I’ve got a week of utter frigidity to look forward to. Which means staying home as much as possible. Which means watching movies (although there are two big new films opening this weekend which I may brave the cold to see). It also means reading, but I won’t write about the fruits of that until the end of the month.
Also, the day I’m publishing this is my dad’s birthday. His favorite film is Children of Paradise. Wish him a happy birthday in the comments.
Anyway, let’s get into what I’m watching:
Malcolm & Marie (2021) – ***
Malcolm & Marie would’ve done better to embrace the self-parody it’s constantly teetering on the edge of. Or it would’ve done better to realize that Malcolm and Marie themselves are more interesting when they aren’t screaming at each other or doing their damnedest to hurt one another. Because the screaming and emotional violence only convince us Marie should get as far away from Malcolm as possible, while the scenes which show how these two are, for better or worse, extremely well suited for one another, and may well keep up their cycle of fighting and fucking ‘til death do they part, are far more impactful and haunting.
It would be easy to rate Malcolm & Marie higher by virtue of the acting, which is excellent, and the filmmaking, especially the classy black-and-white cinematography. And it would be easy to rate it lower based on the writing, which plops us in a Malibu mansion (eye roll) and presents us with an apocalyptically temperamental filmmaker (eye roll) and his supremely over-his-bullshit girlfriend on the opening night of his directorial debut (eye roll), asking us to care about how the critics are ass-kissing idiots (eye roll) before letting drop that Malcolm didn’t thank Marie in his pre-show speech, nor did he acknowledge how much the main character is based on her.
That last point, at least, is interesting, because it deals with something closer to relatable experience, even if having Marie so clearly done from the get-go is a miscalculation. But rooting the film in such predictable and esoteric concerns and setting in such lavish trappings, especially at this point in time, is just daring the audience not to care. Of course, writer-director Sam Levinson is the son of Oscar-winner Barry, and has been a part of the filmmaking world his whole life. But if no one suggested to him that telling such a story with such a tone in the midst of a pandemic (the film is very much a product of the attendant limitations) was a bad idea, it only betrays the bubble of his own experience.
Nor did anyone suggest that Levinson not have Malcolm discuss actual classic films and filmmakers, which not only suggests much better things for the viewer to watch, but confirms that Levinson is no Tarantino. And for what it’s worth, while Malcolm suggests others are stupid for not knowing about William Wyler, he only cites Wyler’s most famous films; has he (or Levinson) even seen Dodsworth? Or The Collector? (Credit, though, for bringing up Billy Wilder’s The Spirit of St. Louis. I should rewatch that.)
And again, the sheer abuse Malcolm hurls at Marie—if the film doesn’t intend for us to be solidly on her side, it could’ve fooled me—just makes us wonder why she doesn’t call it a day and get out, and the script never does quite answer that question. But you may not find the mystery worth sitting through 106 minutes (which don’t always go by too quickly) of their glossily-filmed feuding. Yes, I could’ve easily rated this film a lot lower, and that’s without mentioning Malcolm’s tantrum about the critic from the L.A. Times, apparently based on a real critic who gave Levinson a bad review.
But the acting is so good that it nearly does make the film worth watching just to relish it. As Malcolm, John David Washington is a force of macho nature, and if his rants and emotionally-constipated gesticulations occasionally tip over into self-indulgence (on his part; they’re unquestionably this for Levinson), he’s utterly convincing at showing the toxicity of Malcolm’s whole character; the scene where he eats macaroni and cheese as furiously as possible sums up his ill-controlled anger and utter immaturity in a moment that makes one laugh and squirm at the same time. You may not be invested in Malcolm, but it’s not because Washington doesn’t do his utmost to invest him with humanity, however repellent.
As Marie, Zendaya spends much of the film as the yin to Washington’s yang, attempting to ground his manic celebration in the batch of mac and cheese, attempting to defer his insistence on getting into why she’s unhappy to the morning, and as their emotional tensions wax and wane, making clear how she is the only person who’ll tell him the absolute truth. And at the film’s emotional climax, she has a lengthy, low-key, but quite riveting monologue which almost redeems the whole film. She really does a superb job here.
