema is an intricately constructed philosophical rumination about the consequences of encountering the uncomfortable truths behind the facades we wear in public. The threadbare plot is relatively simple – a young man is staying with a wealthy, bourgeois family and has a sexual encounter with each of them. When he leaves, the family is left to explore what they’ve learned about themselves. The bifurcated plot makes the film into a cinematic diptych, with the second half of the film serving as a mirror to the first in much the same way that the visitor in the film becomes a mirror for each member of the family. The narrative itself has a kind of fable-like quality, suggesting in the end that deep encounters with the holy or the divine can destroy our perceptions of ourselves – especially if we’ve been insulated by privilege and wealth and power. The precise geometric staging of certain creates an eeriness and tension as Pasolini juxtaposes this rigid formality with a loose, handheld camera to suggest the family’s unmooring from their own sense of self. Like many of Pasolini’s best films, Teorema is a film that rewards careful thought and contemplation. The ideas within are deeply challenging to our notions of faith, class, and even sexual identity. Even if you ultimately reject his premise, Pasolini has given us something here that worth wrestling with.

Cuties ‘Mignonnes’ (2020) | Directed by Maïmouna Doucouré

 4.5/5

Maïmouna Doucouré’s Cuties (Mignonnes) is a powerful and emotionally moving film about Western society’s oversexualization of young girls that also manages to find genuine warmth and humor in the midst of this poignant tale of having the illusions of childhood fade away at much too early an age. That Doucouré manages to balance this all without ever letting the film become a dry, intellectual slog is something of a miracle. She has crafted such an incredibly honest and heartfelt narrative about what it is to be an eleven-year-old girl trapped between two very different worlds. Doucouré contrasts the restrictive and confining spaces in the apartment of her young protagonist’s family with the open and airy spaces she finds when she’s with her new friends. But then she tempers that visual freedom by creating a sense of danger and unease in these open spaces – whether through the use of abandoned train tracks running through the middle of a scene or a decrepit building that intrudes into the frame. Doucouré’s script captures all of the pain and humor and awkwardness of the pre-teen years, and then shows how much harder it is to navigate when you don’t have any parents to help you make sense of the hyper-sexualized images of women that you encounter everywhere. Trapped between a family with harsh and repressive gender expectations on one side and a society that is encouraging her oversexualization at such an early age, the film’s protagonist has to find a different path than the one her family or society have laid out for her. And Doucouré captures this in a denouement that is breathtaking and powerful.

Where to Watch

Blonde Crazy (1931) | Directed by Roy Del Ruth

 4/5

Roy Del Ruth’s Blonde Crazy is a completely surprising and thoroughly delightful pre-Code comedy that is filled with unexpected narrative twists and turns that will satisfy even the most jaded of viewers. Joan Blondell and James Cagney are wonderful leads and have such an easy rapport with on another onscreen – both turn in incredibly natural, compelling performances. The cons that they pull off together are fun to watch, and Cagney’s character is given a really lovely arc. Like many films from the ’30s, it’s refreshing to see classic cinema challenge the sexism of the day with such ferocity. It was a surprise to see just how blatantly the film shows the way men attempted to take advantage of women whom they perceived to be of lower classes. The film’s frank and somewhat brutal exploration of class – especially the ways that the upper class could insulate themselves from the consequences of their actions – feels like shocking thing to see in such an early film. It’s a reminder that I need to watch more films from the early ’30s.

Where to Watch

Golden Eighties (1986) | Directed by Chantal Akerman

 4/5

Chantal Akerman’s Golden Eighties is a lovely, charming, and effervescent film that takes on Western consumerism, patriarchal norms, and the ways women are socialized – all with a delightful series of songs and dances. The film almost plays as if Akerman is doing her send-up of Jacques Demy’s cinema – taking the earnest longing you find in Demy’s oeuvre and playing it all as broadly as possible. But if it’s a send-up, it’s made with love and tenderness. The musical numbers are delightfully outrageous, the comedy pitch-perfect. Working within a tight budget, you can see Akerman using everything she can to get in the razzle-dazzle of ‘80s musicals – her meticulous and precise framing transforming her small soundstage into an expansive shopping mall set-piece. And as light and fluffy and the film first appears, Akerman infuses the narrative with a stinging critique on capitalism and the constant movement toward expansion as every chance for human connection is interrupted by customers and the business of commerce. Add to this a sense that the men in this film are all callow dreamers filled with empty promises, and you have Akerman using the musical form for a pointed political commentary wrapped up in surprisingly sweet confection.