THE TRIAL OF THE CHICAGO 7

Directing: B
Acting: A-
Writing: B+
Cinematography: B
Editing: A-

The Trial of the Chicago 7 is all but certain to get some level of Oscar buzz, such as it can exist in the glad-handling vacuum of a global pandemic. I’m already wondering whether said vacuum might work to its advantage, and if that will even be quite deserved. Time will tell. But, as it stands today, the film appeared on Netflix today, one of many titles originally planned for theatrical release diverted to streaming platforms, likely a large majority of them to Netflix.

And this puts into new context a question I often ask myself about a movie: would I recommend going to a theater to see it, or is it fine to wait for it to be available on demand or streaming? Today that question is moot, except to say that I absolutely would have found this worth seeing in a theater under normal circumstances, but might not have expected many others to feel the same. This film is written and directed by Aaron Sorkin, the second of his directorial features after Molly’s Game in 2017. This is a noticeable step up from that, but it still has a couple of glaring flaws.

And to be clear, I enjoyed The Trial of the Chicago 7 very much, and highly recommend it—esepcially given how easily accessible it is now, upon the very moment of its release. I just really hated its final scene. To be fair, the surge of uplift, triumph over diversity, the score’s crescendo while a huge audience applauds: it’s all very Sorkin. It’s also almost unbearably corny, like a time warp to drama clichés of 1992. What is this, Scent of a Woman? Or maybe a throwback to A Few Good Men, Sorkin’s debut as a feature film writer. The point is, this brand of film making is severely dated.

Thankfully, Sorkin actually avoids such pitfalls until that final, idiotic scene. In classic Sorkin style, the dialogue crackles from the jump, with very skilled editing weaving separate conversations in separate locations together in a linear vocal narrative. Conversations are never this captivating in real life, but Sorkin creates this elevated alternate reality where everyone is blessed with effortless wit. Just as he did with Molly’s Game, Sorkin takes a true story and simply makes the telling of it far less dull than the original conversations had to have been in reality.

He also largely strips it of realism, but so what? We all understand we are watching a narrative film, and it is not a documentary. We are also looking at a staggering ensemble lineup of movie stars, depicting many of the “seven” of the title, who really were put on trial by the U.S. government for allegedly inciting violence at the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago. Many of the players are nearly unrecognizable, including both Sacha Baron Cohen and Eddie Redmayne, positioned by Sorkin as the age-old factions of progressivism eternally at odds with each other, the far left and the center-left. Curiously, both of these actors are from London, each adopting distinctly separate American accents. Coen’s New England accent as Abbie Hoffman is the one that comes and goes if you’re listening for it; Redmayne’s Midwestern accent as Tom Hayden is much more convincing, creating a uniquely impressive performance in Redmayne’s career.

Jeremy Strong is almost shocking in how much he disappears into the scruffy look of Jerry Rubin. The other four in “the seven” are filled in by John Carroll Lynch as David Dellinger; Alex Sharp as Rennie Davis; Noah Robins as Lee Weiner; and Daniel Flaherty as John Froines. But another defendant who is even far more key to the story than these others is an eighth, who was denied representation until the judge was forced to declare a mistrial in his case, is Bobby Seale, played by Yahya Abdul-Mateen II. What we see him subjected to in this courtroom, at the hands of the judge, is nothing short of extraordinary—yet, sadly, not at all surprising when it comes to the history of treatment of Black people in this country.

Said judge is played, incredibly, by Frank Langella. The name actors just don’t stop in this movie. Mark Rylance is incredible as defense attorney William Kunstler; Joseph Gordon-Levitt is measured as prosecutor Richard Shcultz; the two short scenes he’s in are stolen by Michael Keaton as former U.S. Attorney General Ramsey Clark. And I still haven’t even exhausted the list of recognizable actors here, a clear indication of how many actors want to work with Aaron Sorkin, but I guess we should probably move on.

The Trial of the Chicago 7 is one take on an event in history with many takes. It’s the specific story of the trial after the convention, and with its many dialogue-heavy scenes in offices and court rooms, it is well suited to Sorkin. It does include several flashbacks to scenes of the melee outside the 1968 National Convention, and action scenes of any kind are not quite staged as well. Even Sorkin’s fantastic dialogue does better in the hands of another, gifted director who can better stage his writing. His direction here is serviceable, but it also keeps the film from becoming as great as it could be. Until that dreadfully cornball burst of music and applause at the end, though, the story unfolds propulsively, on the strength of the dialogue and the performers delivering it. As such, even with its flaws, Aaron Sorkin has delivered another movie true to his form, so packed with witty banter you just can’t look away.

Okay, Eddie Redmayne is great in this movie, but am I the only one who notices how all his characters have a tendency to lean to one side?

Overall: B+

DICK JOHNSON IS DEAD

Directing: B+
Acting: B
Writing: A-
Cinematography: A-
Editing: B+

Film has evolved to such a massive degree over the course of the past century, it’s not so much that it’s difficult to come up with a truly new idea, as it is easy to drown out the new ideas with a continuing avalanche of tired cliches. Dick Johnson Is Dead is that needle in a haystack, not just among the infinite number of options competing for your eyes, but within the 13,000+ titles on Netflix itself.

