The Fabelmans (2022) | Directed by Steven Spielberg

 4.5/5

Steven Spielberg’s The Fabelmans is an incredibly moving and joyous film, filled with so many delightful (and even magical) moments that show the marriage of technical craft and the more ephemeral artistry in filmmaking and the creative life – a dichotomy made concrete in the figures of the two parents. In this recent wave of filmmakers looking back over their childhoods to reflect on what made them the artists they are today; this is hands down one of the best memory films from the last few years. Spielberg truly understands how to fully tell this story from the child’s perspective, and he uses that to celebrate art and the power of cinema. This is filled with some of Spielberg’s most incredible images – the texture of the lighting and the precision of the framing illustrates why he continues to be a master of his craft. While most of the performers do solid, dependable work here, Michelle Williams’s performance comes across as too false and arch when compared to the rest of the cast. More subtleties and shades and nuances come out in the performance toward the back half of the film to make the performance richer – but the showy and performative nature of the role in the film’s early portions never allows it to fully integrate with the rest of the film. Still, this is an exceptional film that gets stronger as it goes on, exploring the dynamics of a broken family and delighting in the sometimes-uncontrollable impulse to create art.

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Broker (2022) | Directed by Hirokazu Kore-eda

 4/5

Hirokazu Kore-eda’s Broker continues the filmmaker’s ongoing exploration of chosen and makeshift families in all their fragility. This film about black market baby brokers is refreshingly honest about the lack of options for single mothers in Korea, as well as the prevailing attitudes toward those whom society deems “unfit” or families who aren’t conventional. There is a warmth in the cinematography and framing of the makeshift family unit that is contrasted by Kore-eda’s continued, sharp-eyed pessimism about systems and authority. With an incredible ensemble driving the film, the performances are all masterful and draw us further and further into the personal mysteries at the heart of the story. The fragmented pieces of the narrative don’t quite connect as masterfully as many of Kore-eda’s other films, but he still manages to find a genuinely moving core to his latest family drama.

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Memoria (2021) | Directed by Apichatpong Weerasethakul

 5/5

Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s Memoria is an absolutely masterful and stunning work of cinema – and surprisingly it’s the most accessible of Weerasethakul’s films (though it certainly isn’t the easiest to see). This is a film that begs multiple viewings in order to keep exploring its many layers and subtleties, the mysteries and enchantments, the elegance of the craft on display.

Like so much of Weerasethakul’s filmography, this is deeply rooted in Buddhist thought and philosophy, in the notion of the connectedness of all things. It’s a film about what draws us toward empathy, as well as the toll interconnection and empathy takes – the personal cost and the deep pain it can cause. Whether it’s Karen’s early conversation about the dog she tries and fails to care for, or old Hernán’s assertion that every experience he has causes him pain, all of the characters in Memoria go about attempting to alleviate or understand the suffering of others – and at times suffering themselves. The film folds back on itself to explore the very nature of cinema as an art form that can generate empathy and connectedness. “Why are you crying?” One character asks another. “These memories aren’t your own.” Isn’t that what cinema does – evoke an emotional response within us by presenting us with the memories of others? Weerasethakul uses the very real condition of exploding head syndrome and pushes the cinematic depiction toward the surreal – asking his protagonist, Jessica, and his audience to listen, truly listen to the world and the people around us.

The sound design is rich and immersive – sound has a tactical, almost physical presence throughout the film, even causing car alarms to go off in the middle of the night. It fills the contours of the city’s architecture and makes its mark on the countryside so that the rocks and rivers and trees can become vessels for memory and story – sound as an instrument for connection and empathy. And because Weerasethakul holds his gorgeously composed frames for such a long duration, we’re allowed to not only soak in the rich visual details within the frame, but the dense sonic textures as well. Sound becomes an awakening, an invitation into deeper empathy and connection, a call to join with the film’s characters in listening to and remembering the stories of others.

Like all of Weerasethakul’s films, there’s more to uncover, more to explore, more to tease out upon further thought and reflection – the fluidity of identity, the excavation of the dead, the way characters appear and vanish, and of course, more about the way the land remembers the past in ways that we humans never will. But what I’m left with after this first viewing, is the urge to listen.

I do feel the need to address the film’s US release strategy – I wish I didn’t need to, as the film is gorgeous and should have stood apart from any conversation about how it was being released and marketed. However, the film is being made inaccessible in the US to anyone with a disability that prevents them from attending theaters and those of us with medical conditions that put us at higher risk for COVID.

