The Movie (and TV show) Watching Thread

[John Dule]

Some stuff I've been watching lately:

Gangs of New York: Rewatched this 2003 Scorsese movie to see if my opinion of it had changed. Once again, I liked it but didn't love it. Daniel Day-Lewis is absolutely mesmerizing as usual, and the setting is historically interesting-- I love that it integrates oft-overlooked aspects of American history into its revenge narrative. However, I've always thought the story itself was pretty standard Scorsese fare, and this rewatch solidified my opinion. As a revenge arc with an interesting historical setting, it's really well-done, but nothing about the plot seems to stick in my head as much as the elaborate sets and cinematography do. I think all history buffs should give this a watch (for the atmosphere, not the accuracy of the events depicted), but I wouldn't say it ranks among Scorsese's best.

The Last of Us: I never played the video game this was based on, but the first three episodes of this show were very engaging and I'm interested enough to watch more. Pedro Pascal is a very likable lead and has great chemistry with the girl playing Ellie. I also think the series has done a great job of making the cordyceps fungus feel plausible on a level that other zombie thrillers have failed to do; the world-building alone places it in the high upper tier of this genre. The idea that the "zombies" are effectively not in control of their own actions, yet are aware as the fungus forces them to feast on other humans, is so disturbing that I actually lost a little sleep thinking about it-- which is high praise coming from someone as desensitized to gore as I am. The psychological aspect of this really won me over. I will say though, while episode three was well-done from a writing standpoint, it was pretty ballsy of them to completely break from the overall narrative only three episodes in. It was a decent enough departure, but I do hope they don't pull that again this season, because the heart and soul of the story is really Joel and Ellie.

Avatar 2: Not enough sex.

[John Dule]

Ok, here's my unironic, honest, and lengthy analysis of Avatar 2 that I know you were all waiting for.

-----------------

As stated previously, I enjoyed the first Avatar movie. Despite being trite, simplistic, and strangely unimaginative given its setting, it won me over solely because it was far more original than any other blockbuster of the modern era. And yes, I was looking forward to Avatar 2-- if only because James Cameron knows how to make a sequel.

So was it worth waiting the length of one Boyhood to see this? Well... yes and no. Avatar: The Way of Water takes every aspect of the first film-- the good and the bad-- and amplifies it. The stock storytelling beats, hackneyed environmentalism, and self-indulgent visual effects sequences are all back in full force. But no matter how much the film made me roll my eyes (and it was a lot), it's still clear that Cameron hasn't lost his edge. Far from repeating the story of Avatar (2009), Cameron plots an intelligent new path for the franchise, introducing new characters and concepts that logically follow from the first film's conclusion. Perhaps most importantly, he knows that lowering the stakes in a sequel can actually make it more engaging-- a lesson that most modern sci-fi writers would do well to learn. This film does not end with a giant laser shooting into the sky or a death weapon capable of destroying planets. For that, at least, it has my thanks.

But as much as I'd like to sing The Way of Water's praises-- to hold it up as the last bastion of barely-original filmmaking compared to the doldrums of Marvel and Star Wars-- it's far from revolutionary. While its underwater special effects are of course impressive, at this point audiences are so desensitized to these visuals that they leave very little impact. In fact, I'll be the first to say that the Avatar films suffer from the same problem as the Star Wars prequels: The animated landscapes look too perfect and clean to be believable, which often breaks the immersion. Fully CGI environments don't have the gritty imperfections that sets do, and the advantages they bring are sometimes canceled out by how sterile and staged they feel. I don't have anything against using CGI to depict things that couldn't be achieved with practical effects (the size difference between the Na'vi and humans will always be impressive to me), but when you get to the point that you're using it on simple background items, I start to feel like I'm watching Toy Story.

Just as the visuals alone aren't enough of a reason to see this film, neither are the characters (though you already knew that). The movie follows the Sully family-- now including four children-- as they abandon their home in Pandora’s floating mountains to seek refuge on the islands of Space Tahiti. The decision to leave is triggered by an incident in which marines briefly capture some of the children, which is enough to convince our main character that the time has come to completely abandon the home for which he had once fought so hard. It comes across as a strange departure from Jake Sully's character-- the man literally organized a multinational guerrilla war in the first film-- but I understand that the oh-so-deep characterization of Jake Sully is not really the primary concern of these movies, so I gave it a pass.

The rest of the Sully family is a bit of a mixed bag, dramatically speaking. Sigourney Weaver stands out as a CGI’d young Na’vi girl with a primal connection to the planet’s deity, which further explores one of the more novel sci-fi concepts from the first film-- the idea that the planet’s life is all connected by a supernatural hive mind. Not only is the CGI for Weaver’s character impressive, but she pulls off shockingly believable childlike acting for the role. The character of “Spider” (a human child raised by the Na’vi) is also interesting, though the movie doesn’t give him much of an arc. Cameron tries to give him some temptation to turn to the “dark side” (in a father-son relationship that is more than a little reminiscent of Luke and Vader), but Spider never seems likely to succumb to this temptation, so the stakes feel low. Nonetheless, Cameron’s exploration of plot points that build on existing material from the first film demonstrates once again his uncanny understanding of film sequels. He knows how to introduce a concept, develop it, and explore its logical effects and conclusions-- as opposed to just rehashing the same plot as the original film. JJ Abrams could learn some lessons from this movie (but he won’t).

But the focal point of the film is the relationship between Sully, Neytiri, and their two sons. This dynamic is occasionally charming, but the character development is shallow and predictable-- especially the relationship between the brothers, which is basically a Blue Man Group retelling of the prodigal son parable. The conclusion to their arc is so obvious that it almost had me convinced it was going to subvert my expectations. But true to form, it ended with one character literally having another character’s blood on his hands.

This visual trope is ultimately a perfect microcosm of The Way of Water as a whole. While the film does an excellent job of exploring concepts and plotlines from the first movie in more depth, it’s also punishingly unsubtle-- even more so than the first film, which is saying something. From the whale hunters with Australian accents to the liberal borrowing of Vietnam imagery, the movie seems determined to double down on all the crudest political and historical analogies from Avatar ‘09. When the first film’s villain was reincarnated as a Na’vi, I expected the movie to explore his perspective more, and to show his inner conflict as he came to appreciate the beauty and splendor of Pandora’s wilderness. But no-- even after riding a pterodactyl through floating mountains, he still seems utterly convinced that there is no value in this planet’s nature, and he sides with the colonizers until the bitter end. Perhaps there will be some redemption for this character in future movies, but as it stands now, it’s almost comical how unmoved he is by these experiences.

I can’t say whether The Way of Water was worth the wait. I mostly enjoyed watching it, and despite lacking even a hint of subtlety, it at least tried to convey a message deeper than “We’re a family” or “No one’s ever really gone.” But if I’m being honest with myself, I do wish that the legions of computer animators and visual effects designers were working in service of a story that was a little less conventional. Pandora’s oceans may be deep, but this movie isn’t.