Speaking of which, I had made the rule for the rest of 2020 that I would review films that had once been slated for theatrical release, and/or were eligible for an Academy Award. I’m having the damnedest time figuring out whether this film technically qualifies, which leads me to believe it was perhaps always destined for a streaming service. Well, whatever. It did play at the Sundance Film Festival in January, as well as the “True/False Film Festival” in Columbia, Missouri in March. So the film did play to audiences in movie theaters at least a few times this year. Works for me! 2020 is all about technicalities.

Then again, who needs technicalities when a film is this worthy of attention? You can flip right over to Netflix right now and watch this film, and I recommend you do. Even though I personally have ambivalent feelings about it, and perhaps you will too.

Certain things might be triggering for you here. If you recently lost a parent. If you have any experience with a loved one dealing with any form of dementia.

Dick Johnson is one special such person. He is still alive now, even though his daughter, director and co-writer Kirsten Johnson, stages his death multiple times in the film, as a sort of means of coming to terms with his inevitable passing. Something that goes unstated but is easily considered when contemplating the film in retrospect: in all likelihood, Dick Johnson’s dementia is noticeably further progressed now, than it was as shown in the film. And it is indeed a fascinating aspect of the production that, not only does Dick Johnson happily participate in these death-scene recreations himself, but he is both in the early stages of dementia, and fully aware that he has it.

So what are the moral implications there, then? It’s a thorny thing to think about, even as it’s so evident onscreen how much Kirsten loves her father, and even more plainly, how much Dick loves his daughter. He is doing this for her, without complaint, because he loves her. Because he wants her to be happy, and to be successful and artistically fulfilled.

Once scene featured a line I had to write down. Dick is asking Kirsten why she went into documentary filmmaking, when narrative filmmaking is so much more lucrative. Kirsten Johnson replies, “Real life is often much more fascinating than what you can make up.” How ironic, then, that so much of Dick Johnson Is Dead presents fantasy scenarios—and they range from comical to deeply moving.

She goes through several stagings of simple accidents. Eventually a full funeral is staged, with the participation of his best friend, several other friends and family members, while Dick watches hidden away in the back, even though everyone there is fully aware he is actually still alive. It’s still an authentically emotional experience for everyone present, and deeply moving for the viewer.

There’s a somewhat surprising local connection for viewers local to Seattle. Even though Dick eventually moves into Kirsten’s New York City apartment (which is next door to the home of her kids’ two dads), the story actually begins in Seattle, where Dick has spent about thirty years as a practicing psychologist. His office’s suite number was 3415, which places it on the 34th floor of a downtown building. I did a little bit of Google research and finally figured out his practice had been on the top floor of the Westin Building. A brief shot depicts a view out his office window, looking down on a 17th-floor rooftop dog park attached to the Amazon Doppler Building across the street. Imagine how wildly different this neighborhood was when Dick opened the practice in 1987. Does he even remember?

In an early scene, Dick is seen in that office, talking to a hired stunt man who will take part in one of the many staged death scenes, in this case a sequence in which Dick actually hits the guy with his car. In my mind, the jury is still out as to the utility of all these death recreations, but then it’s always good to remind ourselves: everyone processes grief differently, and all ways are correct. Kirsten’s mom, and Dick’s late wife, passed of Alzheimer’s several years prior, and they all know basically what they now face again. Grief in these instances begins long before death actually happens.

Dick Johnson Is Dead also features several fantasy sequences, depicting Dick in heaven, with dancers who have oversize face cutouts of both Dick and his late wife. It’s all quite beautiful, with wonderful music and deeply affecting editing and intermittently slow-motion cinematography. It sounds odd, and it very much is. Also, it works. Somehow. Somehow the whole movie comes together, in a way difficult to put a finger on, but which stays with you in all the right ways.

Dick Johnson isn’t yet in heaven but we can pretend.

Overall: B+

Advance: KAJILLIONAIRE

Directing: A
Acting: A-
Writing: A-
Cinematography: B+
Editing: A

I loved this movie. It surprises and delights on nearly all fronts—and I came into it with some slight trepidation. Miranda July, after all, has made a career out of self-indulgently “quirky” projects. That said, I guess I didn’t quite recall how I hadn’t thought her past work was all that great. Her 2005 feature directorial debut, You And Me And Everyone We Know, was all right, though it did offer the now-immortal line in cinema: “You poop into my butt hole and I poop into your butt hole, back and forth, forever.” July’s 2011 follow-up, The Future, was decidedly . . . not as good.

It’s been nine years since then. Miranda July has worked on other things in the interim, but not directing a feature film. I’m tempted to say she took her time to arrive at her masterpiece. Could she possibly top Kajillionaire? Maybe. But if she does, I will be stunned. I’d be happy to call this film her crowning achievement.