I suffered a leg injury at the end of 2020 and was misdiagnosed and mistreated for three months, putting my life and danger and eventually causing my lungs to be compromised to the point that I still have to remain in isolation, even though I’m vaccinated and boosted. So the only way I was able to see this film was through a press screener because of my podcast work. Very few people in my situation will have that privilege.

The film is gorgeous, but any comparisons to installation screenings or site-specific work is spurious. This is a work of narrative cinema that can just as easily be appreciated at home as in the cinema. The experience may be different, but it isn’t so different that it requires the film to only live in theaters, forever preventing accessibility for those who may never be able to be present in physical spaces.

Delphine’s Prayers (2021) | Directed by Rosine Mbakam

 5/5

Rosine Mbakam’s Delphine’s Prayers is a stunning documentary with a rigorous and formal simplicity that is enthralling. Over the course of 90 minutes, Mbakam interviews her friend Delphine in a side room in the woman’s home as she sits in bed, convalescing from an illness. Throughout these interviews, Delphine tells the story of her life in Cameroon and what led her into prostitution – her attempts to care for her family and especially her sick niece, the attempts by men in her life to exploit her from a young age, her own rape by a young man in her neighborhood, and her father’s refusal to believe her. She discusses how she was eventually able to leave Cameroon and emigrate to Belgium, how she’s treated back home now that she lives in Europe, as well as the challenges of marriage to a man she doesn’t love. Mbakam allows Delphine to be a co-creator in this film about her life, – Delphine directs Rosine and tells her where to sit in order to make the interviewee feel more at ease, she only participates in the storytelling when she feels comfortable, and she only shares what she chooses with the camera. This creates a sense of ease between the two women and allows for more intimacy and immediacy in the storytelling. And at the end of the film, Mbakam shares her own experiences, revealing her own biases and the ways she would have looked down on Delphine had they met in Cameroon, but as two immigrants who face discrimination and racism in white spaces, who are only seen for the color of their skin, their lives have become intertwined in a way they never would have otherwise. This is an exceptional work of non-fiction filmmaking, an incredible act of empathy and connection.

Where to Watch

The Lost Daughter 2021 | Directed by Maggie Gyllenhaal

 5/5

Maggie Gyllenhaal’s The Lost Daughter is an exceptionally crafted character study – filled with incredible performances from its stellar cast. The film explores the burdens of motherhood and the inexpressible feelings mothers aren’t allowed to express publicly – as well as the incredible harm to both mother and child that can occur when those sentiments are kept bottled up inside. The film opens with a moment of shock, cutting immediately to its opening credits over the film’s jazzy score, a bold and confident declaration that immediately sets us on edge. The handheld camerawork intensifies this growing anxiety throughout the film, with the precise framing able to shift ever-so-slightly to reveal watching eyes in the distance or to alter the composition and show Leda watching and observing back. The dislocation that comes with traveling – especially with having an “idyllic” vacation “spoiled” by the realities of rotting fruit, bugs on your pillow, rude neighbors – invites the kind of introspection and soul-searching upon which Leda embarks throughout the film, especially when confronted by a young mother that reminds her of herself in her younger days. Here’s another film this year that makes incredible use of the fluidity of time and memory – the way flashbacks intrude upon the present evoke the way that memories intrude upon our day to day lives. And here, the flashbacks are shot more often in closeup, giving them a much more subjective and intensely personal stylistic flavor. This is a sensational film that has numerous layers to continue exploring.

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Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy (2021) | Directed by Ryusuke Hamaguchi

 4.5/5

Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy is a lovely and delicate little film whose power becomes more and more apparent as it moves along and its triptych of stories accumulate. It’s a poignant and bittersweet look at individuals’ fumbling attempts to reach out for connection and the ways those attempts can be painful, liberating, joyous, or destructive. Each of the three stories are anchored by long conversations filled with confessions, vulnerability, and revelations. It’s a testament to Hamaguchi’s sense of staging and framing – and each of the incredible performers – that these long conversations never feel boring or static, there’s always a sense of movement and a trajectory of emotional connection within each sequence. As the characters lay their souls bare in an effort to find love or connection, the camera is willing to linger – on faces, on empty spaces – to let moments breathe. There’s a quiet poignancy to each of the stories here, characters may not always find connection in the way they liked or hoped, and sometimes their attempts go awry, but the attempt is made. And for Hamaguchi and the characters in the film, it’s the attempt itself that matters.