[John Dule]

My review of Glass Onion:

It's hard for a professional director-- even the great ones-- to avoid putting out some duds over the course of a long career, just by the sheer law of averages. But with Glass Onion, Rian Johnson's filmography has officially cemented itself as among the most bipolar in the history of Hollywood. After directing the brilliantly plotted high school mystery Brick, Johnson ventured into science fiction, first with the nonsensical-yet-competent Looper and then with the crime against humanity known as Star Wars: The Last Jedi. Around this time, Johnson also directed both the highest and lowest-rated episodes of Breaking Bad ("Fly" and "Ozymandias"), right before returning to form with Knives Out, a decently plotted and engaging mystery thriller elevated by well-written plot twists and a fantastic cast.

What's frustrating about Johnson is that he clearly knows how to make a good movie, but his affinity for misguided experimentation is often his own undoing. His latest experiment is simple: Remake Knives Out, but in the style of a first-year film school student with an inflated budget. Remove the diverse and treacherous cast of suspects, and replace them with a group of whiny sycophants and one clear, obvious perpetrator. Tone down the subtle characterization and instead amp up the shallow, forced political commentary. Transform your capable, eccentric leading man into an incompetent bumbling comedy relief with a funny accent. For good measure, end it all with a big explosion.

It's hardly an overstatement to say that everything in this "mystery" is dumber than its predecessor. Rather than dropping subtle clues for the audience to pick up on, Johnson literally shoots two different versions of certain scenes in order to confuse and deceive the viewer. This deception is in vain, however, because the resolution to the mystery is head-slappingly obvious from virtually the beginning of the film. This leaves the audience desperately fishing for alternative theories-- because of course it couldn't possibly be that simple, right? But no-- it really is that straightforward, and Johnson's endless distractions (including reshoots, endless flashbacks, cringe-inducing celebrity cameos, and an absurd twist involving twins) cannot mask the laziness and stupidity of the writing. Even Johnson seems to acknowledge this, with one of his characters repeatedly observing that the plot is "just dumb." Sorry Rian, but self-awareness is not laudable unless it's accompanied by self-improvement.

Ultimately, Glass Onion misses the mark on what a mystery should be. A good murder mystery is a magic trick-- the writer gives you all the information needed to unravel it, but he still manages to shock his audience at the end by employing trickery and misdirection. But Glass Onion is the opposite of shocking. With a straightforward plot, shallow characters making stupid decisions, and tame "social commentary," it's exactly what we all expect from Hollywood at this point. Although the first film in this series clearly dabbled in themes of race and class warfare, those elements played second fiddle to the solid writing and performances. Here, Johnson lazily populates his film with stereotypes he hates and then repeatedly makes them look venal and dumb. While this approach might earn applause from certain circles, it isn't good writing-- and most importantly, it isn't engaging to watch. For a director so obsessed with experimentation and "subverting expectations," Glass Onion is ironically formulaic.

[John Dule]

The Last of Us returned to form somewhat with episode 8, but it hasn't completely washed the taste of that godawful episode 7 out of my mouth. That flashback episode added very little to the story; it once again interrupted the flow of the show and distracted pointlessly from the relationship between Joel and Ellie. And why are TV writers so terrible at writing for kids? They just throw curse words into random places in their dialogue, and it comes across as forced and cringeworthy. I have never heard anyone under the age of 20 refer to someone as a "sick f**k." That episode reminded me of Stranger Things, and in the worst way possible.

[John Dule]

And why are TV writers so terrible at writing for kids? They just throw curse words into random places in their dialogue, and it comes across as forced and cringeworthy.

Teenagers often act and behave in ways that feel forced and cringy. I think that Ellie constantly using profanity in order to seem more intimidating and mature is perfectly in-character for a 14-year-old forced to become an adult earlier than she should have been.

It's not the fact that profanity is used, it's the way it's used. Kids curse in artful and creative ways that adults simply cannot replicate. They also don't just straight-up tell people how they're feeling. The line "If you're going through some s**t, you're supposed to, I dunno, talk to your best friend about it?" is a good example of this. I have never known a teenager to be this straightforward about how they feel in a given situation. Classic case of telling rather than showing.

When adults write for kids, they also tend to fall back on making the kid seem edgy, calm, and confident in order to relate to a younger audience. But this inevitably comes across as forced and lame. In that flashback episode, Riley joins a terrorist organization, evades the military by jumping across rooftops, and sneaks into a government facility-- and she seems completely unfazed by it. "We prefer the term 'freedom fighters,'" she says smugly, as if she's talking about joining a high school clique. It is neither believable nor interesting for a character (especially one this young) to behave as if she's in such total control of this situation, but the writers wrote her that way because it made her seem cooler.

This is one of my most hated tropes from our present era of crap screenwriting: When you need to introduce a new character and make the audience like them fast, you place them in complete control of the situation and have them act extremely cocky. Meanwhile, you sideline the existing characters and make them look confused and clueless in comparison to the new character. This trope is more common in "torch-passing" soft reboots, but that episode of The Last of Us was a spot-on example of it. It's extremely lazy writing.

[John Dule]

My thoughts on Asteroid City:



After seeing Asteroid City, I've finally identified what it is about Wes Anderson's style that irritates me so much. It's not the aesthetic of it-- his camera angles, color palettes, models, and sets are all intricate and beautiful. It's truly impressive that in an age dominated by committee-created blockbusters, one man's unique vision can still draw such an audience.

But increasingly, Anderson seems incapable of tailoring his style to fit the story he's telling. After The French Dispatch and Asteroid City, no longer do the Wes Andersonisms feel like natural products of the narrative. Rather, they are shoehorned in for the simple purpose of hitting particular stylistic beats. The Jeff Goldblum cameo. The sudden close-ups of vibrantly colored inanimate objects. The ironically deadpan delivery of a character expressing deep emotional grief. Every element must be thrown in at some point, lest Wes feel like he's letting down his dedicated fanbase. For a filmmaker with such an unconventional vision, he has ironically become a slave to his own formula.

Nowhere is this more apparent than in the story layering of Asteroid City. Framing this film as a stage play (and then constantly interrupting its momentum with digressions to a secondary plot) adds nothing to the narrative. With The Grand Budapest Hotel, Anderson used his story-within-a-story technique brilliantly-- the layered structure made the film's tale feel like it came from a time that had long since passed, and most importantly, the story itself was allowed to unfold without interruption. But now that he's begun employing that approach in every film-- regardless of whether it's appropriate-- I've begun to wonder if Budapest was simply a massive fluke, the rare instance in which Anderson's default style actually elevated the story rather than detracting from it.

Despite what I've said here, I enjoyed Asteroid City. Multiple scenes made me laugh out loud, and the conclusion subverts the audience's expectations in a way that's actually satisfying. It's just frustrating to see Anderson once again smother an interesting story under layers of his trademark irony. Either his directorial choices are operating on a level I don't understand, or he is simply playing paint-by-numbers with the structures of his screenplays. I fear the latter is the case.