And that is in spite of its own “quirkiness.” And make no mistake: this film’s characters have plenty of quirks, and it long ago became a pet peeve of mine to see independent films overly enamored with their own quirkiness, with every single one of its characters pointedly not behaving in any normal human way. Think, say, Napoleon Dynamite, an overrated “quirky movie” if there ever was one.

There’s a key difference this time, though. Kajillinaire has only three overly quirky characters, all of them played spectacularly by Richard Jenkins and Debra Winger as the parents, and Evan Rachel Wood as “Old Dolio,” named by her weirdo criminal parents after a homeless man they once knew. Old Dolio has no sense of human tenderness, because neither do her parents, who never demonstrated it for her. And Wood plays her so well, it took me a while before I realized I was watching one of the stars of Westworld.

She and her family live in a rented storage unit next to a business called “Bubbles, Inc,” which leaks foamy bubbles from the top of one of their unit’s walls, making for some memorable imagery as they gather bubbles in garbage buckets at intervals so regular they all have their watches synchronized to it. They are a family of con artists. In the opening scene, Old Dolio is sent into a room of post office boxes where she reaches in far enough to steal packages out of neighboring boxes.

Perhaps what I love most about Kajillionaire is how everything circles around and reveals itself to have a purpose, even the seemingly quirky stuff at the start. This movie starts off by fooling you into thinking it’s just like all the other self-consciously odd indie movies, and then stealthily reveals itself to be something with so much heart, it almost blindsides you with how moving it is. This applies to something even as strange as the choreographed dance in which Old Dolio sneaks into that post office in the opening scene, later performed again in someone’s living room.

Living rooms play a key role in this story. This family of three, in the middle of yet another scam that involves flying to New York and back, meets a young Puerto Rican woman on the plane back, and invite her in on their schemes—upending Old Dolio’s sensually repressed life in the process. Gina Rodriguez, as this outsider, is a stark contrast to the scammer family. She’s a principal character who actually behaves like a normal person. Virtually everyone does in this movie aside from Old Dolio and her parents, but it’s Melanie who teaches Old Dolio what it looks like to be genuine and sincere and kind.

And there is so much more to Kajillionaire, I’m just not doing it justice. It just has to be seen. And I was so taken with it, this was the first movie since the pandemic started to make me really, truly wish I could have seen what I was watching in a movie theater. And this isn’t even some special effects blockbuster extravaganza. But it is a movie that very much lends itself to a communal watching experience. It has so much to unpack, with its use of one family to represent Baby Boomers and Millennials and what they have given and taken from each other. It’s a text so rich with meaning and depth, I’m already eager to watch it again.

In select theaters now; on demand October 16.

Who needs love and tenderness when there’s cash to grab.?

Overall: A-

THE DEVIL ALL THE TIME

Directing: B
Acting: B+
Writing: C
Cinematography: B+
Editing: B

If you’re watching The Devil All the Time for the actors more than anything else, you won’t likely be disappointed. It has quite the ensemble cast, with its biggest starts not even showing up onscreen maybe a third to halfway through the film. The plot is so convoluted it would take way too much time to try and explain it, and it seems clear director and co-writer Antonio Campos (Christine) wanted it to unfold before you onscreen anyway.

Suffice it to say, Campos spends much of the first half of this film moving back and forth in time, in effect taking that much of the story to offer setup: this is how these seemingly disparate characters from two separate small Southern Ohio towns wind up crossing paths.

Tom Holland eventually appears as Arvin Eugene Russell, first depicted as a little boy by Michael Banks Repeta. In the beginning, we meet Arvin’s father, Willard (Bill Skarsgård), and Willard meets his wife, Charlotte (Haley Bennett) in the same diner where another couple happens to meet: Carl (Jason Clark) and Sandy (Riley Keough). The latter couple is identified nearly immediately by the narrator as a people with “victims,” and it becomes clear soon enough what that means, and how their crimes intersect with other characters of multiple generations.

And all of this isn’t even to mention, yet, the so-called clergymen who insert themselves into the machinations of a local church. Theodore (Harry Melling, practically unrecognizable now as a grown man after having played Dudley Dursley in the Harry Potter films) is a guest speaker whose introductory scene involves both a wonderful bluegrass-gospel song and a rather memorable use of a large jar of spiders. Theodore winds up married to Helen (Mia Wasikowska), who I really wish had gotten more screen time. And perhaps most memorably, when the church’s primary preacher must retire, he is replaced by flashy douche Reverend Preston Teagardin. Robert Pattinson is very much in a supporting part in that role, but it is arguably the most memorable in the film, and maybe even the best performance by Pattinson to date. He’s also barely recognizable, in his flashy-preacher clothing and surprisingly convincing thick Appalachian accent.

The thing is, as well-acted, well-shot and competently edited as The Devil All the Time is, I couldn’t quite figure out who this movie is for. People who like crime thrillers set in the South, I suppose. Except that Antonio Campos, as well as co-writer Paulo Campos, infuse a clear subtext into their labyrinthine plot (I haven’t even mentioned Sandy’s dirty-Sheriff brother Sebastian, a key figure in the end). Every character in this movie is a person of deep faith, but also depicted as being either deeply hypocritical or, far more commonly, lethally naive in their depth of faith. It’s so common among the vast majority of these characters that, ironically, it becomes a subtext that feels a bit . . . preachy.

