I’ve been selectively revisiting the X-Men series, which, as a whole, are known to be a mixed bag. At their best1, they’re great action spectacles that effectively explore the opposing philosophies of Professor X and Magneto. At their worst… well, I didn’t rewatch the bad ones, so I won’t comment.
These two entries, both directed by James Mangold, stand apart from the rest in the way that they zoom into the psychology of a single character. The Wolverine is the more conventionally comic-booky of the two, featuring ninjas and a cool bullet train fight scene. Logan doesn’t feel like a superhero movie at all, and lands more like a crime drama, with brutal violence that makes you feel every kill.
Both follow a similar emotional arc for the character: he’s a broken man, haunted by the past, until he finds someone to care for and protect. It’s especially effective in Logan, due to the compelling performance by Dafne Keen as Wolverine’s clone-daughter.
I have to say though, Wolverine’s lack of emotional range (99.5% brooding and angry, 0.5% vulnerable) is more noticeably one-note when he’s flying solo and not part of a team.
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This film has a fascinating and unique premise: a family who has adopted a Chinese girl purchases an android with the same ethnicity—a cultural techno-sapien, as they call it—to act as her older brother, and to ensure that she has a connection to her heritage. But he malfunctions, and in the process of trying to repair him1, they gain access to his storage modules and are able to view his memories.
Due to the title, I don’t think it’s a spoiler to say that their efforts are unsuccessful, and the film becomes an emotional meditation on grief. When we lose someone close to us, we usually focus on our memories of them. This film uses the sci-fi premise to invert that idea and ask, what would the departed hold as their most treasured memories of us?
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According to my records, I’ve watched this film four times before this—twice in the theatre, as I recall—but not since 2011. But it feels like I’ve watched it many more times than that. It’s one of those movies where I can anticipate moments just before they happen: I can hear a line of dialogue before it’s spoken; I can see the framing of a shot before it’s cut to; I could even imitate the gestures of the actors before they moved, if I were the kind of person to fidget during movies.
I’m not going to say much more about the movie itself, other than that it holds up and remains one of my favourites. Rather, I’ll use this as an opportunity to reflect on how my media-consumption habits have changed. Inglourious Basterds came out in a time before streaming services and YouTube created this feeling that I always have something new to watch. Back then, I used to rewatch movies and shows (see also: Curb Your Enthusiasm) over and over again. Even if not the whole thing, I would pick out favourite scenes to revisit; for example, the best scene of this film, the chapter in the bar featuring M. Fassbender and D. Kruger.
I’m going to sound like a grumpy old man when I say this but it goes to show that less is more: less choice means that you can spend more time on the movies that you really love, and it’s through repeated viewings that your favourites becomes your favourites.
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The character of Lydia Tár is like a fictionalized illustration of the debate that’s investigated in the excellent Monsters: A Fan’s Dilemma by Claire Dederer: can we separate the art from the (abusive, problematic) artist? Everyone has to answer that for themselves, and the movie is appropriately evasive about stating a definitive opinion.
It’s almost three hours long, but it flew by for me. Not that it’s fast-paced; in fact, there are many long jargon-filled dialogue scenes, especially near the beginning, where I didn’t even know what they were talking about. But it’s riveting precisely because of this: my mind was just working so hard to convince myself I’m smart enough to understand expert music theory that I could never get bored. Of course, Cate Blanchett’s charisma helps.
What I found most fascinating were the supernatural and almost horror-like aspects of the film. Tár is haunted by her dark deeds, and there are really mysterious scenes where this haunting becomes physically real. The most memorable shot for me was when she’s playing the piano, and then she suddenly startles and looks towards the camera as if someone is there, but we never see what she sees.
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The tone of this show vacillates between quiet moments of culinary creativity, and brutally stressful shouting matches. I much prefer the former, but I recognize the necessity of the latter. All of the characters in the show are living in the shadow of tragedy, and the process of healing that pain is not always a smooth ride.
Come for the cooking scenes that make you want to try new recipes in the kitchen; stay for the honest depictions of trauma and mental illness.
