I read the book as this release came nearer, and I thought that while good, it was clearly a ‘first big passion project that grew in scope and theme in the telling’. And that resulted in a charming work, but also one that could be refined and sharpened if given a second go around and seen by experienced eyes. Well, this movie did that and then some. It’s an affecting allegorical fairy tale for our time, one I honestly sorely needed after all that happened today.
If there’s one word to sum it up, it’s unapologetic. There’s a very big reason Disney didn’t take this on, yes, but there’s a whole lot smaller ones too. This is daring in a way their work hasn’t been allowed to be in years, if not a decade or two. A gay romance is one of its centerpieces, but it also tackles the fear of the other hurting so many today, the classism holding so many down, how it’s rooted institutionally, how you can’t just play nice and appease them. Balister did everything right, he played by the rules, he excelled, he gives them chance after chance, but that’s never going to be enough. The system and those behind it will toss you aside because you don’t belong.
Riz Ahmed plays him perfectly, making what could’ve been a stick in the mud such fun to listen to, and displaying his journey from lost and tossed aside golden boy to a man who’s found strength in the truth and most of all, his friend. In conjunction with the most effective set of puppy dog eyes I’ve ever seen, you can’t help but feel and root for him. Beck Bennett is always a gem in any ensemble and gets some big laughs. Eugene Lee Yang was a sleeper hit- I didn’t expect a Try Guy to remind me so heavily of Crispin Freeman, and that is high praise. It’s not that he sounds like a discount version of him, but that he has a similar lived in earnestness and genuine personality amidst a theatrical and dramatic performance, somehow grounded and knightly all at once. And Conroy is a risible antagonist, one who has convinced herself her paranoia and prejudices are noble and for the greater good and all the worse for it. She does not consider herself a monster by any means, but an aggrieved martyr doing what must be done, and Conroy makes her real while not sympathetic to anyone but herself.
But the most striking performance of all, of course, is Chloe Grace Mortez as Nimona. She put her heart into this role and you can feel it. She straddles the line of what could’ve been either ‘softened and smoothed so as to lose all edges’ and ‘so obnoxious and bloodthirsty so as to lose empathy’, and makes it look easy, instead conveying a character who’s found her way to survive in a world that turned its back on her first. An inner pain at the heart of her rage, one that’s always hoping that she’ll be proven wrong. Or rather, proven right with what she first saw all those years ago- that people can accept and love something different. But the film also never frames her as in the wrong for pointing that anger where it belongs- at the system that props up what was done to her. Many films would’ve agreed the director was the only problem, but this one asserts that the institute and the wall that enables and created her must also be torn down. Mortez goes hand in hand with immaculate writing and gorgeous animation to craft a character who’s hilarious, heartfelt, and devastating. Nimona in motion is such a striking vibrancy against everything else, bringing a life and beauty and color they don’t see until the end. And it makes it such a gut punch when Nimona has lost hope and that pink is replaced with black and white.
There’s a lot of ways Nimona resonates with today. The Director exclaiming Balister has a weapon is a subtle, brief one that only lasts a minute but hits like a punch to the gut. There’s Nimona defending herself being taken as self evident proof she is a monster. There’s her suicide attempt, where the rampage in the book is a path of vengeance here it’s just a last resort after once again losing everything and being rejected on a fundamental level. All that is one reason Disney wouldn’t take this on. But another is it’s sense of humor, or in acknowledging that yes kids know what blood is and many like it and they can handle it. The movie’s not a bloodbath by any means, but blood is just. There! Gay people are there! This movie, despite Disney, despite the conservative backlash against queer children’s media, is here. Saying you are seen. You are not alone. It’s something I think a lot of people, of any age, needed to hear today, and will need to hear in the future. I know I’m one of them.
[9.5/10] The most ingenious choice that Greta Gerwig’s Little Women makes is to chop up the story so as to juxtapose present and past. It not only immediately marks this adaptation as distinct from its predecessors, but helps to recontextualize and connect different parts of the story to make it feel new again.
The audience has a chance to meet and appreciate Freidrich before Laurie has burrowed into their hearts. By the same token, the joy and connection between Amy and Laurie can be front and center from the get-go, without springing it on the viewer halfway through the story. And the bookend approach allows Gerwig to put Jo’s drive and travails as a writer into the spotlight early.
But the biggest advantage it confers on the film is how it allows Little Women to constantly contrast the lives that these young girls imagined they would lead one day, with the lives each finds themselves inhabiting in the future. Like the novel it’s based on, Gerwig’s adaptation is anchored squarely around considering the wildest dreams of its titular set of sisters, and measuring them against the paths actually available to women in their time, and the places their choices and passions take them. The jumps back and forth and time allow Gerwig to check expectation with reality, to trace cause and effect, and to resolve the two with poignance and grace.