[John Dule]

My thoughts on Asteroid City:



After seeing Asteroid City, I've finally identified what it is about Wes Anderson's style that irritates me so much. It's not the aesthetic of it-- his camera angles, color palettes, models, and sets are all intricate and beautiful. It's truly impressive that in an age dominated by committee-created blockbusters, one man's unique vision can still draw such an audience.

But increasingly, Anderson seems incapable of tailoring his style to fit the story he's telling. After The French Dispatch and Asteroid City, no longer do the Wes Andersonisms feel like natural products of the narrative. Rather, they are shoehorned in for the simple purpose of hitting particular stylistic beats. The Jeff Goldblum cameo. The sudden close-ups of vibrantly colored inanimate objects. The ironically deadpan delivery of a character expressing deep emotional grief. Every element must be thrown in at some point, lest Wes feel like he's letting down his dedicated fanbase. For a filmmaker with such an unconventional vision, he has ironically become a slave to his own formula.

Nowhere is this more apparent than in the story layering of Asteroid City. Framing this film as a stage play (and then constantly interrupting its momentum with digressions to a secondary plot) adds nothing to the narrative. With The Grand Budapest Hotel, Anderson used his story-within-a-story technique brilliantly-- the layered structure made the film's tale feel like it came from a time that had long since passed, and most importantly, the story itself was allowed to unfold without interruption. But now that he's begun employing that approach in every film-- regardless of whether it's appropriate-- I've begun to wonder if Budapest was simply a massive fluke, the rare instance in which Anderson's default style actually elevated the story rather than detracting from it.

Despite what I've said here, I enjoyed Asteroid City. Multiple scenes made me laugh out loud, and the conclusion subverts the audience's expectations in a way that's actually satisfying. It's just frustrating to see Anderson once again smother an interesting story under layers of his trademark irony. Either his directorial choices are operating on a level I don't understand, or he is simply playing paint-by-numbers with the structures of his screenplays. I fear the latter is the case.

The Royal Tenenbaums and Darjeeling Limited and Fantastic Mr. Fox were elevated by the style.

Yeah, those are good-- it's mostly his movies since Budapest that have dropped off for me. I think he's started to just plug in elements that worked in his past films with little regard for how they fit into his new ones.

[John Dule]

Recently saw an indie movie called Fancy Dance about missing and murdered indigenous women. Lily Gladstone, the star, is also starring in Scorsese's Killers of the Flower Moon later this year.

The movie walks a dangerous tightrope in its characterization that some viewers may find off-putting. All too often, movies about marginalized groups go out of their way to romanticize the lifestyle they portray, resulting in shallow depictions of complicated issues. 2020's Nomadland, for example, presents an idealized vision of American poverty that glosses over the harsh reality of its characters' lives, sanitizing its subjects for commercial consumption. Movies like Nomadland have one goal in mind: assuage the guilt of effete liberal audiences by telling them that poor and disadvantaged groups actually have it better than they do, because the simplicity of their lives makes them pure and authentic. This conveniently removes any urgency in remedying the deeper social issues that these groups actually face.

Contrast this with Fancy Dance, a film in which our main characters commit numerous crimes of desperation, harm others, act irrationally and even callously, and steal from vulnerable people and family members. I can certainly imagine some audience members finding this portrayal of life on Native reservations off-putting, but after movies like Nomadland, Moonlight, and Beatriz at Dinner, I was craving this grit and realism. The film's willingness to indulge in moral grey areas might make its main characters less "sympathetic" under conventional Hollywood wisdom, but it also makes their struggles more real and the problems they face more urgent. Lily Gladstone's character in this film is not idealized in the slightest. She is deeply flawed, and viewers ultimately connect with her in a way they never could with the flawless blank-slate archetypes that populate the films listed above. That alone gives Fancy Dance a ton of credit in my book.

[John Dule]

16. Lawrence of Arabia (1962) - 5/10
18. Citizen Kane (1941) - 3/10

4. Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery (2022) - 8/10

Literally lmao'd at this, thank you.

[John Dule]

*Sigh* another one of my friend's is seizing upon a favor I owe him and is going to make me see 'Oppenheimer' with him. I've made it known that I find Christopher Nolan a somewhat overrated director, and that's probably mostly a reaction to his cultlike fanbase that almost rival Snyder fans in obnoxiousness, but my real apprehension towards seeing 'Oppenheimer' in particular is because I feel like I already know how the whole movie is going to play out and that Nolan's style won't elevate it past being a typical biopic. It's probably going to be over two hours long too...

Nolan's head is firmly planted in his own rectum, but I still plan to see this just for the sake of seeing how they dressed up UC Berkeley to make it look like the 1940s. I also have a Cinemark pass that I use to sneak into theaters even though it's supposed to only be for one use, so it'll be free.

[John Dule]

As Ridley Scott tries to revive the historical epic once again with this year's Napoleon, it's worth revisiting one of the films that led to the genre's premature demise: 1970's Waterloo, shot in an enormous multinational production with a budget approaching $300 million (adjusted for inflation). A critical and commercial flop, the movie's poor performance led to the cancellation of a Kubrick-helmed Napoleon film and signaled the high-water mark for epic film productions (even today, Waterloo's 15,000 authentically costumed extras remains the highest number of any film in history).

It's not hard to see why Waterloo's enormity wasn't a slam-dunk for audiences in the 1970s. Looking back from 2023, the movie is astonishing on a purely logistical level. Its production involved getting filming permits in the Soviet Union, as well as bulldozing half a dozen hills in eastern Ukraine to accurately depict the geography of the battlefield. Such an effort in practical filmmaking would never be attempted in the age of CGI, to the point that it's inconceivable an audience would find this movie unimpressive. But it's important to remember that audiences in 1970 had also seen Lawrence of Arabia, The Bridge on the River Kwai, Spartacus, Doctor Zhivago, Zulu, and The Great Escape-- a litany of similarly epic productions that also possessed what Waterloo lacks: a human touch.

In all the aforementioned films, the action spectacle was in service of dramatic tension. Granted, this is not easy to pull off in a film about a well-known historical event-- but at no point does Waterloo even attempt to create narrative stakes for its colossal battle, which eats up well over half the film. The movie avoids moralizing about Napoleon's reign, portraying him as an ardent patriot and a brilliant commander. What does Europe expect to see from the return of this megalomaniac? What is at stake if Wellington fails? The movie ignores these crucial elements of the story, instead delivering a watered-down message about "bravery on both sides of the battle." Such themes have been explored by every mediocre war movie since the early days of filmmaking, and they are no more impactful now than they were fifty years ago. The result is a movie that would not be out-of-place in a high school history class, but which is somewhat inert when it comes to drama and characterization.