On the surface, the plot of this movie could be an episode of CSI or Law & Order, and that’s what makes it so watchable. But it dives much deeper than the typical crime procedural, and shows how the criminal justice system rests on taking a tiny slice of people’s lives, and inventing a narrative and motive out of it. Of course, those lives, and especially the relationships in those lives, are much more complex.
There’s a memorable flashback scene featuring one of the ugliest couple fights I’ve ever seen. They’re both writers, and they resent each other for how time is spent towards their creative pursuits. On the one hand, it’s become a pet peeve of mine for stories to feature the writing profession. (Can’t writers write about something other than writing?) But on the other hand, the feeling of not having enough time to write—and especially the temptation to blame the people in your life for it—hits pretty close to home for me.
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Entertaining to watch, and gives you reason to root for a group of young activists, even if their actions undoubtedly lie in a moral grey area. In the end, though, the web of their backstories feels more like a point-form enumeration through the harms of corporate-backed climate change, rather than the lives of fully realized characters.
Your mileage may vary with the retro aesthetic. Personally, I don’t love the gritty 16mm look.
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I did like the show, but I will mostly be critical here because it’s already received its fair share of praise. I enjoyed it mostly for the comedy. “You can’t make a Tomlette without breaking some Greggs” is an all-time great line.
Where it’s lacking for me is specificity about the actual business. What is it like to run a TV station? How do they manage the logistics of a cruise ship? What kinds of numbers need to be crunched during a merger? We get glimpses of these things, but I guess my expectation for a workspace drama is: I want to see the work. I’m thinking of a show like Mad Men, where you can really tell the difference between a successful ad and a failed one. More recently, The Bear spends a lot of time on showing the characters through their abilities in the kitchen.
In Succession, it all feels kind of vague and hand-wavey, with the details obscured by (admittedly clever) one-liners. To be fair, the focus is on how the characters angle for power, but the show would have been more enjoyable for me had the actual ins and outs of the business been more clear.
I saw this film as part of the TIFF Secret Movie Club program. The screenings have that film festival feeling, because we’re seeing movies before wide release. Also, they’re often capped by a Q&A session with part of the filmmaking team. For the screening of The Animal Kingdom (a.k.a. Le Règne Animal), we were told before the show that there’d be a recorded interview with the sound supervisor at the end. Because of this fact, I tried to tune into the auditory experience, and indeed, it’s one of the notable technical achievements of the film.
In the story, people have started to randomly mutate into Dr. Moreau-esque animal hybrids. We follow a family whose matriarch has begun this transformation, and has disappeared into the wild, while the father and son try to get her back—both in the sense of physically locating her, and in the sense of “curing” her and making her human again. The tension mounts further when the townspeople get their pitchforks ready, and further still when the boy shows signs of mutation too.
The designs of the hybrids are cool, and brought to the screen mostly by performance and prosthetics. The aforementioned sound design comes into play in the way the creatures blend their human speaking voices with animal sounds.
Sci-fi-grounded-in-reality is probably one of my favourite things, and I enjoyed the film on its technical achievements and plotting. However, the allegorical elements felt too broad to be effective. It only points at subjects like racism, queerness, environmentalism, without really diving into any. Honestly, it covers a lot of the same thematic ground as X-Men, but without the luxury of time that a long-running series affords.
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Even though I probably wouldn’t recommend watching it to anyone I know, I absolutely respect the quality and originality of the writing in this show. The actors are also amazing all around, especially Justin Theroux and Carrie Coon, and they deliver many emotional gut punches.
I’ve been listening to the musical score (by Max Richter) since finishing the three seasons, and I have to say I’ve been moved more by the music alone than by the show itself. I think the purity of the score evokes the sadness that permeates the show, but distills it from the frustrations that I felt with the story.
The premise of the show is as follows: one day, in a single instant, two percent of the world’s population disappears with no trace and no explanation. The story picks up three years later, and deals with the people who are left behind. As expected, everyone is in pain. Where the show loses me is the extent to which every character is broken. I was reading the book Humankind at the same time as I was watching The Leftovers, and I found it hard to swallow that the collective trauma in the show has made everyone hateful and hostile towards each other. I want to believe that people would find a way to cooperate and support each other through the darkness.
