Free Guy

Do we need another movie about the rat race? Well, why not? Creatives gonna create, and we can always take it or leave it.

As for Free Guy, you might just leave it.

In this one, we follow handsome but plain Guy. Good morning!, he says to his goldfish each day. What an exceptional experience!, he croons, sipping the same coffee he always orders. Ryan Reynolds’s performance here is typical: Quip after quip gives the feeling of a lively character, but a restrained delivery has us questioning if the character—or the actor—has anything else to offer. The answer is yes and no.

You see, this is no repetitive time-loop movie. Though Guy (and everyone else in his world) sticks firmly to the comfort zone, Guy chases his (apparently unique) intuition that there must be more to life. Mundane but honest banter with his security-guard office-pal (played sweetly by Lil Rel Howery) brings a certain charm to the movie.

And it’s funny, too, in large part because Guy is a stooge. Literally. He is a background character in a video game. As tanks rampage through his city and as his office is robbed he doesn’t blink an eye. This makes about two thirds of the movie a running joke—and one that often pleases. It’s a novel idea, seeing a game from the perspective of a clueless insider, and a good metaphor for our own lives sometimes.

When the jokes don’t cut it anymore, the movie tries to level up by introducing a couple of programmers involved with Guy’s universe. One works for the game’s host company; the other plays the game. Their three paths eventually cross in unexpected, cute, and dangerous ways. And this is where the movie lost me.

The programmers might have feelings for each other; the computer might be sentient; the head of the game company might be evil. Yadda yadda. Not only do parallel, drawn-out storylines fail to keep the movie fun, they refocus it away from truly interesting ideas: Guy, our thinking, feeling protagonist who dared for something greater in his life, was in true human fashion being used all along as a tool to tell a less interesting human story.

Watch Free Guy and you might find Easter eggs about intelligence, or love, or evolution. That can be nice. But those tidbits don’t make up for the logic errors in this movie’s programming.

The Green Knight

Oh, the silly games we play . . . the things we do for what we think we need . . .  

So, what do you play for? More stuff? More money? Or do you yearn for those intangibles like love, or recognition?

Young Gawain usually plays for pleasure. As King Arthur’s nephew, he’s able to take advantage of all the bounty that medieval times can possibly offer. Drink and women seem to be high on the list. 

But he wants more—honor, to be exact. Inadequacy gnaws at his brain as he sits among legends like the King and his knights. Connected he is, but proven he is not. As luck (or something else?) would have it, a special challenge might solve Gawain’s problem.

On Christmas, when gifts are exchanged, the Green Knight visits the King’s court. And our world is changed forevermore. 

This knight is something wild. Unnaturally natural. When he offers a test that not even Arthurian legends will take, Gawain licks his puppy lips and bites.

What follows is a dark, mystical, and fantastical journey. The moviemakers—and without a doubt, the writer and director David Lowery—have reveled in the fact that the tale of Gawain and the Green Knight is centuries old and has many different versions: They’ve taken a cue from this and flooded their own telling with symbolism, double entendres, camera tricks, actor re-use, stunning sound and visuals and other tools that, quite simply, confuse us to high heaven. This is not a bad thing.

Legends exist for a reason, regardless of whether we can decipher it. They make us feel a certain way about the nature of the world and how we make our place in it. The Green Knight’s moviemakers understand this, play with it, and bask in it. Give this movie a watch with that in mind, and you just might awe in the confusion, too.

Val

What to do, what to do?

How about pretend to be someone else? Get dressed up, be silly, and get paid for it?

Val Kilmer has had a rather successful career doing just that. But this Hollywood actor’s life hasn’t been about money, it’s been about the things he doesn’t have. So don’t let Hollywood fool you: This is a true story that’ll tug at your heartstrings again and again.

One of the first things we learn is that this guy has always enjoyed capturing video. Thanks to thousands of hours of his own archived footage, we can see how he has acted (on and off screen) throughout the years. This was excellent raw material for the editors Ting Poo, Leo Scott, and Tyler Pharo (the former two of which also directed), and they’ve used it well. The years changed, but the man didn’t: He appears sensitive, humorous, and misunderstood since the beginning.