Honestly, it almost pointedly insults the intelligence of both rural Southerners and people of faith. And I say this as an atheist myself, but whether I agree with the idea that religious faith is naive or not, the writing here is hacky. The Devil All the Time, a title referencing what we learn early on is what Willard and consequently his son Arvin both constantly internally battle, is quite engaging with dynamic performances from start to finish, and may even be a satisfying watch for plenty of people not bothering to dig deeper into its construction. But really, this movie is an exercise in condescension.

Or, you can just think of it as a novel violent thriller. Lots of people die, either out of stupidity, naiveté or craven corruption. We’ve seen all these things before, just never in Southern Ohio from the late fifties to the mid-sixties. This has a feel unlike other movies, I’ll give it that—although its puzzle editing, like far too many other films, owes a debt to Pulp Fiction. And although it takes a while for all the plot strands to click together, once that happens the ending sequences become ironically predictable. In short, I guess you could say my assessment of The Devil All the Time comes down to “Meh.”

Robert Pattinson will bring in the faithful.

Overall: B-

THE WAY I SEE IT

Directing: B
Writing: B
Cinematography: B-
Editing: B

It shouldn’t be, but The Way I See It is an absolutely partisan look at a man who was the Chief White House Photographer for eight years under the Obama Administration—and also worked on the photographer staff late in the Reagan Administration. But make no mistake: photographer Pete Souza is out to tell the world what a vile presence Donald Trump is in the White House, how he is a sorry excuse for a president, especially in contrast to his predecessor.

Now, I wholeheartedly agree with that assessment, but that is kind of beside the point. A documentary that simply focused on Souza’s fantastic work documenting the Obama presidency would speak for itself. Souza’s Instagram account pointedly throwing shade at Trump using archived photos of Obama speaks for itself. I’m not convinced the world needed a film that effectively combined the two things. It could easily be argued that The Way I See It is redundant.

Does all that mean I hated it, then? Not at all! I rather enjoyed it, actually, although the film’s marketing is slightly misleading in its suggestion that it spends a lot more time on Souza’s time photographing Reagan when he was a young photographer in his thirties. The implication, clearly, is that Souza is not partisan: his crusade against Donald Trump is about decency, regardless of political party.

Well, The Way I See It spends maybe 10% of its run time on Souza’s work with Reagan; maybe 80% of its time on his work with Obama; and another 10% of its time specifically on Souza’s post-Obama, anti-Trump crusading. This movie is very much preaching to the choir, and yet I am tempted to state my chief complaint is that it’s too easy on Reagan—a bit of a pet peeve of mine, this implication in the Trump Era that the current president somehow makes previous awful presidents “better.” Souza talks about how much Ronald loved Nancy (sure, fine); that he was a fundamentally empathetic man (hmm, maybe), and that a particular photo of Reagan holding a black baby with HIV “helped de-stigmatize” AIDS (uh, that’s a bit of a reach). This much I’ll grant Reagan: he did maintain a level of respect for people who disagreed with him about many things. Souza was one of those people.

Beyond that, The Way I See It is packed to the gills with photos of President Obama, his family, and others in his orbit between 2004, when he was first elected to the Senate, and 2016. Countless of these photos are truly fantastic. I found myself wishing I could spend more time looking at several different specific ones. Like, say, in a photography book. You could say that’s a better medium for all these images. On the other hand, a film has the potential to reach a lot more people.

“Potential” being the operative word, there. I am reviewing this film now after having seen it as a SIFF-sponsored advanced screening—virtually. That was a new experience for me. It opens tomorrow in “select theaters,” but, clearly, not on the West Coast. Even as a documentary I would have much preferred seeing it in a theater, but, here we are. Either way I would never have told anyone else to rush out to see it in theaters. Lovers of Barack Obama will love it; lovers of Donald Trump will hate it; whatever the case, most of my readers won’t have access to it until it’s available streaming somewhere. I suppose some of you can drive to some theater in Idaho or Montana if you’re that eager, but there’s really no need.

As for me, I will admit: I am as far from a fan of Donald Trump as anyone can get; I am a moderate fan of Baack Obama. The Way I See It, a good but imperfect documentary, did make me a pretty big fan of Pete Souza. He’s an excellent photographer, his crusading is pointed in the right direction, and this movie gives his work a nice showcase.

You’ll probably enjoy this portrait, implicit bias notwithstanding.

Overall: B

NEVER RARELY SOMETIMES ALWAYS

Directing: A
Acting: A-
Writing: A
Cinematography: B+
Editing: A

Today I learned, thanks to Never Rarely Sometimes Always, that in the state of Pennsylvania, a minor can only get an abortion with her parents’ consent. Pennsylvania is hardly alone in this matter, though: I looked it up, and although laws vary state by state regarding parental consent versus parental notification (and also whether one or both parents must consent or be notified), 21 states explicitly require parental consent of some kind. That may seem at first glance to be perfectly reasonable to many, but consider this: in effect, it also means that in 21 states parents have the legal right to force their underage children to bear children when they don’t want to.