I should note that some have criticized the film for their age gap (12 years), but given the complex toxicities of this relationship, it rang true to me that Malcolm, who acts half his age, would be with someone who acts at least her own, if not older. I was more struck by how much more skin Zendaya was asked to show; when she’s walking around in a tank top and panties, Washington is still in a partially unbuttoned dress shirt and slacks. For a film that calls out the male gaze, you have to wonder if it’s poking fun at itself or is just hypocritical.
You might wonder the same thing about the scenes where Malcolm complains about the critics’ viewing his work through the prism of his own blackness, given that Levinson isn’t black. It all comes back to the uncertainty as to whether this film is in on the joke, but the ending—the rather ineffective ending—suggests otherwise. See Malcolm & Marie for the acting, or just see one of the films Malcolm name-drops. They’re certainly worth it.
Score: 73
Ham on Rye (2019) – ***
(Ham on Rye was shown at festivals in 2019 but was publicly released in 2020, so I’m counting it for this year’s awards.)
I may rate Ham on Rye slightly lower than Malcolm & Marie, but given the choice, I would recommend seeing it instead. If nothing else, it’s simply less stressful to watch; it has its own brand of tension, but there’s nothing like the screaming matches or pointed recriminations of the other film. Indeed, where Malcolm & Marie spelled almost everything out – at least as much as it could with so tight a focus – Ham on Rye tells us very little, for better or worse.
In some town, somewhere, the local teenagers dress up and make their way to Monty’s, a deli which is the site of a strange annual ritual. The first half of the film depicts their various journeys there, their social dynamics, and the unspoken nervous excitement as the ritual itself draws near. At an appointed hour, the teens form a circle, and one by one step into the circle and try to select a partner, receiving either a thumbs-up or down until they’re all paired off.
Then, after a dance which might as well be any school dance, they gaze into a glowing light on the ceiling, then walk off into the sunset, vanishing from view as they go. Those who aren’t paired off, or don’t make it to Monty’s, remain in the town, and as the rest of the film shows, they’re left spiritually desolated by this, but just accept it, having only sporadic contact with their friends and family who’ve made it out, presumably to greener pastures.
So it’s an allegory for getting out, for expanding your horizons, with rather troubling corollaries about the quiet misery of those left behind and how those who leave all but forget where they came from. It feels almost like a kind of secular Rapture is taking place, which I suppose casts the briefly-glimpsed Mr. Monty in the role of God, or some other lofty arbitrator. But I only suppose this because it’s never really explained what’s happening or why. It’s a film which shows more than it tells.
And it shows, and shows, and shows, and even at 85 minutes there’s not really enough here to justify the feature length. Director/co-writer Tyler Taormina crafts an effective atmosphere and realizes the dynamics of these characters, especially the relatably (and then some) awkward teenagers, with considerable skill and empathy. But there’s not really enough depth here for me to say it could’ve have been better at half or one-third the length. Like so many shorter indie features, it feels like a great short puffed up into a feature out of commercial necessity.
The acting is quite solid, especially Haley Bodell and Cole Devine, who come as close as anyone to being the lead characters. Bodell goes to Monty’s with her two best friends, despite admitting some misgivings about the process, then flees at the start of the ritual, to her parents’ obvious frustration, and at the end seems to be resigning herself to an eternity in this dead-end town. Devine, for whatever reason, failed to make it years earlier, and now works (unhappily) at Monty’s; he plays guitar in an effort at self-expression, but finally smashes it in a fit of pique.
But the whole large cast does pretty well, and the film isn’t too badly made for its low budget; Carson Lund’s cinematography has a few lovely shots, especially the silhouetted characters walking against the sunset, the score (credited to Deuter) and the soundtrack add pretty well to the atmosphere, and the sound design helps underline the tension, especially in the second half, by emphasizing the silence of people who have nothing to say.
If only it didn’t keep going and going, especially towards the end, leaving you with the distinct feeling that Taormina and company were trying their best to get it to feature length, I might be willing to go along with the general critical acclaim. And yet, even if I don’t go along with it, I certainly understand it, and I’d rather see more enigmatic mood pieces like this than more self-indulgent shouting matches like Malcolm & Marie. Combine the subtlety of the one with the craft and acting of the other and you might have a masterpiece.