It also allows Gerwig and company to flesh out each of the young women at the center of the narrative. Jo March still commands the story and the screen. Saoirse Ronan throws herself into the role, conveying all the punch, heedlessness, and subtle vulnerabilities of the character with endearing abandon. It is both a dream role and a hard one, but Ronan makes it look effortless.
And yet, this adaptation makes time for the other March sisters to falter and flourish. Amy is vivid and real from the jump, with her questioning of her own talents, her sense of being second to Jo, and her truth-telling relationship with Laurie put front and center. Meg’s chance at a life of elegance and plenty, the love that pulls her away from it, and the joys and hardships of that choice are given time to breathe. And Beth remains the heart of the film -- still a little too pure for this world, but one who suffers for her own goodness, reminds a kindly neighbor of what’s been lost, and spurs her sister to take up what she’s put down.
All the while, Little Women is utterly gorgeous to look at through the March Sisters’ misadventures. Gerwig and cinematographer Yorick Le Saux capture the bucolic beauty of scene after scene draped in New England splendor. The pair construct tableaus of faraway elegance and local beauty in turn. But these visuals aren’t gratuitous. Beyond making the movie a treat to watch, it helps sell the contrast at the heart of the film. Scenes set in Jo’s youth have a golden hue, an inviting glow that conveys the idyllic, hopeful tone of those early days. And the ones set in her adulthood are darker and starker, visually communicating the various cold realities the March family has had to grapple with in later years.
As necessary as it is to contend with those cold realities, it’s just plain fun to vicariously share in the joy that Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy share with their mother and friends in their family home. Apart from its structural choices, apart from its character focus, the greatest strength of Gerwig’s Little Women is how well it captures this sense of young people at play, of a headstrong young woman in their element, and that unfathomable, spontaneous vigor of youth.
The March Sisters, and their friends and close confidants, fight and babble and hug and exalt together. There’s a move toward Gilmore-esque speed and overlap in conversation after conversation, expressing the happy chaos that envelops these lives. This story is founded on the breadth of possibility forged in such a simple, familiar environment, on the pleasures and satisfactions found despite absences and meager means, on blessings shared and passed around. The warmth of the March household would not work if those who orbit and inhabit it, did not seem so real in their rough-and-tumble interactions and simple joys.
Those joys, however, are meant to run up against the expectations of adulthood that clash with allowances of youth. That’s the role Aunt March plays -- the naysayer to the slack existence her brother and his wife and children have made for each other. But Gerwig does not make her a villain. Instead, she is merely practical, a woman who knows from her own experiences which choices are permitted and which invite difficulties, delivered with an amusing wryness that makes her endearing even as she aims to stifle her nieces’ dreams.
That’s the crux of Gerwig’s adaptation. The March sisters imagine wondrous lives for one another, borne on the backs of each’s great talent. Jo pictures herself as a bold writer in the big city who never marries anything but her art. Meg sees glimpses of a life where she’ll never have to work, where there’s time for things like acting and society and beautiful dresses. Amy envisions the life of the genius painter overseas who stands with giants. And each finds those dreams running aground on the many limitations of the real world, with tethers made extra taut for the declaratively fairer sex.
All except for Beth, whose dreams lie in the simple doing of good, the making of music for those around to hear it rather than for the masses, despite her prodigious abilities. She is the cinch of Little Women, not merely in her death which brings the March sister home. But in her life of quiet kindness at home, in her peace with what must come and the joy to be found despite it, a joy they found together in the attic and can still share and revive no matter how big or little they are now.
Jo, Amy, and Meg each regains a measure of that golden glow in the shadow of the house they grew up in. Amy loses the artists life in Paris she imagines, but finds happiness in a partner who vindicates her talents and for whom love triumphs over station. Meg is denied by circumstance of the beautiful things and easy life she once pictured, but is buoyed by the care and satisfaction of family and a life built with the man she loves. Even Jo turns away from the “spicy” stories that sell to stuffy cigar-smoking New York publishers and finds her truth, finds her greatness, in the bonds fraught and familiar at home, with a winking-but-joyous connection to a beau of her own. And each is seen sharing the fruits of their talents, passing them on to a new generation of young men and women.
There’s a degree of wish-fulfillment to the close of the film, a heartstring-tugging image of familial warmth in a bucolic setting. But Gerwig earns that warmth. The happiness crafted in a humble home is measured against the metes and bounds of the wider world, and found no less worthy. The choices afforded to women of any station at the time are reckoned with and suffered in, with the ensuing joys and small, self-possessed rebellions made more potent in that unfair crucible. The losses each suffers, the distance between the lives they dreamed and the lives they live, is laid bare in the cuts between past and present.