That is fucking barbaric.

To her immense credit, writer-director Eliza Hittman (Beach Rats) has no evident interest in making Never Rarely Sometimes Always about the barbarism—at least, not directly. There are certainly very indirect hints at it, especially when her 17-year-old protagonist, Autum (a wonderful Sidney Flanigan) is asked to answer a series of questions for which the four possible answers are the words of this movie’s title. She’s at an abortion clinic in Manhattan, and the questions get into sexual history and the possibility of abuses that got her into this position.

The thing is, it’s easy to imagine certain people reacting to this movie with a range from resentment to hate, and all that does is support the world presented by the film: one in which men are not to be trusted, and women are to be subjugated. I should change “people” here to men, because the vast majority of people put off by this film are bound to be men. Because, it’s true: not one of men in this movie, at least those that are actual characters, is a good guy. To be fair, once the final procedure for Autumn’s abortion is underway, only a few seconds of which is shown, the doctor performing the procedure is what appears to be a fairly young man. Presumably he is sympathetic? We never see his face though. Only his arms. But Autumn’s dad? Autumn’s boss? The young man Autumn and her cousin meet on the bus to New York? All creeps.

The way I see it, Never Rarely Sometimes Always merely presents a world that illustrates what it feels like for many young women to exist in America, even on 2020. And that’s just what I happened to zero in on; Hittman never makes that the overt point of the movie. She’s just telling the story of a 17-year-old girl who has gotten pregnant, does not want to be pregnant, apparently cannot talk to her parents about it, and has to travel to another state to get an abortion. And what of the many girls in similar circumstances in midwestern or western states that are geographically much larger? Sadly. compared to many of them, Autumn is lucky she’s even as close as Pennsylvania is to New York.

Not that it’s easy for her. She works at a local grocery store with her cousin, Skylar (Talia Ryder), who basically takes it upon herself to escort Autumn on this trip. The trip takes longer than they intended or expected, for a multitude of reasons: Autumn’s pregnancy is further along than she had been told at a clinic in her town; the procedure can’t take place at the Broolyn clinic they go to first and she has to go to the Manhattan one the next day, where she finds out it has to take place over two days. I kept thinking about what an amazing friend Skylar was being to Autumn, and wondering to what degree Autumn would recognize that in retrospect as they grew older. Because right now, they are just teenagers, faced with daunting circumstances, and they just don’t have the time or the capacity to think about it that broadly in the immediate term.

Eliza Hittman’s expertly crafted script leaves a whole lot of questions unanswered, presumably by design: we don’t know exactly how Autumn got pregnant, or who the father is, or what her parents’ politics are. Hittman deprives audiences of much the usual information used to judge a young girl who has gotten pregnant, or even why she wants an abortion, although what we do get should be good enough: “I’m just not ready to be a mom,” Autumn tells one clinic counselor. All those other questions are just not relevant.

What is relevant is the mass of difficulties facing Autumn after she makes this choice, a choice that is hers and hers alone to make, and the only other person who should be involved is a doctor, who can assess her physical condition, present her with options, and leave the decision up to her.

Again, I freely admit to projecting a lot here, because I feel strongly about these things, and Never Rarely Sometimes Always never telegraphs any of these ideas. It’s strictly matter-of-fact from start to finish, which is the source of its greatness: this is the way of the world for many young girls with an unwanted pregnancy, and this is just one story of how that world must be navigated. A lot of it is very uncomfortable for the viewer, sometimes heartbreaking (particularly the scene to which the tile refers).

Still, this movie is a bit tricky, and it’s hard to imagine a lot of people watching it. This isn’t entertainment so much as ultra-realistic, understated drama about a difficult subject. Who wants that? Well, all I can say is this movie commands attention, and it is thus far the best movie I have seen this year.

(It can be rented on Amazon Prime Video for $5.99.)

Sometimes a friend just does the right thing instinctively.

Overall: A

FIRST COW

Directing: B+
Acting: B+
Writing: B+
Cinematography: B
Editing: B

First Cow is worthy viewing, though it’s unfortunately not quite made for this moment in history. A slight irony, that, given it was made about a particular moment in history: 1820s Pacific Northwest—specifically, Oregon Territory. Two men, a baker nicknamed “Cookie” and a Chinese immigrant named King-Lu (John Magaro and Orion Lee) form an unlikely friendship, and then a dangerous business selling “oil cakes” made delicious by the theft of milk from the only milk cow in the Territory.

Hence, the film’s title: Cookie and King-Lu observe the arrival of this cow, originally shipped from California with a bull and a calf who both perished in the journey, and seize an opportunity. They routinely sneak under cover of night to milk the cow, leaving its owner, Chief Factor (Toby Jones), mystified as to why it seems to produce so little milk.