Score: 70
Dear Comrades!/Дорогие товарищи! (2020) – ***½
Dear Comrades! was made a year or two ago, in Russia, about events which occurred in the first days of June 1962, but watching the scenes where striking workers invade the Novocherkassk city offices (and the brutal means by which the strike is broken), it’s hard not to feel an eerie tingle of recognition. Nor is it hard to see the resonance in the atmosphere leading up to the strike, fueled by incompetence and callousness from above and rumor-mongering from below. And the resonance continues, in the scenes where the KGB moves in to make sure that the strike and its bloody fallout are erased from history, showing how the Soviet government – and many other governments – were and are better at covering up their fuck-ups than averting them.
The main character is Lyuda Syomina (Julia Vysotskaya), a member of the Novocherkassk city government, who’s more irritated by the strikers than the rising food prices (and, we learn, falling wages) they’re protesting. She laments the loss of Stalin, saying everything would be fine if he was still around; her teenage daughter Svetka (Yuliya Burova), rebellious in the ways that most teenagers are, insists that Khrushchev’s “Secret Speech” revealed the truth about Stalin, but Lyuda insists he was covering up his own crimes. Nostalgic myopia; an evergreen.
Svetka announces her intention to march with the striking workers, flouting Lyuda’s orders to the contrary. After the strike is repelled in bloody fashion, Svetka is nowhere to be seen. And as the hours pass and she cannot be found anywhere, Lyuda starts to wonder if the country she holds so dear, or some part of it (namely the KGB) has her daughter’s blood on its hands. And with Novocherkassk being sealed off from the rest of the world and the townsfolk being impelled to sign oaths of secrecy about the events, the window of opportunity to learn the truth is fast closing.
Relevance alone might make an interesting film, but Dear Comrades! is a very good one, because it marries that relevance to a compelling personal narrative, because it’s honest about the people and the systems it depicts without expecting us to be shocked by them. There are shocking details, like the town square having to be re-paved because the summer heat literally baked the blood of the strikers into the asphalt, but the black-and-white cinematography keeps us at an eerie remove. Director Andrei Konchalovsky has had a long and wildly uneven career, but Dear Comrades! is a reminder of his talent, as he depicts the troubling events with a damning objectivity.
It’s quite well-acted, with Vysotskaya carrying the bulk of the film on her shoulders; Lyuda is by turns cynical about the people, idealistic about the country, and desperate about her daughter, and Vysotskaya convinces us of her painful journey from the self-assured woman we meet to the heartbroken one who wades into a lake to wash the soil of a grave off her hands. There are also good turns from Andrey Gusev as a KGB agent who becomes involved in Lyuda’s plight, Vladislav Komarov as her anxious boss (and occasional lover), and Sergei Erlish as her father, who has no illusions about the Soviet Union and suggests they would all be better off if Kennedy nuked them.
It’s a very fine film up until the final scene, which pulls the rug out from under us for no good reason; it’s a scene which feels like it was meant to be played as heavily ambiguous, if not an outright fantasy (or hallucination), but there’s no indication of that in the film itself. So it falls short of being truly great. But up until then, it’s good enough and resonant enough to be worth seeking out, and I’d be quite happy if it actually got an Oscar nomination.
Score: 84
The Fall of the Romanov Dynasty/Падение династии Романовых (1927) – ***
The Fall of the Romanov Dynasty is at once a landmark and a treasure trove; its creator, Esfir (Esther) Shub pioneered the method of taking archival footage and assembling it into the form desired. Now, of course, such methods are used by the vast majority of documentaries, but in 1927, her sifting through hours upon hours of newsreel and other footage to create this portrait of Russia in the 1910s can only have been a daunting undertaking. Reputedly, she shot some new footage as well, but if so, it doesn’t stand out; compare this with the work of her contemporaries, especially Eisenstein, whose contemporaneous October was entirely staged (albeit convincingly).
Although the footage Shub draws upon (and may well have saved for posterity in doing so) offers a truly valuable look at life in pre-Soviet Russia, don’t mistake this for an objective work; her calculated contrast of the wealthy and powerful with the poor and downtrodden, her montages of the death and destruction of World War I, and her focus towards the end on the rising Bolshevik movement all reflect the film’s vintage and purpose. For a 1927 audience, it was a reminder of what had been overthrown and why.