Waterloo is a valuable film-- both as an extremely accurate documentation of Napoleon's final battle and as an essential piece of film history. It will not be making its way to any of my favorite films lists anytime soon, but it will certainly be interesting to see how its technical prowess and storytelling compare to this year's forthcoming Napoleon biopic. We can expect Scott's version to reflect modern tastes in telling ways. The movie is being billed as a story about Napoleon and his wife Josephine, a decision that could either give the material some much-needed character-driven scenes or simply distract from the accomplishments of its subject (not unlike The Imitation Game, The Theory of Everything, and Bohemian Rhapsody, all of which devoted ungodly amounts of time to their subjects' personal lives). It will also be interesting to see how Hollywood approaches a film about an egomaniacal populist leader in 2023-- hopefully Scott will employ a little more subtlety than he did in Alien: Covenant.

[John Dule]

I just finished binging The West Wing. Very excellent television.

There are two TV shows that can change a progressive fourteen-year old’s life: Game of Thrones and The West Wing. One is a childish fantasy that often engenders a lifelong obsession with its unbelievable heroes, leading to an emotionally stunted, socially crippled adulthood, unable to deal with the real world. The other, of course, involves dragons.

[John Dule]

My thoughts on The Worst Person in the World, a Norwegian movie that got rave reviews back in 2021:

We live in a permissive age. Although open relationships, adultery, divorce, drug use, and opinion pieces about oral sex are still frowned upon in most circles, they are nonetheless considered far more acceptable than they were even in the very recent past. When I say this, I don't necessarily mean it in the negative way that conservatives do when they make this observation. Conservatives are correct that this shift in norms brings with it some downsides, but there are costs and benefits in all social change. What matters is not so much whether we label these changes as good or bad, but whether we identify and explore their implications. The Worst Person in the World is the latest in a long history of art that has attempted to perform this indispensable function. It is fascinated by one particular aspect of this new social reality: the proliferation of choice.

At a glance, it would be easy to mistake The Worst Person in the World for a girlboss battle hymn (or conversely, a damning portrayal of modern degeneracy). But despite its moralistic title, the film is less concerned with passing judgement on its main character than it is with exploring the complexities of her social dilemma. Julie is a young woman overwhelmed by the choices available to her and the concomitant responsibilities those choices bring. The opening montage of the film will be all too familiar to upper-middle class millennial audience members: despite good grades and natural charm, Julie nevertheless habitually abandons careers and relationships, ever-unsure of her choices. Because she is virtually unconstrained, she feels scriptless-- a "spectator in her own life" with limitless potential and yet no direction.

This scriptlessness is reflected in the film's meandering structure (even Julie's physical appearance seems to change from scene to scene). TWPITW covers a distinct chapter in Julie's life, but while its cathartic ending marks a clear conclusion to that chapter, the underlying issues she faces remain unresolved. Throughout the film she harms others with her own selfish tendencies (verbally abusing her boyfriend after he tries to simply compliment her writing) while simultaneously suffering as a result of the selfishness of others (her distant, estranged father who utterly ignores her in favor of his new wife and child). She is both a participant in and a victim of hedonism. Ironically, Julie's unexpected pregnancy at the end of the film feels almost like a glimmer of hope in this directionless world. It represents a massive constraint on her freedom, but it also means structure and responsibility-- two things she has never before experienced.

For those of us who welcome the permissiveness of the modern world (and I include myself in that category given my libertarian sensibilities), the psychological toll of freedom is an uncomfortable truth we must address. Depression, anxiety, and suicide are notoriously common in many free societies-- perhaps because when a person cannot blame external factors for their failures, they are instead forced to look inwards for the cause of their problems. In such an environment, it's not hard to see why a few personal missteps can cause some of us to see ourselves as "The Worst Person in the World." Freedom of choice means having to also live with the consequences of those choices, and it means becoming trapped in situations where we will likely regret whatever choice we make. It is this feeling of simultaneously overwhelming and nonexistent responsibility that TWPITW so expertly captures.

[John Dule]

My thoughts on Killers of the Flower Moon:



Between Rupert Pupkin, Henry Hill, Nicky Santoro, Bill the Butcher, Frank Costello, and Jordan Belfort, Martin Scorsese is singlehandedly responsible for introducing dozens of criminals-- both real and fictional-- into the popular imagination. These characters have always elicited a strange dual reaction from viewers (myself included). On the one hand, we recognize their vice, impulsiveness, and sociopathy for what it is. But at the same time, we've always had a not-insubstantial degree of respect for their fringe lifestyles, confident monologues, and obscene wealth. In a world where film bros look up to characters as pitiable as Travis Bickle, one could be forgiven for thinking that Truffaut was right: movies inherently glamorize everything they portray, and so trying to depict any behavior in a negative light in this medium is self-defeating. No matter how scummy the character, someone will always embrace him.

But after The Irishman and now Killers of the Flower Moon, Scorsese has managed to de-glamorize his subjects to an unprecedented degree. I defy anyone to watch this behemoth of a movie and leave the theater quoting Leonardo DiCaprio's character, emulating his body language, or admiring his life of crime. Ernest Burkhart is the embodiment of the banality of evil-- a stupid man of average means with a "gut problem" and a hopelessly pliable sense of morality. Like a weathervane, he obediently follows the direction of whatever instinct is acting on him at a particular moment, whether it be pressure from his uncle, his own greed, grief, instant gratification, familial loyalty, or shame. As someone who enjoys stories of redemption, I found myself waiting for a change in this character that never came. Eventually, I had to accept that any development on his part would be fleeting at best and completely deceptive at worst.

There have been some objections to the way this story was told through Ernest's perspective rather than through the eyes of the Osage people. But given that American audiences are largely white, this decision makes the film far more effective. As the murderers' plan gradually reveals itself, the viewer is sucked into their scheming along with Ernest. The plan is almost never spoken of in literal terms, even when the plotters are in private together. What they are doing-- the fact that they are reduced to stealing from a people they consider inferior-- is far too shameful to acknowledge, even in the company of their fellow conspirators. These white characters, who arrogantly spit out words like "savage" at the first sign of Osage impropriety, cannot bear to confront the far deeper savagery of their own actions. Instead they rely upon euphemisms, pointed implications, and mutual understanding to communicate their true intentions. The result is that as Ernest comes to inhabit his dual roles of loving husband and detached killer, we feel complicit in his moral decay. The message to the audience is deeply uncomfortable: had we lived in this time and place, we may very well have followed the same path that corrodes this character's soul.

Of course, the scenes from the perspective of Ernest's wife Mollie (Lily Gladstone) are just as impactful-- albeit in a different way. There is a constant tension in her scenes with the white characters, all of whom expertly capture the right mix of feigned respect, condescension, and unwarranted confidence in their own ability to deceive. At the same time, she seems to see right through their façade, but a lack of evidence and a punishing sense of hopelessness prevent her from giving voice to her fears. Gladstone, who was also the star of a film I saw earlier this year called Fancy Dance, has an incredibly expressive face and intelligent eyes that can convey both resilience and tired resignation with a single look. She is excellent in this movie, though I do wish we'd gotten more of an insight into her character's suspicions about the family she regrettably married into.