And, here is where we get into why First Cow would be better viewed on a big screen in a theater, which unfortunately remains an indefinite impossibility for most of us: its many scenes shot at night, with the barest minimum of lighting. Should you watch this streaming at home—and I would say it’s still worth it, especially for its currently rental price of $2.99 for Prime Members on Amazon—I recommend watching in a room that you can make very dark, or at least watch at night. I started this in late morning, and even with blinds drawn, the sun hitting them from the other side forced me to stand up at times and move closer to the TV screen so that I could make out the image.

That said, even on its own terms, First Cow is not for everyone, mostly thanks to its very slow pacing. It’s easy to see how critical consensus on this film is incredibly high and average online viewer scores are much lower. And the story is so simple, there’s not even that much more to tell you, except perhaps that a modern-day prologue sequence makes perfectly clear what these two characters’ ultimate fates are. The final scene did not strike me as quite as ambiguous as some took it to be. It’s clear what happens to them, just not quite as clear how, but the how is far less relevant.

In the meantime, First Cow is much more of a meditation on friendship, and hardship, and how those things can relate to each other. There is no sex or romance in this movie, just the platonic relationship between these two men, who have both been to many places on a long life journey that has brought them together here. I do like how little telegraphing director Kelly Reichardt does in this movie, especially in terms of the disparate backgrounds. Not only are the two main characters originally from Maryland and China—for the time especially, a long, long way away from Oregon Territory in either case, just in opposite directions. There is also the Englishman Chief Factor (Toby Jones being simultaneously the most recognizable actor in this movie, and a great character actor who disappears into his roles), and the Native American house staff who waits on him.

Nothing about First Cow is “a statement,” but rather it’s all rather neutral observation, of a particular place and time. It may be slightly more interesting to those of us already from the region, but that has no bearing on how compelling the overall story might be to anyone. What is more likely to factor in its reception is how patient the viewer is. Reichardt is offering an environment to be absorbed, much more than a plot to propel forward. The story does pick up notably in the second half, almost as a reward for the patient. And even then, not a lot happens. You’ll want to make sure you’re not drowsy if you watch this movie.

It very much worked for me, at least. The performances are solid across the board, but then, Reichardt does not ask a lot of them. She still offers much on which to ruminate, especially the nature of friendship, as is made overtly clear with a quote she puts onscreen before the opening scene even begins. There’s something to be said for kindness as well, manifest by Cookie and King-Lu’s first meeting, and contrasted by Chief Factor’s stated philosophies. First Cow is quiet and contemplative, and in the event that’s what you’re in the mood for (a key factor), it could be just what the doctor ordered.

This movie is udderly pleasant.

Overall: B+

I'M THINKING OF ENDING THINGS

Directing: B+
Acting: B+
Writing: B
Cinematography: B
Editing: B-

What a title for me to use as my return to reviewing movies after months of reviewing nothing. Five months since my last posted review (Onward); six and a half months since my review of any movie in theaters (The Photograph)—to call 2020 a strange year, in any and all contexts let alone the movie industry, is the understatement of the century. And, like Onward, I did not see I’m Thinking of Ending Things in a theater, which had previously been my strict criteria for writing and posting movie reviews here (that, and that it be in its original theatrical run). But, unlike Onward, I’m Thinking of Ending Things actually is playing in a theater . . . somewhere. I found showtimes for it at a Landmark Theater in Chicago.

But, I live in Seattle, as do most of my readers, or at least most of them live in the Seattle area. Washington State multiplexes remain closed; most independent movie theaters remain closed; I’m Thinking of Ending Things is far too obscure a movie to be playing at any of the drive-in theaters that are once again in vogue.

I’m Thinking of Ending Things is an extraordinarily odd movie, in more ways than one. The greatest irony of it may be that, even if it were playing in theaters, I would not tell a single person to rush out to see it there anyway. As it happens, it’s streaming on Netflix—which had been the plan all along. And of course, most of the time, I don’t bother with what I still consider basically “made for TV” movies that are streaming originals—unless! Unless, they get an Oscar-qualifying limited run at theaters. Think Roma (amazing), or The Irishman (fine, but overrated). If there were not a pandemic and the world were operating as normal right now, I’m Thinking of Ending Things would indeed have been at some movie theater accessible to me, however briefly, and I would have seen it, and written and posted a review. Hence, what you are reading right now.

And all that is just preamble to my telling you: I’m Thinking of Ending Things has something rather important in common with his 2008 film Synecdoche, New York. Which is to say, it’s really only for the die-hard Charlie Kaufman fan. It could be said that the writer-director has a cult following, but I don’t know that it’s a particularly huge one. I struggle to think of many people I know who would have the patience for this movie. I did, but that is because of my longstanding, hardcore fandom, and I come in with the mind of giving him the benefit of the doubt. That said, I had so many “huh?” moments in this movie that I am also wondering, am I starting to lose my patience with him? I gave Synecdoche, New York and A- in 2008; would I have done the same had it been released now? It’s hard to say. I should re-watch it.

Another curiosity: I’m Thinking of Ending Things has a 4:3 aspect ratio, which would fit right into a non-widescreen, standard television screen. That’s how it would be presented on a theater screen, at which I would have no doubt been forced to think about the choice, and how it feels expressly designed for television screens, and how it was made for Netflix to begin with. The thing is, even if I were to insist that everyone needs to see this movie (they don’t), I would still say that watching it streaming at home would be fine: this is not a film that commands large-screen attention.