For a modern-day audience, it’s the footage itself that is most interesting, especially the glimpses of the pomp and circumstance of Imperial Russia; we get some tantalizing scenes from the 1913 celebration of the Romanovs’ tercentenary, and a brief, humanizing glimpse of the Tsarevich Alexei being carried as part of a royal procession, presumably to prevent injury. We also see what seems to be Nicholas’ daughters dancing with young officers, a patrician frivolity at odds with the needs of the people.
There are also valuable shots of the demonstrations in 1917, showing how close Russian society was to boiling over, and shots of Lenin with admiring crowds, one of which ends the film. Indeed, to modern eyes the film seems to end rather abruptly, but as Shub made the film as part of a trilogy, the other parts of which were The Great Road and Lev Tolstoy and the Russia of Nicholas II, she may have meant it as a cliffhanger. (Sadly, the other two films seem to be lost.)
There’s also some interest to be found in Shub’s editorializing, especially her use of sarcastic quote marks in the intertitles; the version of the film I watched was less than optimal, clearly taken from the early 90s VHS, with a cheap-sounding electric-keyboard score and generic new titles, so I do wonder how closely they reflect the original text. But it’s an interesting touch, allowing perhaps a bit of dark humor to creep in amongst the righteous anger and devastation.
Truth be told, the film could’ve used more such touches; after a while, you may find all the shots of marches, processions, obscure officials and nobles, and massed crowds starting to blur together. It can grow a little tedious to actually watch, valuable though the footage may be for historical purposes. And the film really says little about the Romanovs themselves; if you want to learn about what was actually going on in the royal family at the time, look elsewhere. It’s about the broader scope of Russian society at the time and the broader impact of the war, and a stronger narrative voice is lacking; the middle of the film in particular loses focus and pace.
So Fall is not an unequivocal masterpiece like other documentaries of the time, but many of those films used entirely new footage to bring their creators’ visions to life. Shub was using existing material to serve a new vision, and if this film, at least, is a bit creaky to our eyes, it casts so long a shadow that it should be seen by anyone who wants to trace the history of the documentary film.
Score: 75
The Mauritanian (2021) – ***½
Like most films in the liberal-guilt/America-sure-fucked-up genre, The Mauritanian devotes some time to the consciences of its white American characters, especially JAG attorney Lt. Col. Stuart Crouch (Benedict Cumberbatch, using a rather broad Texan accent), who refused to prosecute an alleged member of al-Qaeda because his confessions were obtained under torture, and even as we get vivid depictions of that torture, some of the most powerful scenes in the film, we keep having to flash back to Crouch and the defendant’s attorney, Nancy Hollander (Jodie Foster), seeing how horrified they are at what was done. Not that the impact of such a revelation doesn’t carry some dramatic weight of its own, but that’s just not why we’re here.
No, we’re here for the Mauritanian himself, Mohamedou Ould Salahi (Tahar Rahim), and the film manages to be as good as it is because it keeps enough of the focus on him and the hell he was put through at Guantanamo, and doesn’t gloss over his humanity or his sense of humor (asked to describe everything that’s happened to him, he says it would be like “asking Charlie Sheen how many girlfriends he’s had”—a line straight from real life). And because it delivers a real gut punch at the end when we reach what we presume to be a happy ending, only to learn that, under the Obama administration no less, Salahi spent several more years in jail without charge before finally being freed.
I might not have made a point of seeing the film if it hadn’t earned Globe nominations for Rahim and Foster. Rahim is indeed quite good, showing the effects of Salahi’s sufferings on his mental state without excessive mannerisms, showing his anger and frustration without resorting to showboating. I’m not sure he needed the nomination, but he wasn’t a bad choice. Foster (nominated for Supporting Actress though arguably a lead), on the other hand, while typically solid and convincingly iron-willed, doesn’t really do anything memorable or unexpected with the role, and the nomination seems more for her (and possibly the film itself) than the performance.
Cumberbatch and Shailene Woodley, as Foster’s aide who has her own trite personal crisis over the case, give the kind of functional prestige-picture performances that never really get any attention. A touch more memorable is Zachary Levi as a colleague of Crouch’s who was more closely involved with Salahi’s torture, whose own feelings about his actions are left enigmatic. But the film, especially the script by M.B. Traven, Rory Haines, and Sohrab Noshirvani, from Salahi’s own book, isn’t interested in that level of nuance, especially outside of its two or three most important characters.