Given Scorsese's long career of making movies about criminals, it feels strange to say that this is his best crime drama. But in a way, it accomplishes something none of his other films have: it elicits true disgust from the audience, unadulterated by even the slightest modicum of grudging respect for its reprehensible characters. This film features no memorable one-liners, funny Quaalude scenes, or take-charge antiheroes who (if nothing else) exert masculine dominance. It's a movie about a pack of dishonorable vultures fighting over scraps, deceptive and ashamed. I went into this movie with no context for the true story, but it's not like I'm a stranger to the general shamefulness of the treatment of Native Americans-- and yet it still managed to shock me due to the scale and depth of the betrayal at its core. This is a fantastic film, and well worth the time it demands.

[John Dule]

... and some thoughts on The Killer, the new David Fincher movie that just dropped on Netflix.



With The Killer, David Fincher proves that self-awareness is a necessary but not a sufficient element of a compelling satire. Yes, on a basic level, this movie knows what it is doing: it deconstructs the "silent assassin" archetype with a pretentious, self-congratulating protagonist who lives a less-than-glamorous existence renting AirBnBs and ordering Amazon packages. It occasionally mocks the pseudo-philosophy of teenage nihilists with cliché-ridden monologues, and it indulges in mundanities and anticlimaxes in order to demystify the type of lifestyle it portrays. So please Fincherites, don't say I didn't get it.

But again, self-awareness isn't all it takes to make good satire. The problem here is that the satire just isn't particularly sharp or consistent. The character of the killer is no Leon, but he's also reasonably competent and slick. As a result, the movie stops short of disrespecting its protagonist as much as he deserves. And as with most crime thrillers that ostensibly condemn the actions of their antiheroes, this allows the killer to have a little too much control and power to be truly laughable. I'm not asking for the movie to turn him into a slapstick goofball-- but if this is truly a middle finger directed at people who unironically identify with Tyler Durden, I'm afraid the satire at play here is perhaps too subtle. The movie's conclusion especially feels unearned, and it somewhat undermines its central criticism of the killer's choices and worldview.

My lack of enthusiasm for The Killer might be due to having just seen Killers of the Flower Moon, a movie that unequivocally succeeds in condemning and deprecating its criminal protagonist. And the film is still completely watchable as a simple stripped-down thriller. I was just personally hoping for a movie that did more with this gimmick-- a gimmick I found interesting when I first heard about it, and to which this screenplay seemed afraid of committing itself.

[John Dule]

The average fan of Harold and Maude:

1) Owns at least one top hat
2) Describes himself as an "Anglophile" because he can quote Monty Python and the Holy Grail verbatim
3) Wears eyeshadow for high school theater classes unsolicited
4) Treats Halloween costumes like a competitive sport
5) Has never been diagnosed with a mental illness, but secretly romanticizes the idea of having one (a cool one like multiple personalities or schizophrenia, not generalized anxiety disorder)
6) Got into steampunk after it became cool and stuck with it long after it wasn't anymore
7) Owns a leather aviator cap with goggles; has never flown a plane
8) Has a stupid favorite flavor of pie (probably huckleberry)
9) Owns at least thirty different mugs, none of which match and half of which are in the sink with teabags in them
10) Read either The Stranger or The Sorrows of Young Werther at the age of 15 and used that as the foundation to restructure his entire personality
11) Has at least four house plants, all of which are dying of neglect
12) Manages a checkout counter at a grocery store, but aspires to one day manage a checkout counter at a vinyl record store
13) Thinks Humboldt County, California is the epicenter of civilization
14) Imagines he would be good at whittling; has never tried it
15) At least once in his life, has moved the Bible to the "fiction" section of Barnes & Noble
16) Owns a pipe because he thinks it would be cool to smoke out of a pipe (doesn't smoke)
17) Thinks that bluntly oversharing inappropriate personal information in a deadpan tone is a fun personality quirk
18) Owns nunchaku, and will insist on correcting you if you refer to them as "nunchucks"
19) Bathes irregularly
20) Has a hamster with a name like Skeletor or something

I do not say any of this to be mean. I just call it like I see it.

[John Dule]

Saw Ridley Scott's crappy Napoleon biopic. My thoughts:



In order to fit messy historical events neatly into the mold of storytelling convention, filmmakers are often forced to choose between dramatic heft and factual accuracy. What an unpleasant surprise it is, then, to come across a biopic that chooses neither.

Ridley Scott's Napoleon is too lazy to be educational, too silly to be dramatically involving, and-- most importantly-- far too obsessed with its subject's sex life. From Alan Turing to Stephen Hawking and now to Napoleon Bonaparte, Hollywood seems incapable of telling the story of any historical figure without placing undue emphasis on their romantic entanglements. Don't get me wrong-- delving into a character's love life isn't necessarily a bad decision for a biopic. But when the character in question invented the computer or subjugated all of Europe, perhaps we can all admit it's silly to make their sexual kinks the focal point of the story.

If we're being extremely charitable to Scott, it's possible that he intended to use Napoleon's relationship with his wife Josephine as a lens into deeper aspects of his character. If that's the case, this never comes through. Scott's analysis of Napoleon seems to be that he was a man of little ambition and huge ego who was swept along by the tide of history rather than guiding it himself. Joaquin Phoenix plays the character as borderline bumbling and dense, acting oafish at dinner parties and lecherous in front of his guards. In his private life, Scott's Napoleon is an incurable simp who takes his frustration with his wife's adultery out on Prussian artillerymen. A deep dive into the motivations of a transformative historical figure this ain't.

Even non-historians and non-Frenchmen will see this for what it is: a hit piece by an English filmmaker on a French historical figure, but one that doesn't have the guts to fully commit to its character assassination of Napoleon. Rather than make The Death of Stalin in revolutionary France (which could've been a fantastic film), Scott masks his true intentions with the loftiness and gravitas of a serious biopic. The result is a confused tonal mess that feels like two films spliced together. One film is the historical drama in which Napoleon and Josephine (Vanessa Kirby) narrate their purple prose-packed love letters to each other from ornate living rooms with crackling fireplaces. "Dearest Josephine." "My Darling Napoleon." Cut to: goofy scenes in which Napoleon gets chased out of a building by a mob and screams at an English ambassador "You think you're so great just because you have boats!" The tone of this film is as fickle and inconsistent as a 19th century European military alliance.

But even if a biopic doesn't fully interrogate the motives of its subject, it can still have utility. 1970's Waterloo was somewhat silent on the ideology, motives, and psychology of Napoleon, but it still managed to distinguish itself with a stunningly accurate depiction of the final days of the emperor's reign. But if history buffs come to Scott's Napoleon looking for that level of attention to detail, they will be disappointed. The movie speeds through the most crucial events in Napoleon's life, glossing over his victories and the tactics that made his name synonymous with military genius. On the rare occasion that substantial screen time is devoted to a battle, the events still feel rushed and poorly paced. It is likely impossible to get a full understanding of Napoleon's military career from a 160-minute movie, but if a director were to seriously attempt this, they would probably devote more time to Borodino and Russia than to Joaquin Phoenix doing physical comedy with an Egyptian mummy.