Kaufman has a knack for claustrophobic narrative devices, after all. I’m Thinking of Ending Things boasts a very small cast, and maybe half the run time features only two: a young couple, only dating for six weeks, played by Jessie Buckley and Jesse Plemons. They are driving through a huge snowstorm to his parents’ house for dinner, and long stretches of the film are dedicated just to conversation between the couple as they drive in the car, both on their way there and on the way back.

I’d say the scenes at the farm house are the most compelling. The parents are played by Toni Collette and David Thewlis (the latter most recognizable as Professor Lupin in the Harry Potter series), and you can never go wrong with either of those actors. But, it’s not a Charlie Kaufman film unless things get abstract at best and off the rails at worst, and I’m Thinking of Ending Things straddles that line, getting so odd in the second half that I can’t decide if Kaufman has crossed that line, or has inexplicably skated so far away from it to allow for enough room to land some narrative triple axels. Very subtly at first, the narrative begins to play with time and, I suppose, “what ifs” in terms of the long term potential of new relationships started with misgivings or little resistance. And then, all of a sudden, you’re watching a naked old man walking down a high school hallway behind a talking cartoon pig.

I’m Thinking of Ending Things is clearly dense and layered with meaning, and it feels very much like more of its meaning can be gleaned from multiple viewings. And in the moment, I was compelled by it, although that moved quickly to confusion in the final few sequences, which are either total claptrap or just flew over my head. Which is to say, I did not hate this movie, and I even enjoyed it broadly speaking, but I did not finish it feeling any compulsion to re-watch it in order to better understand it. It’s a Rorschach kind of a movie, where it’s easy to imagine one person finding it brilliant at the same time another person finds it infuriatingly pretentious. I fall somewhere in between, very much unsure of how great I think it is, but loving the performers nonetheless. It would be fun to listen to cerebral conversations about it between people who are smarter than I am.

It’s a long ride.

Overall: B

ONWARD

Directing: B
Acting: B+
Writing: B
Cinematography: B
Editing: B
Animation: B+

Onward is a movie that makes me think of Pixar Animation Studios’ glory days . . . which we are not in.

It’s still a worthy watch, mind you. It’s reliably entertaining; I got a few really good laughs out of it; the voice talent is lively and engaging. It also has a truly odd premise, wrapped in a well-conceived and often beautifully rendered world. Fantasy creatures have evolved in a world where practical technology has somehow rendered magic outdated, but two teenage brothers find a magic spell that will bring their dad back for one day. Something goes wrong, and for most of the movie, said dad exists only as his bottom half: his feet and legs, up to the waist.

Uhh. Okay.

Pixar made a name for itself, back in the day, with a seamless combination of unparalleled heart and unique cleverness. Movies like Cars (2006) and later Brave (2012) indicated initial loose stitches in those seams, arguably saved in their own right largely on the strength of the studio’s foundational narrative structures. If I can offer what is still my favorite film studio a bit of a backhanded compliment, it may be that over time they began to offer diminishing returns—but at least the rate at which they have diminished has been slower than that of any other studio.

Pixar still doesn’t make duds. They just make some movies, now, that bring a possibly unfair disappointment because their earlier work was so spectacular. This is the problem, albeit a slight one, with Onward. It’s a good movie. But other animation studios regularly put out movies just as good as this, and Pixar is supposed to stand apart. They always used to anyway; they were reliably a cut above the rest. And they do still regularly put out films that remind us of that, from the near-perfect Inside Out (2015) to the deeply moving Coco (2017). It’s just that now, for every such movie, they also give us an arguably unnecessary Toy Story 4 (2019), an outright pointless Cars 3 (2017, the only Pixar movie I never even bothered to see) . . . or, a merely-good-enough Onward.

It just . . . feels more like Pixar has moved into the “cashing-in” phase of their existence. The movies remain a fun experience, but something like Onward, well, it’s not an instant classic. This is not one of the movies we’ll still be re-watching regularly fifteen or twenty years from now, not like Toy Story (1995) or Finding Nemo (2003). And yes, this is a ridiculously unfair bar to set for any of these movies. Blame Pixar themselves: for ten solid years, they spoiled us! Every movie they made was spectacular. Of course that’s not sustainable. Still, the more less-than-incredible movies they release, the more they tarnish their brand.

Much as I did enjoy Onward, I’m not even bummed I couldn’t see it in theaters. This is my first written movie review since the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic (my first review in a record—by far—seven weeks, because of a two-week vacation that preceded it), and I am only writing this one because of these extraordinary changes of circumstance, and knowing that if theaters were open right now, this movie would still be in theaters and I would indeed have seen it there. Studios have adapted and offered some of their first-run movies for streaming rental, but at prices I just cannot justify spending, when renting one movie now would cost me nearly as much as I was previously paying AMC Theaters to see up to 12 movies a month. The key difference with Onward is that Disney has made it available on their Disney+ streaming platform, which I am already subscribed to.