But in the end, Gerwig does as Alcott did, and makes the fulfillment each chooses meaningful by those terms. The hardships great and small each endures, make it more than a publisher-mandated happy ending when, despite that difference between past imagination and present truth, each of these little women realizes they’re living the lives they truly want.
[7.9/10] Nope is a film of tremendous spectacle. Writer/director/producer Jordan Peele has not lost the slightest of steps in crafting evocative sequences with his team. He elicits tension as heroes and bystanders alike flee the giant specter lurking through the sky, ready to suck them up. He captures the balletic grace of a ribbony jellyfish creature floating through the clouds and gobbling up what it finds. He gets the heart pumping as his new age cowboy races through the western skyline, dust whipping in his wake, as the creature sharply pursues. To see it on the big screen is to be awed by it.
But at the same time, it is a film about that spectacle, the lengths filmmakers go to capture it, profit from it, take credit for it. It’s hard to know how to take that. There’s a recursive quality to the film, a movie rife with impossible images about the cost and peril, moral and otherwise, about committing those images to film. At the very least, it speaks to one of Peele’s recurring narrative motifs, those overlooked or underappreciated, who nonetheless contribute to that which is beautiful and even transcendent, even as they’re appropriated or forgotten.
Here, he extends that franchise to the animals made to perform for Hollywood productions. From Gordy, the sitcom chimp who goes on a rampage, to the horses on the Haywood family ranch loaned out for television and film, to Jean Jacket, the living UFO who feeds on whatever flesh he finds in the great loping west, Nope is suffused with an inherent respect and fear for the wild animals made to perform for our amusement.
The subtext of the story suggests that these animals should not be treated as just another prop, but rather respected and treated like the fellow souls they are. They possess a power, one that requires us to meet them on their level to be able to forge a working relationship with them, lest we be subject to the parts of them that remain wild, the parts we cannot control, no matter how much we think we have them cowed.
The themes, as always, are potent. Nope lingers in the mind and the heart, in its reflections on the creatures made to perform, the urge to wrangle such heart-stopping images, and those who are disregarded and overlooked in both efforts. But the film’s characters are some of Peele’s most inaccessible. Their decisions are often strange, their reactions stranger. Their motivations vary, but often come down to the need for wealth or fame or both. They are some of the director’s most colorful figures, but in a way that can obscure the sense of an inner life beyond the ideas and motifs they signify. It makes the movie a hard one to warm to at times, with the players more sketched than defined.
And yet, in those quieter undefined spaces, Daniel Kaluuya shines once again. It’s hard to discern whether his character -- O.J. Haywood, the inheritor of his father’s Hollywood horse ranch -- is meant to be neurodivergent or simply the archetypal strong silent type. Regardless, he is a man of few words, and Kaluuya makes a meal out of the meaningful looks and body language that convey his bearing and demeanor despite that.
He is reserved, if not outright shy, full of determination, if only to carry on the barrier-breaking legacy his father built, and he is made of steely, steady, stuff. Those qualities make him someone who understands animals better than people, and combine to make him the perfect soul to respect, comprehend, and even commune with this being from the beyond.
Peele and cinematographer Hoyte van Hoytema also understand how to shoot him. Nope is filled with any number of eerie, low-light scenes where OJ, his more extraverted sister Em, and their handful of neighbors and allies investigated the strangeness hovering above their doorstep. Peele and his collaborators still know how to evoke a sense of dread in these moments, with obscured visions, suggestions of something ominous, and blank spaces for the viewers to fill in with god knows what.
But there’s also great attention to the detail in the lighting, bringing out Kaluuya’s complexion and definition even in darkness, highlighting his expressive eyes, that allows his performance to take center stage even amid the building horror and eerie tone. There’s an interiority to O.J. in particular, and sharp choices in lighting and composition help draw it out to the audience’s wavelength.
Peele and company also do well to set up rules for Jean Jacket that both speak to the movie’s themes while creating practical challenges for the main characters to overcome. The flying beast deadens anything electrical in its wake, something that stops vehicles in their tracks, permits the sound team to chill the audience with waning audio, and makes filming it that much more challenging. The alien creature can only consume organic matter, with rains of discarded metal and other leavings that make it sick creating both a practical danger and frightening imagery. And as with the horses the Haywood family trains, it is provoked through making eye-contact with it as it roams the skies above, turning the horror flick into a reverse “the floor is lava” game of staying shielded from view. These qualities are cinematic, while also creating pragmatic challenges that the main players must be clever and determined to overcome.