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Preparations to Be Together for an Unknown Period of Time (2020) | Directed by Lili Horvát

 4.5/5

Lili Horvát’s Preparations to Be Together for an Unknown Period of Time is a haunting and unsettling exploration of love, connection, and all of the unreasonable expectations we bring into each new relationship. Horvát brings in elements of noir and supernatural thrillers, playing with the ways that we all read and misread every gesture or missed phone call in a new relationship. Márta’s empty apartment becomes the perfect visual metaphor for her own aimlessness and sense of dislocation. The fluidity of time and space conveyed through the loose, handled camera and careful editing rhythms is another tool at Horvát’s disposal to show how Márta is cut off from connection and community. And while things appear to be moving toward wholeness and connection, the tenuousness of the final image leaves the ending appropriately ambiguous for a film that is this thoughtful and mysterious. This is a really beautiful, hypnotic film, one that will leave you eager to return to its mysteries.

Where to Watch

Bergman Island (2021) | Directed by Mia Hansen-Løve

 5/5

Mia Hansen-Løve’s Bergman Island is a lovely rumination on life, love, relationships, and art – as well as the ways in which all of these can intersect and collide in the cinema. The very structure and framework of the film – and the meta-narrative surrounding its genesis – invites us to explore the power of cinema and art as tools we can use to refract our experiences and reshape them into something that, while it might resemble lived events, is something far more powerful and profound. The act of telling this story of filmmakers romantically involved and setting it on the island that Ingmar Bergman called home invites reflections on the latitude given to male artists and the burdens placed on women – just seeing the way that Tony is mobbed by admirers after a lecture while Chris is virtually ignored only drives home the point. Hansen-Løve also invites us to inhabit Chris’s creative process as the narrative folds in on itself at the film’s midpoint – becoming the unfinished fragment of a film that Chris describes to Tony before shifting into work on the film itself and then back into the work of writing it in the present. It’s glorious and elegant and simple – capturing what it is to create and the struggles (and joys) of sharing your life with another artist.

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Procession (2021) | Directed by Robert Greene

 5/5

Robert Greene’s Procession is an exceptionally moving documentary that utilizes the tools of filmmaking as a means for the film’s participants to continue their work facing and recovering from the abuse and trauma they experienced as children. Through the use of recreation and cinematic reinterpretation of the survivors’ traumatic experiences, they’re able symbolically interrupt their abuse and protect their younger selves, speak truth into their past, and face the physical spaces in which they were abused in order to have them loom less ominously in their lives. The use of the same child actor across the scenes is a powerful choice that serves to highlight the repeated patterns of abuse throughout the Catholic Church. Greene works closely with the survivors, allowing them to shape the work to suit the needs of their recovery, rather than the needs of the film. It continues in Greene’s exploration of the act of filmmaking and performance as a means of healing, and it gives agency to these men who had their agency taken from them as children, who have repeatedly been denied justice. In a year when documentaries have crossed so many ethical lines, it’s refreshing to see a film that consistently gives its subjects such control over the process, that checks in with its participants at every step along the way, and that is always attempting to put the welfare of those involved above the finished work. And that final work is a film of tremendous empathy and compassion, an overwhelmingly emotional exploration of trauma and the healing that can come through connection and community.

Where to Watch

C’mon C’mon (2021) | Directed by Mike Mills

 4.5/5

While Mike Mills’s C’mon C’mon had the potential to be just another story of a weary and broken man whose life is changed by the time he spends with a child – a clichéd narrative structure that is all-too-often tiresome and emotionally manipulative – Mills is able to assemble a such a beautiful and genuinely moving film that earns its emotional beats, rather leaning hard into mawkish sentimentality. So much of that is due to fantastic performances from the entire cast – from the adults leads and the phenomenal child performer, to the exceptional supporting actors. They help ground what could otherwise be a saccharine melodrama and give this film about the need for connection more weight and substance. The incorporation of interviews with real children is an essential component that helps to ground the film and effectively contrast Johnny’s ability to connect with kids he has just met with the very real struggles he has in caring for his nephew. The film’s use of time and memory are lovely here – the fluid breaks from the present are perfect representations of the ways that the past is always with us, and in this film, the ways that the family’s present continues to be shaped by past hurts and wounds. With Johnny’s work in public radio, the sound design is stellar, and as he introduces his nephew to the tools of his profession, the film’s soundscape is spectacular – opening Jesse up to a world of sonic possibility. So many narratives in this vein completely sideline the child’s parents to ensure that the new adult caregiver can have their moment of growth, so it’s refreshing that Gaby Hoffmann’s character remains a constant presence throughout the film and is given her own arc. It’s a rich and rewarding family drama that never comes by its emotional moments through manipulation or cheap narrative tricks, but through great performances and an incredibly honest script about the ways life rarely turns out the way we expect and our need for connection and community to weather the inevitable sorrows along the way.