But this still changes the context of how I might recommend the movie to others. Would this have been worth seeing in theaters? For me, absolutely! For you? Hmm. Maybe. Is it worth watching at home if you already have a Disney+ account? There is no question: yes. It’s just not going to blow you away the way countless Pixar films that came before it have, and it’s still going to have far stiffer competition from the plethora of other streaming options out there that you quite easily might enjoy either as much or more.

I just wish Onward had something more novel to say, something that set it apart to a greater degree. In many ways it just feels like other, better Pixar movies that came before. It does have its share of clever gags, and I very much enjoyed the world of fantasy creatures living in a society much more like our own, right down to mobile phones with screens that can crack. The gang of fairy bikers cracked me up. On the other hand, the voice cast feels less like voices matched perfectly to characters than voices attached to famous names just gathered for the marquee: Chris Pratt and Tom Holland as the brothers; Julia Louis-Dreyfus as their mother; Octavia Spencer as “The Manticore.” Even the existence of Ali Wong and Lena Waithe as partnered cops feels like producers telegraphing the message “Look how progressive we’re being!” just because the latter’s character makes reference to her girlfriend. Can we just get a main character who happens to be queer in one of these movies already?

I’m probably being way more critical of this movie than I have any need to be. Your kids are going to delight in it, of that I am certain. But then, they will delight in nearly any animated feature. Pixar movies are meant to be more than that. Even acknowledging how moved I was by the relationship between the siblings—and a hilarious visual gag with the climactic cursed dragon-beast—there is a depth to Pixar’s emotional and thematic capabilities that is just missing here. Onward is not more than that. It’s just a couple hours of harmless, often clever fun. Normally I say that’s all you need, but once in a while you just want a little more, when you know how much greater the capabilities are.

Did I mention some parts of this movie are just plain corny?

Overall: B

THE PHOTOGRAPH

Directing: B+
Acting: B+
Writing: B
Cinematography: B+
Editing: B+

I can’t remember where I read that The Photograph was being called “The black Notebook,” but I feel compelled to dispel that comparison right out of the gate. Full disclosure, I never saw The Notebook—because it looked like a steaming turd of a movie to me. A treacly-sentimental romance, sure, and plenty of people go for that sort of thing, but it clearly wasn’t for me.

I might not have expected The Photograph to be for me either, but every once in a while a romance piques my interest. It makes a huge difference that this one stars Issa Rae and LaKeith Stanfield, in both cases demonstrating impressive range just by being in this movie. They also happen to have great chemistry, in this movie that is as sensual and sexy as it is romantic. The plot features flashbacks narrated by the writer of a letter detailing her own sad love story, and this couple is played by Chanté Adams and Y’lan Noel, with nearly the same level of sensuousness.

Issa Rae plays Mae, and LaKeith Stanfield is Michael. The letter writer, Christina, is Mae’s mother, having recently died of cancer. She left a letter for both Mae and for her father, asking her to read her own letter first. Michael is a journalist who meets Mae indirectly through Isaac (Rob Morgan), who was Christian’s long-ago lover, still living in New Orleans where Michael travels to interview him or a story. Michael is interested in photography, notices the good work in photographs displayed in Isaac’s house, including a rare photograph of the photographer herself: Christina. Ostensibly it’s the story behind this photograph that we are being told, although taken more literally, this movie might more accurately have been called The Letter. But, it’s not as easy to use a photo as a flashback device with voiceover narration.

This all sounds like the setup for a movie that is just as overly sentimental as any, maybe even a tearjerker. But that’s what sets The Photograph above other romances, as it is neither of those things. It does have both its sentimental and sad moments, but writer-director Stella Meghie never dwells on them unnecessarily, instead moving the story forward.

The tone of this film is slightly uneven in just a few scenes, but not nearly to the extent that some reviews might have you believe. Honestly, if you enjoy romances, you will enjoy this movie—and this one is better than most. I have very few nits to pick with it. Maybe just that, in the flashback scenes, Christina’s mother is constantly exasperated with her in ways that never quite seem justified. Young Isaac has no apparent prospects or ambition, and Christina’s mother therefore apparently finds him worthless since he can’t “take care of her.” Not interested in being taken care of, Christian buses off to New York to pursue a career in photography. Good for her! In the meantime, Isaac spends a lifetime regretting not following her there.

The Photograph explores a lot about how we fear becoming our parents, and Mae has grown up feeling largely neglected by her mother, and now has difficulty staying committed in relationships. Michael is similarly noncommittal in most relationships, but of course, meeting each other is what alters their relationship worldviews. All of this stuff is pretty minor, and what passes in this movie for “conflict” is a whole lot of not much. But, so what? This movie is not made for people looking for melodrama or histrionics; it’s for romantics, pure and simple. On that front, this movie more than delivers. The Photograph is a film full of love and affection, and people just trying to figure it out, trying to do better than those who went before them. It features lush cinematography—and photography—that has you leaving the theater feeling warm fuzzies, thinking about the comfort that comes with being in the arms of someone you love.

They’ll warm your heart as they warm each other’s.

Overall: B+