With a great historical film (Killers of the Flower Moon comes to mind as a recent example), an audience member could go in with no information and come away with a better understanding of the events and figures involved. This movie is not a great historical film-- it is more like a sequence of ideas for scenes, all of which feel cut short, and none of which give the audience any context for what is being depicted. Napoleon stares down dozens of faceless interchangeable armies; the stakes of the battles are never established, nor are the motivations of the sides explained. Those hoping to learn something from this movie will come away only with a few rudimentary facts: (1) There once was a man named Napoleon, (2) He fought the British, (3) He was totally down bad for his wife, and (4) There used to be a place called "Prussia."

Napoleon, like so many of Ridley Scott's other recent films, is defined by waste. A waste of talent, a waste of sets and costumes, and most importantly a waste of the audience's time. As Napoleon himself once said, "Glory is fleeting, but obscurity is forever." The days of Ridley Scott's glory are long past.

[John Dule]

Should I watch and review the Atlas Shrugged trilogy that was produced by an Objectivist think-tank tycoon and world poker champion and distributed by the right-wing Christian film company behind Dinesh D'Souza's movies?

[John Dule]

I'm doing it. It's weird to watch this series now... I remember being a teenager back in 2011 and seeing the posters for Atlas Shrugged in my local theater. I wondered "What the hell kind of a terrible poster is that? What does it mean?" Well, twelve years later... now I know.



Atlas Shrugged: Part I (2011)

I'm more positively predisposed towards Ayn Rand than most people. Articulating your worldview through the lens of fiction is a massive undertaking, and I have at least a grudging respect for anyone who attempts it. I appreciate it when a story successfully balances emotional character drama with a broader point about the human experience-- for this reason, I've enjoyed everything from the eco-terrorist flick How To Blow Up A Pipeline to the infamous Confederate apologist film Gone With the Wind. Propaganda, when done effectively, is a valid form of art.

The key word here is "effectively." So what makes Atlas Shrugged (the novel) ineffective? The reasons are too numerous to list. It is unsubtle. It is self-indulgent. It lacks basic empathy for those with whom the author disagrees. Its characters are inhumanly one-dimensional. It was written by a narcissistic speed addict, and it shows.

Ultimately it's understandable that Rand-- who fled the Soviet Union and was thus uniquely disinclined to give an inch to anything remotely leftist-- wrote something like Atlas Shrugged. And there are nuggets of good prose and well-made points in the novel that will charm an open-minded reader. What is unforgivable, however, is the veneration that modern libertarians hold for this messy work, to the point that they felt compelled to adapt it as a trilogy of films. Not wanting to disrespect Mother Rand, these Objectivist acolytes adapted their 1200-page bible as faithfully as possible, refusing to make any alteration that could have appealed to a broader audience than LinkedIn influencers and perpetual Ponzi scheme victims. (The fanatical loyalty these "freethinkers" have for their idol is just one of many great ironies about this series.)

As a result of this reverent approach, every problem with Rand's work is present in these adaptations, joined by some fresh new ones as well. Chief among these is the limited budget, which is to blame for the flat cinematography, the poor special effects, and the rotating cast, which swaps out completely with each subsequent installment. The low budget also means that Rand's story-- which should really take place in the art deco jungle of the 1930s-- is told in modern times, making the constant emphasis on rail transit feel oddly quaint. But having said all that, this movie still cost $20 million. Where did that all go? It probably has something to do with the fact that this film was financed by right-wing worldwide poker champs and distributed by Dinesh D'Souza acolytes, which means a fair amount of the budget was likely embezzled.

The constantly changing cast doesn't ultimately matter, as these characters were never real people to begin with. Character development, already in short supply in the source material, is here completely subordinated to artless preaching about the inerrant power of capitalism. The actors have the same job as their characters: to serve as conduits through which libertarian ideology can be clumsily espoused. Yet somehow they manage to fail even at this simple task, with Taylor Schilling in particular giving an exceptionally terrible performance in the lead role. She can't be blamed for phoning it in for a production like this, but even so, her line deliveries are remarkably low-energy.

This adaptation also butchers the mystery of John Galt. More than anything else, this proves that the film is only interested in preaching to the converted-- it operates on the assumption that everyone in the audience will have read the book (and loved it), and therefore makes no effort to generate suspense or intrigue around this plot point. In the book, this mystery man is a complete enigma with unknown motives and a sinister plan to bring about the collapse of civilization. A smart screenwriter hoping to reach a wider audience would have seized upon this as a perfect dramatic focal point for the story. But in the first movie of the trilogy, Galt openly states his entire philosophy in a laughable scene that sounds like it was written using excerpts from Federalist Society newsletters. The lack of self-awareness is breathtaking.

I do have to give this movie some credit. It made me laugh out loud several times, and the fact that it failed to turn a profit is such a delicious irony that it almost makes this entire debacle worth it. However, the movie should be embarrassing for Objectivists, infuriating for all other political persuasions, and utterly unconvincing even for people like me who enjoy pop philosophy. The only person I can imagine enjoying this is a DogeCoin owner who has never seen a movie before and instead entertains himself with model trains. If that demographic doesn't sound like you, avoid this at all costs.

[John Dule]

Atlas Shrugged: Part II (2012)

Although none of the Atlas Shrugged movies are good, I was surprised to find that Part II feels almost like a real film at times-- high praise for a series developed by hedge fund managers whose idea of "art" begins and ends with the sculptures in their office park courtyards. Although the entire production is still hampered by a low budget, poor special effects, a terrible script, and a complete lack of subtlety, there are notable improvements here that deserve mention. In a way, these upgrades almost disappointed me-- the final product is neither unhinged enough to be entertaining nor competent enough to convey its message with any artistic integrity. Still, there were moments while watching this when I almost thought this series might improve with each new installment (Part III would soon put that theory to bed).

What makes Atlas Shrugged: Part II marginally less offensive than its counterparts? The answer has to do with a fundamental feature of political philosophy: It's a lot easier to identify problems than it is to propose solutions (political philosophy shares this trait with film criticism). And this chapter of Atlas Shrugged is all about identifying problems. The world it portrays is one of gradual decay, in which overregulation and corruption smother the world economy. Price controls, mismanagement of state-owned resources, Washington influence peddlers, and all manner of other libertarian boogeymen get their turn in the crosshairs of this installment. Anyone who's ever had to schedule an appointment at the DMV will not find this highly objectionable.

It's not until the next installment in the series that we begin to see what Ayn Rand's "solutions" to these problems look like. So for a brief few moments, we can sit back and enjoy the visual irony of a few corrupt politicians meeting their demise due to their own misguided policies. But like its source material, the film is only effective when going after low-hanging fruit. As soon as its own philosophy comes into focus (no matter how briefly), it devolves into long-winded monologues about the moral righteousness of fungible currency. Even those who agree with Rand's philosophy will find such scenes boring, because there is never any legitimate clash of ideological equals. Every advocate for left-wing altruism is a spineless, dishonest leech whose arguments are weak strawmen. Every advocate for virtuous Objectivist selfishness immediately wins over his audience with the strength of his oratory and conviction. The "villains" of this story never present any kind of ideological obstacle, and their motivations are never explored. They are not adversaries; they're just bowling pins waiting to be knocked over.

