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.

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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.

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The Power of the Dog (2021) | Directed by Jane Campion

 5/5

Jane Campion’s The Power of the Dog is a haunting study of loneliness and the yearning for connection, as well as the ways that this isolation can lead us into increasingly destructive behavior – either toward ourselves or others. Each of the film’s four leads is touched by this loneliness in some way, each lost in the vastness of the landscape and haunted by the menacing, discordant score. And while each of these characters choose to address their loneliness and isolation in different ways, each of their flailing attempts at connection contributes to the film’s chilling tragedy. All of the performances are outstanding here, each perfectly calibrated to play off of each other’s strengths. The naturalistic cinematography is glorious – capturing the natural world that Phil loves so well, while the shadows hide and allow everyone else to be oblivious to his secrets. In the hands of a lesser storyteller, Rose’s narrative would be incidental to Phil’s story, but in Campion’s hands, we’re given so much of her perspective in the film’s early chapters, enabling us have empathy for her plight. This is a rich, beautiful, haunting, and heartbreaking film in equal measure.

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Pig (2021) | Directed by Michael Sarnoski

 4.5/5

Michael Sarnoski’s Pig is an incredibly moving film, anchored by a tremendous performance from Nicolas Cage and complimented by the stellar supporting cast. The film complicates our relationship to revenge narratives at every turn, becoming a much more profound meditation on loss, grief, and what it means to let go of those we love, to move on and rebuild our lives in their absence. Food becomes the medium of interaction at every point along the characters’ journey throughout the film – it’s how characters barter and make plays for power, it’s how they show their love for one another and make connections, it’s how they bring comfort and soothe one another’s grief. As such, the food in the film is lovingly shot, each meal (and its preparation) filmed in a gorgeous light that connects the characters to a warmth and humanity that much of the film, drained of its color, lacks. And the way these meals – be they extravagant or humble – can forge connections and understanding is truly moving. As Cage’s character moves through a world he tried to leave behind, we’re reminded that it can take tremendous loss to encourage us to throw off the expectations of others and finally connect with your true passions. This is a truly remarkable film and keeps surprising at each and every turn.

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The Works and Days (of Tayoko Shiojiri in the Shiotani Basin) (2020) | Directed by C.W. Winter and Anders Edström

 5/5

C.W. Winter and Anders Edström’s THE WORKS AND DAYS (OF TAYOKO SHIOJIRI IN THE SHIOTANI BASIN) is an astonishing meditation on aging, mortality, grief, and the simple things that can help us as we move on and begin to heal. We, the viewer, are invited to enter into this rural Japanese community, to hear the stories of family members, to sit with Tayoko Shiojiri during the final year of her husband’s life – to bear witness and respond with the same empathy that the filmmakers display. At eight hours in length, the film is precisely attuned to the rhythms of the day (routines we come to know so well over the course of the film), the changes in season on the ever-shifting landscape with which we grow ever more familiar, and the cycles of the year and the way it brings family and friends in and out of the narrative as naturally as our own friends and family come in and out of our lives. The film is suffused with incredible images, capturing the subtle shifts of light that occur during the day and the small, incidental details in the foreground as characters carry on lengthy monologues in the background. Dense soundscapes orient us to the location and help us find our bearings as the film carries us over the course one year. While the film is a work of fiction, it’s grounded in real events that happened to the performers. The filmmakers are so embedded in the community that they become part of the film, and the performers become integral to the filmmaking process. This is such a compelling and captivating work that, while the duration is vital to the experience, you’re never left feeling burdened by the film’s eight hours. It’s a monumental work of cinematic empathy that will have you eager to revisit this quiet village, continue peeling back the film’s layers, and sit with its reflections on our mortality and our place in this world.