Kevin Macdonald’s direction is solidly effective, especially in the torture scenes, which do capture some of the absurdity of the tactics used—especially the use of animal masks by Salahi’s interrogators—and their effect on Salahi, who begins hallucinating vividly. The cinematography is rather smart, with Salahi’s flashbacks shot in a hazy, grainy style and in a smaller aspect ratio, making them feel almost like fairy tales compared to the miserable isolation of his present life. In all other technical respects the film is quite respectably made.
It just doesn’t transcend the limitations of its peculiar genre enough to become really memorable. There’s just too much overt messaging, too much principled hand-wringing, to get it a higher score. It’s worth seeing if you’re interested in the story or the performances, but Salahi’s book (Guantanamo Diary) is probably even more worthwhile.
Score: 77
Minari (2020) – ***½
There’s a rather loose genre of films I group together, encompassing the themes of coming-of-age, nostalgic reminiscence, and the ebb and flow of daily life, which often earn critical acclaim—often being hailed as one of the year’s very best films—but falling just short of **** in my own estimation. Into that genre I put, just off the top of my head, Boyhood, The Florida Project, Lady Bird, Eighth Grade, Roma, and now Minari. They’re all very good films, all high ***½ films, but something about them never quite grips me to the point where I push them that extra bit higher.
Maybe it’s worth noting that those films with similar subject matter which do work for me are often based on existing material or attempt a tighter narrative—films like Bright Road (going back a ways for that one), Inside Out, Wildlife, Little Women, Marriage Story, and Waves. All the films I previously mentioned are original screenplays, and most don’t really attempt a standard narrative, making the scenes which feel plotted stand out—the encounter with the former builder in Boyhood, the confrontation in the department store in Roma, and a particular scene in Minari I’ll get to—in a way which takes you out of the film.
Maybe it’s that I need more of a throughline to really be gripped by such narratives. Or maybe it’s that being filtered through another stage of development helps to winnow out the mundanity, the aimlessness, the meandering which can sometimes affect these films, at least for my purposes. Obviously these films, and this film, have resonated very strongly with other viewers—just a glance at its Letterboxd page turns up dozens of reviews detailing how much the film made them cry—but for me, it doesn’t get beyond that feeling of “that was very nice.” Not that that’s anything to sneeze at.
Set in northwestern Arkansas in the late 80s, Minari follows the fortunes of the Yi family—father Jacob (Steven Yeun), mother Monica (Han Ye-ri), adolescent daughter Anne (Noel Kate Cho), and young son David (Alan Kim). Jacob wants to start a farm, growing Korean vegetables to sell to the growing number of Korean immigrants, an enterprise which he hopes will allow him and Monica to leave behind their tedious job of sexing baby chickens at the local hatchery. Monica is less than thrilled about his plans or about the mobile home they’ve moved into, and focuses her concerns on David, who suffers from a heart murmur. She finally decides to invite her mother to live with them, so she can care for David while she and Jacob are at work.
So Grandma Soon-ja (Youn Yuh-jung) enters the picture, and Jacob—who like Anne was born and raised in America—is immediately suspicious of her, saying she “smells like Korea” and isn’t “a real grandma,” but over time, of course, he warms to her. Meanwhile, Jacob is struggling with the costs of starting a farm, with keeping his crops watered, and with finding a place to actually sell them. And his marriage with Monica is put under continued strain, especially by the possibility that she will need to take David back to California (where they’d previously lived) for heart surgery.
Matters reach a head on one rather eventful day, when no less than four momentous events occur (if you don’t want the ending spoiled, skip the rest of this paragraph): a doctor in Oklahoma City informs the Yis that David’s heart is healing on its own; a Korean grocer there agrees to buy Jacob’s vegetables; Jacob and Monica, after a tense conversation at the hospital, decide to separate because he said he would rather stick it out with the farm than move back to California; and Soon-ja (who’s recovering from a stroke) accidentally starts a fire whilst burning garbage and destroys Jacob’s harvested produce in the process. But she had planted minari—a kind of dropwort that grows anywhere there’s soil and water—and the film ends with the suggestion that the family will rebuild together, harvesting the minari until a new crop of vegetables is ready.