This is particularly frustrating because the philosophy espoused by the film is so aggressively counterintuitive. Ayn Rand's argument is that altruism, although it emerges from good intentions, harms those it intends to help. This isn't exactly science fiction (there are plenty of such examples in recent history, including Rand's native Russia), but Atlas Shrugged: Part II takes this position to rigid extremes and then refuses to justify those extremes to its audience. Instead it repetitively restates simplified summaries of its position, operating under the assumption that none of its viewers need convincing-- and they probably don't, because the only people who saw this were the converted. How exactly do "altruistic" policies create perverse incentives? Why is one's "need" not a valid basis for their compensation? A viewer of this movie will be able to tell you that selfishness is good. They will be unable to articulate why.

As awful as the dialogue scenes are, they're bolstered by a stronger cast. I say "stronger" because every single role is recast in this second installment, with zero continuity even in the supporting cast. This is both a blessing and a curse-- the casting changes are certainly confusing (especially if you watch all three films back-to-back as I did), but this is easily the best cast of the three. Patrick Fabian (who would later star as Howard Hamlin in Better Call Saul) gives a pitch-perfect performance as James Taggart, and Esai Morales is similarly well-cast as a Chilean copper magnate. They can't save the movie, but they at least emphasize the right words and know when to insert dramatic pauses, which is more than I can say for their predecessors.

Overall, this is easily the least awful installment in the Atlas Shrugged trilogy. Although it lacks all nuance and features perhaps the most ludicrous courtroom scene in all of movie history (clearly filmed in a community college classroom, no less), it's merely a harmless invective directed at bureaucracy done in the style of a mediocre made-for-TV movie. I will save my bile for Part III, when Ayn Rand presents us with her vision of an "ideal society." That's when the wheels really come off this train.

[John Dule]

Has anyone here seen Incendies? I just saw it tonight and liked it a lot, but I think I ruined it for myself by predicting the plot twist within the first five minutes.

[John Dule]

I watched Snyder's Rebel Moon, which just hit Netflix. Some thoughts:



"Written by Zack Snyder. Directed by Zack Snyder. Story by Zack Snyder." These words belong in only one place: Etched into the gates of hell, right below "Abandon all hope ye who enter here."

And yet it gave me great pleasure to see these words at the end of Rebel Moon: Part One: A Child of Fire. For years, Zack Snyder's fanbase has insisted that their beloved director is a misunderstood genius whose brilliant creative instincts are routinely thwarted by studio incompetence. As evidence, they point to two of his films-- 300 and Watchmen-- both of which featured characters, dialogue, stories, and worldbuilding from their comic book source material. Armed with pre-made storyboards, Snyder was able to channel his creative energies towards what he does best: Filming individual beads of sweat in slow motion as they fall from semi-nude muscular bodies. (If not for slow-mo sequences, the average Snyder film would be about 45 minutes.)

So what happens when the visionary Snyder is given complete creative control over a project? You get Rebel Moon, a direct-to-Netflix sci-fi slog devoid of any redeeming qualities. At long last, this movie proves what I have known for years: Snyder's successes were not because of him. They were despite him.

Rebel Moon is perhaps best summarized as a movie with no ideas. The premise is lifted directly from Seven Samurai. The villains wear amalgams of Warhammer and Dune costumes. The weapons are lightsabers. The cantina scene from Star Wars and the hippogriff scene from Harry Potter are reenacted almost beat-for-beat. Yes, all art inevitably involves some borrowing-- but what makes Rebel Moon unique is how little effort it makes to conceal its theft. At best, the movie feels like fan fiction about characters from multiple franchises. At worst, it is unabashed plagiarism.

Snyder fought for a high degree of creative control over this movie, and it's even been labeled a "passion project" of his. But how could anyone have "passion" for ideas they so blatantly stole? If this is the full extent of Snyder's creativity (unfettered by studio meddling or source material), then it's actually quite sad. I've met accountants with more vivid imagination.

Snyder's creative bankruptcy aside, there is nothing redeeming about Rebel Moon. Sofia Boutella plays the film's heroine, who must defend a pastoral village from an evil empire while also satisfying Snyder's fetish for fit women wielding guns. Boutella, who began her career as a dancer and gymnast, has yet to add acting to her resume. As she attempts to earnestly deliver this banal dialogue, the contrast between her overly somber performance and the absurdity of her lines becomes unintentionally hilarious. Her chemistry with co-star Michiel Huisman is nonexistent, and even her physical abilities are underutilized-- the fight scenes are poorly choreographed and feel just as low-energy as the script.

Not even the movie's visuals (usually Snyder's sole forte) are impressive. In fact, they're quite awful. Like many recent Netflix productions, Rebel Moon features ugly combinations of sets and CGI that combine the worst possible traits of both. The sets are small and highly manicured, and any action taking place in them feels confined and staged as a result. The corny-looking props would look more appropriate as accessories to cosplay costumes than in a feature-length film. And when CGI is integrated into the sets, the result is horrendous-- the opening scene features a laughably fake-looking sci-fi backdrop that underscores the movie's artifice from the get-go. Visually it looks about the same as Firefly, a sci-fi TV series made in 2002 on a much smaller budget (but which was astronomically better in every other respect).

There's plenty to hate about Rebel Moon, but what's truly offensive is the brazen lack of effort that went into its fictional world. Snyder is no worldbuilder, and I never expected him to invent fake languages, glossaries of alien races, or unique cultures like serious sci-fi writers do. But as Rebel Moon lurches from one plot thread to the next, it throws together an assortment of sci-fi concepts (brain parasites, humanoid spiders, androids, monarchist robots, interplanetary politics, magic powers, forced breeding, hippogriffs, biological resurrection, and of course the "chosen one") without ever revisiting them.

Perhaps Snyder has a master plan for all these plot threads to pay off in Part Two (or, God forbid, Part Three). I prefer the simpler explanation: This script is crammed with random ideas that he thought were cool, and that is the full extent of thought that went into them. This represents a fundamental misunderstanding of sci-fi writing. To have dramatic stakes, a sci-fi story must have rules and limits to what can and cannot happen. But Rebel Moon's universe is limited only by Snyder's willingness to plagiarize. The movie has no tension as a result, because any obstacle the heroes face can be easily overcome with a hastily introduced technology or deus ex machina.

Having said all this, I was thrilled to see Zack Snyder's name attached to this project in big, bold letters. Rebel Moon is an unqualified disaster that will win no fans even among its target demographic (adult men who still play with action figures). Perhaps with yet another critical and commercial failure under his belt, studios will stop giving Snyder ridiculous sums of money to burn on "passion projects" that are somehow more corporate than studio flicks. And maybe at long last, I will stop hearing about the "genius" of a man who has not made a watchable movie in fifteen years.