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Love & Basketball (2000) | Directed by Gina Prince-Bythewood

 4.5/5

Gina Prince-Bythewood’s Love & Basketball is a stellar blending of romantic drama and sports film, woven together into a narrative that is handled with such honesty and authenticity that it serves as an exemplary model of both genres. Where lesser films would settle for one dimensional antagonists and a lack of nuance, it’s refreshing to see each character – from our main love interests to the supporting players – given so much depth and humanity. While it never condones the actions and choices made by individuals who hurt our main characters, everyone is still human and we’re allowed understand their complicated motivations and see the ways in which we can want the best for another person, even as we cause them tremendous pain. It’s choices like this – and choices like making sure that both of our leads are given full, rich, and rewarding character arcs – that make this such a warm and tremendously generous film. The sports sequences are shot with a kinetic energy that keeps us fully engaged, and the one-on-one games between our leads are just as sensual as the film’s love scenes. It’s a deeply feminist film, exploring at every turn the double standards and obstacles faced by women in athletics, and it’s a film that is firmly rooted in Black identity. This is a fantastic, deeply romantic film.

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Venom: Let There Be Carnage (2021) | Directed by Andy Serkis

 3.5/5

Andy Serkis’s Venom: Let There Be Carnage is a surprisingly delightful bit of comic book insanity that has the potential to even enthrall viewers who were less than impressed with the first film in the series. The obligatory superhero elements recede into the background for much of the film, becoming merely the framework from which to hang the much more enjoyable romantic comedy elements that really make this installment sing. The best part of the previous film was Tom Hardy’s unhinged performance, and the sequel doubles down on that, spending most of the runtime on the relationship travails between Eddie and Venom as they learn to live with (and within) one another. Our nominal heroes go through each stage of our favorite onscreen, romantic couplings, making for a playful and charming comic book outing that never takes itself too seriously – even to the point of using the body horror elements as fodder for slapstick at points. But the comic book story still has to reassert itself by the end, and Serkis and his screenwriters are having so much fun with the romantic comedy angle that the more serious story points don’t always like up coherently. Add in some bad computer generated effects during the finale and violence that desperately wants to be bloodier than the PG-13 rating will allow, and you can see the corporate interests reasserting control over an otherwise charming comic book diversion.

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Spencer (2021) | Directed by Pablo Larraín

 5/5

Pablo Larraín’s Spencer is a gorgeous and lush film, haunted by a past that’s always threatening to encroach on the present – and often does just that. This is a film filled with impeccable performances working with an astonishing script – no moment in the film is wasted and every performer (especially Kristen Stewart) is doing some of their best work. Seemingly innocuous lines of dialogue can have multiple meanings based on the performer’s reading, a polite menace hangs in the air behind forced pleasantries, and Stewart effortlessly conveys the sensation of being trapped and crushed by centuries of tradition – her hushed whisper, the quiet desperation in each attempt to connect or break free. Larraín fills the frame with stunning images – haunted mist rising over the grounds at night, elegant gowns become suffocating cages, curtains thrown open bathe Diana in a soft, comforting light. And the score is exquisite – it anchors us in a classical past while using discordant motifs to convey Diana’s discomfort and heighten our sense of tension at her ever-increasing loss of freedom. At every turn, Diana’s agency has been taken from her, her personhood robbed by the institution she has married into, and this film is a poetic exploration of the ways her freedom was curtailed and her struggles to break free. It’s an outstanding work.

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Ascension (2021) | Directed by Jessica Kingdon

 5/5

Jessica Kingdon’s Ascension is a masterful work of creative nonfiction that slowly traces its way through the rungs of Chinese society to examine the “Chinese Dream.” The documentary tactics here are strictly observational – there are no interviews, voiceovers, or onscreen text to orient us to the images and sequences presented. But through Kingdon’s meticulously conceived organizational structure, we’re given a series of images and sequences that are juxtaposed in such a way that it raises questions about inequity, working conditions, the obsession with western ideas of wealth, and our own reliance on underpaid labor to bring us inexpensive goods. Edits and cuts are made with visual or thematic resonances in mind, so that the transitions move us from factory work, to trade schools, to the wealth of the upper middle classes. The cinematography throughout is gorgeous, the procession of images hypnotic and mesmerizing. Kingdon has crafted a remarkable film that, while specifically about China’s rapid growth, asks us to reflect on the consequences for any society in which capitalism is allowed to create unfettered inequity.