It’s that last catastrophe which rang false for me—it’s a Thomas Hardy touch in a film otherwise devoid of them, a moment that feels written in a film which otherwise rarely does. You may feel differently, or more readily forgive, but to me it stood out in a negative way. But then, that may underline my own qualms with this idiosyncratic genre.
For the rest of the film is quite good. Lee Isaac Chung’s direction is graceful and thoughtful, his writing is sympathetic to the characters and full of little details clearly drawn from life, like the white girl at church who rattles off a string of faux-Asian syllables at Anne, hoping to hit on a word of authentic Korean, or Soon-ja calling Mountain Dew “mountain water.” And it has lovingly drawn characters, from the determined Jacob to the long-suffering Monica to the feisty Soon-ja to Paul (Will Patton), a local man who comes to work for Jacob, whose Pentecostal faith is at once eccentric and poignantly sincere.
It’s well acted, with Youn earning numerous awards for her work and deserving them, especially in a year rather short on supporting actress performances of note; she’s spirited and colorful without falling into schtick, and she plays her post-stroke scenes without undue affectation. Han is also very good, showing how much Monica has on her plate materially and emotionally, trying to balance the needs of the family with what she thinks is right. Yeun is fine (he actually got a SAG nomination), but as with Burning I don’t quite see Yeun’s performance as being better than solid. Better are Kim, who’s wholly believable in his stubbornness, and Patton, who walks a fine line between fervency and caricature.
Emile Mosseri’s score is quite lovely, helping to anchor the relatively plotless material; Lachlan Milne’s cinematography is easy on the eyes; Harry Yoon’s editing could’ve tightened the film a touch (115 minutes is a bit long for the material), but it’s good enough. It really is a very good film, and I won’t argue with those who hail it as a great one. But it just doesn’t get there for me and I wish I had a better explanation as to why. If you’d like to read another take on the film, one from a viewer who found it more resonant to their own experience, read my friend’s review over at And When I Die, Play Kanye at My Funeral.
Score: 85
Bride of Frankenstein (1935) – ****
I’m glad to finish with a film I don’t need to actually say that much about. Bride is an established classic, of course, with some of the most iconic moments in horror-film history, many of which were parodied to great effect (sometimes with almost no change required) in Young Frankenstein, itself an iconic work. The aesthetic of the Bride, Dr. Pretorious’ line about “gods and monsters” (which provided the title for a notable biopic of director James Whale sixty years later), the Monster’s simple, poignant dialogue, Franz Waxman’s gloriously over-the-top score…there’s a wealth of greatness here just in the most famous elements, and a full viewing of the film will reveal much more.
Indeed, there are many who’d argue Bride is superior to the first film, and in some respects I agree. Whale’s direction is more inventive and more fluid, with John J. Mescall’s cinematography achieving a level of style and fair, especially in the wonderful climactic scenes, which just wasn’t there in the earlier film. The special effects are more elaborate (especially Pretorious’ homunculi), and there’s a sophistication to the writing, from the opening scene with the Shelleys and Lord Byron reflecting on their own statures before Mary is persuaded to continue the story, all the way to the Monster’s tragic final words (“We belong dead”), that the earlier film lacked.
But personally, I still prefer the first film, in many ways for the exact reason so many, I think, prefer this one: the campy humor. Sometimes it works extremely well: the character of Pretorious, with Ernest Thesiger’s wonderfully arrogant performance, is great fun, and the Monster’s immediately acquired taste for wine (“Drink, good!”) is lovably relatable. But other elements, like the character of Minnie (Una O’Connor) and the pompous burgomaster (E.E. Clive) are frankly more tiresome than funny. And the scenes in the cabin of the blind hermit (O.P. Heggie) walk a very fine line between touching goofiness and clunky farce. Personally, I prefer the raw sincerity of the first film, the purer senses of horror and pathos.
But this film is still a damn good show, with Karloff continuing to do a great job as the Monster; he may have resented the choice to make the Monster speak, but he pulls it off beautifully. Elsa Lanchester is slyly witty at the start as Mary Shelley and memorably strange as the Bride at the end. Dwight Frye and Ted Billings are fun as Pretorious’ nervous henchmen (“This is no living for a murderer!”), while Colin Clive and Valerie Hobson are fine as the Frankensteins, here essentially the straight men to a cast of comics. It’s a great film, just not quite as great as its predecessor.
Score: 87
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