[John Dule]

Snyder fanboys are the Trump cultists of the movie world.

Nolan fans can be pretty zealous too at times, but Nolan's films always at least have more artistic merit, thought, and competence.

Obligatory:

[John Dule]

My review of Dream Scenario, the new Nic Cage movie:



In recent years, Hollywood has struggled to confront current social issues in a way that will stand the test of time. Great art engages with universal truths, not the 24-hour news cycle-- but the temptation to be "topical" is often irresistible for screenwriters, even if it means sacrificing long-term relevance for a cheap gimmick. As a result, films that mention Covid-19, TikTok, and Donald Trump always feel more like late-night comedy sketches than enduring works of art.

Dream Scenario attempts to walk this tightrope between topicality and universality with a highly original premise: A schlubby middle-aged professor (Nic Cage) suddenly finds himself cast into a media spotlight when thousands of strangers begin seeing him as a character in their dreams. For a time, this newfound fame gives him the recognition he has always craved. But as the collective unconscious begins to depict him in darker and more violent roles, he is ostracized for things he has never done and over which he has no control. His dream of notoriety rapidly becomes a nightmare.

The way I've described it here, Dream Scenario almost sounds like it could evolve into a Lynchian psychological thriller. However, this premise is used as a springboard from which the movie satirizes modern viral phenomena, memes, and the increasing commodification of everyday life. This is a clever way to navigate the problem of "topical" filmmaking-- the script tackles issues like internet notoriety and tabloid celebrity worship metaphorically while also remaining engaging on a literal level. Every new scene is unpredictable, yet in hindsight almost every plot development feels completely logical. Still, the immersion is sometimes broken when the writers abandon all pretext of subtlety. Jordan Peterson is name-dropped at one point, as are the alt-right, Joe Rogan, and the words "cancel culture." It's hard not to think that these scenes will feel dated in just a few years.

But as always, Nicolas Cage elevates this material as no one else could. Playing a chronically neurotic mediocre man who desperately craves respect from his family and peers, he travels to depths of emasculation that are genuinely discomforting. In the scenes where Cage's acting is allowed to speak for itself (minus any literal references to modern politics or culture), his struggle feels much more universal. With a few physical tics and stammering line deliveries, he expertly conveys the constant humiliation of anonymity.

Dream Scenario attempts to balance a biting satire of current events with more universal themes of fame, respect, and masculinity. While it doesn't always hit the mark, it at least creates a solid blueprint for integrating these topics into a screenplay intelligently. More could have been done with this premise-- especially the conclusion, which veers too far into social commentary aimed at low-hanging fruit. But as a satire of the arbitrary nature of modern internet fame, it shines.

[John Dule]

Some thoughts on American Fiction, which just went into wide release in theaters:


As a parody of the white guilt industrial complex, American Fiction has abundant material to work with. This is both a blessing and a curse. One might think that a world in which liberal white women pay $2500 to be told they're racist at a dinner table is ripe for satire, but in truth it's difficult to make sharp satire about something that is already ridiculous. For this reason, American Fiction faces an immense challenge: satire requires exaggeration, yet how can you exaggerate white guilt, which has no limits and knows no fence?

From the first scene, the movie is clearly unsure about how to approach this problem. The film opens with Thelonious Ellison (Jeffrey Wright), a literature professor, attempting to teach a class on a short story entitled "The Artificial n." A white student (of course, with blue hair) takes offense at the word's usage and storms out of the class, which causes Ellison to be professionally disciplined. If the satire here sounds obvious, that's because it is-- the entire sequence can be boiled down to the oft-repeated trite boomer observation that "you can't say anything these days." But that's not American Fiction's fault. When it tries to exaggerate the absurdities of modern liberalism, it inevitably feels too blunt. When it attempts subtlety, it becomes tamer than real life and thus feels like it's pulling its punches (not the mark of an effective parody).

And therein lies the problem with making satire in a post-subtextual world. The film's argument is that a vein of black cultural output exists for white consumption, and that white audiences heap praise upon these books and films to assuage their own feelings of collective guilt. But we already know this to be true, because we live in a world where the number-one bestseller a few years ago was a book called "How To Be An Antiracist." How can you parody something like that? The cover of the book tells you everything you need to know about why it exists, the cultural role it occupies, and the person who bought it. There's no subtext to dig into!

For these reasons, most of American Fiction's cultural observations are superficial. Still, the movie is funny. I saw this film in a theater in Marin County, California, surrounded by elderly white liberals, and their (slightly anxious) laughter was infectious. Jeffrey Wright is an excellent straight man, and his reserved intellectualism is the perfect foil for the mindlessly sycophantic white publishers who fawn over his book. One moment, in which a white author interrupts Wright to inform him that "we need to listen to black voices," got a particularly big laugh. The movie is at its funniest when it abandons subtlety, accepts that it's going after low-hanging fruit, and simply has fun at the expense of white suburbanites who think that changing their Facebook profile pictures to black squares is the modern equivalent of marching at Selma.

But regrettably, the movie is not satisfied with just being a parody. American Fiction's core thesis is that "stereotypically black" stories in media ignore the diversity of the African-American experience-- and to combat this erasure, it tries to tell its own black stories. Numerous subplots are devoted to Ellison's mother, brother, sister, father, girlfriend, maid, and even his maid's boyfriend. The film badly miscalculates by devoting far too much time to these subplots, and for large chunks of its runtime, it actually loses track of its main plot in favor of Ellison's family troubles. I understand that the goal here was to showcase facets of black America that you wouldn't find on BET, but the script accomplishes nothing by elevating these mundane slice-of-life black stories at the expense of the very funny, very original black story that audiences paid to see. As a result, the movie is a chimera of social satire and family drama that never fully comes together.

American Fiction is a mess, and it leaves a lot on the table. But it's also funny and well-acted, and the targets of its comedy certainly deserve to be mocked (of course, they'll obsequiously laugh at themselves while watching this movie anyway, which makes the whole joke a bit impotent). The film's biggest missteps are ultimately forgettable, while its best moments of satire have the potential to be remembered for years to come. What's unfortunate is that so much of its successes have to do with its premise and not its execution.

Heat - I was honestly disappointed with this one. I can't even say that the film was just mediocre, it's a movie that has a bunch of really great scenes (coffee shop, airport shootout) mixed with a lot of terrible scenes (any scene with Robert De Niro's love interest, who is one of the least believable characters in all of film history). There were a lot of plot points that went nowhere (Waingro being a serial killer) or came out of nowhere (Al Pacino's stepdaughters suicide attempt), that made me think this story would have been better served as a miniseries.

Yeah, I completely agree on this one. I was extremely disappointed by it, and I remember all the female characters in the film having absolutely awful dialogue. Love interests in cop movies are usually pretty one-note as it is, but this character was exceptionally poor.