In that, the movie’s creative team crafts some of the stunning horror that already defines Peele’s budding filmography. The title drop comes when O.J. witnesses the magnitude and power of this cloud-hopping behemoth, “nopes out” of doing anything to get in its way, as the same imposing figure prompts the audience to do the same. It’s a film as steeped in feelings as it is in thoughts, and the sense of abject terror as something that cannot be controlled, or tamed, only accommodated, imposes its will on those brave or foolhardy enough to try to use it for notoriety, riches, or entertainment.
Nope uses it for those ends too. It’s hard to tell whether the filmmakers want us to feel complicit in this, to speak out against animal cruelty in Holywood, to recognize the below-the-line workers who make the impossible into the real, or simply to experience the same terror and triumph its players do. But in this alternating languid and exhilarating movie, the spectacle, and the awe, overwhelm, as Peele conveys his signature incredible images, through his characters striving to do the same.
A sweaty, gritty, horny, sapphic thrill ride that, if not for it's divisive and dreamlike fizzle of a finale, would be a personal modern classic. Rose Glass absolutely blew me away with her debut in Saint Maud, and her penchant for blurring the lines between fantasy and reality only continues with more fervour in her sophmore outing. A departure from her horror roots, Love Lies Bleeding is part lesbian romance, part crime thriller with a dash of body horror. I absolutely loved everything this movie was putting down for about 90% of the runtime, even down to its manic escalation towards the back half, but I can't help but feel shortchanged by the haste with which concludes things right before the credits roll. Lovely visuals, everything looks so caked in sweat and dirt and humidity; Kristen is quietly hilarious and the perfect fit for the awkward, sprialing-in-love lesbian she's asked to play opposite larger than life Katy O'Brian, who absolutely steals the show with her troubled, muscular, steroid junkie Jackie. I have a feeling that subsequent viewings will only aid this one, as well as musing on the signivicance of a lot of the imagery in play here. Really great stuff, I look forward to now reading explanation posts and watching video essays until I fully understand every part of this movie, and there is no greater praise I can give it than that.
There have been some film critics who have expressed unfavorable opinions about Cerrar los ojos, the latest work by Víctor Erice. However, contrary to the views of these critics of the TikTok generation and immediate consumption, this film conceals a great masterpiece. While it is true that its extensive duration, nearly three hours long, can be challenging, at times one perceives, amidst the frequent use of fade-to-black transitions, a sense that fragments have been omitted, as if part of the footage is missing to complete the narrative. Nevertheless, the real challenge can be appreciated from the very beginning, from the shot of the statue depicting the dual nature of man, both young and mature, simultaneously. Here, the film delves deep into symbolism; in essence, it is not a work designed for immediate consumption.
The evolution of this film is tranquil and remains true to Erice's essence. However, in his many references to classic cinema, specifically European cinema, one can discern a naturalistic approach, perhaps as a homage, which was not as evident in his previous works. In Erice's work, color is subordinated to reality rather than being an exercise in artistic chrominance, while in Garay's work, the characteristic grain of celluloid and the vibrant aesthetics of Technicolor are apparent. Music, for Erice, assumes a purely diegetic role, complementing the film in the sung moments with its verses, except when we contemplate La mirada del adiós, the work of the character director, where non-diegetic music is chosen. On the other hand, while Garay, in what little we glimpse, connects shots through music and crossfades, Erice frequently opts for fade-to-black transitions. This distinction between the real and the fictional directors is an intelligent display of cinematic language and extradiegetic significance that enhances the value of the film.
Furthermore, it is intriguing to note that Cerrar los ojos does not deviate significantly from the narrative structure of El Sur (allow me to digress personally: I felt that the film was going to end without a conclusion, much like what happened in his previous work). The theme of time, which was already hinted at in earlier works such as El sol del membrillo, persists as a recurring thread in Erice's filmography. This persistence suggests an unceasing quest into the temporal and emotional depths, an exploration that is poetically and reflectively expressed in his latest cinematic creation. Additionally, the use of existing films as a narrative thread, as he did in El espíritu de la colmena with the film Frankenstein, reveals a recurrent inclination in his work towards intertextuality and the exploration of the deeper layers of cinematic art.
Nonetheless, returning to my critical perspective, and in disagreement with those critics who belittle this film, I pose a question: How would the films of Bresson and Dreyer appear if they were made today? The acting, the use of color and lighting, the types of shots, would not differ significantly from what Erice presents to us. This comparison with the masters arises from the phrase that accompanies the conclusion of the film: "Miracles in cinema ceased to exist when Dreyer died."
In conclusion, this film invites us to contemplate the evolution of cinematography in relation to its predecessors, the passage of time itself, humanistic happiness versus individualism, while simultaneously seeking the miracle of cinema within cinema, the yearning for a metamiracle of cinema!