You could argue that this story is a pretentious self-advertisement. But I think you’d be wrong. There are too many genuinely tender and vulnerable moments here to think that this is born of pure self-aggrandizement. The way the man looks adoringly at his two grown children; the way he jokes with people; the way he speaks about his mother is likely to start your waterworks more than once.

So what actually happens? Well, we watch home movies of kid Val and his brothers making movies themselves; of young-adult Val on stages and movie sets; of middle-aged Val at home with the kids; of current-day Val doing something creative, while voice-over Val explains what we’re witnessing. These stories are the building blocks, and can teach us the power of storytelling; of seizures; of cancer.

These blocks create what Val would call the big picture: an explanation for his desire to act, to find the truth behind illusion and the illusion within truth. Though it sounds fanciful, these concepts are brought down to earth—heck, they never even leave it—because of how genuine everything laid before us seems to be.

Even the ways Val talks to us throughout the story—through past movies, in voice-over and addressing us in realtime—are poignant, and introduced in poignant ways. This movie is the work of many creative minds—and at the very least, one more than I had previously thought.

Roadrunner: A Film About Anthony Bourdain

Anthony Bourdain is gone, and this documentary won’t bring him back.

You might say to yourself, fine, I just need a taste. Well, even the taste is sour. To watch this isn’t to indulge in never-before-seen footage or experience the refreshingly twisted, pessimistic optimism that made this public personality so popular. To watch this is to be more like Tony—to embrace the uncomfortable hoping to understand.

As we hear from Tony’s close friends and co-workers, we learn about his insatiable curiosity. The small-time chef was not just a chef, but an aspiring writer. The best-selling writer was not just a writer, but a magnetic journeyman. Descriptions like these were not his thing, though. People were. War-torn or five-star didn’t matter; the people there did. 

The first half of the movie almost assumes that we know all this. It starts off in a fit, just as Tony’s rags-to-riches story begins, but is otherwise slow and uneventful.

The second half, though, channels the openness of our star, and in doing so magnetizes us to the screen. Watching him describe and experience his wildest dreams (writer, father); watching him live the lows of uncertainty and desperation as his friends are helpless, are moving, if quite painful to watch. 

There’s not much to it aside from that, and that is more than enough. This work is a respectful study on a vibrant, if dark and puzzling man. It’ll remind you of the beauty that life offers if you seek it—and the pain of experiencing things that we cannot yet—and maybe never will—understand.

The Get Lost Losers

Your family is trash.

This is just one of many colorful songs written and performed by The Get Lost Losers. To name others would risk spoiling their bite; each—like the movie itself—is acerbic and hilarious, and must be experienced. What we have here is a pitch-perfect mockumentary. 

We begin by meeting the band several years into its rock and roll lifetime—at a time when most of the members are, quite frankly, tired of rock and roll. Our permanently-scowling bassist, Orly, can’t hide her disgust at how uneventful this has all been. She’s about ready to pounce on other work. And our drummer, Christophe, smartly written as the opposite of that wild, unintelligent-drummer stereotype, introduces himself by sharing his love for his 401k and catered office lunches.

This is funny stuff, and the moviemakers know it. From jokes and characters to the story arc itself, they use (and twist) band stereotypes to wonderful effect.

Art is precarious, but the tension here is next-level thanks to Sereno. He’s the arrogant, insufferable front man who seems to think that rock and roll requires it of him. That most everyone in the Los Angeles music scene hates him actually fuels his passion . . . until it drives his band members away.

Right before the band showcases its talent to industry executives, it falls apart. Even Anthony, the hilariously docile, verging on air-headed guitarist; even Anthony, the man who can attract girls with his sensitivity just as fast as he can . . . repel them with his sensitivity, has lost his patience for his friend Sereno.

Can Sereno form another band in time? Will any one of the rest succeed without the others?

Maybe you won’t care: This humor isn’t for everyone. It's quite dry, and lands better if you have preconceptions about rock and roll and band dynamics. But if you like it, you’ll really like it; it’s clever and hilarious, close to but never over the top. The band—or what’s left of it—has a new fan in me.

Reefa

Some movies, you remember for the twist. Reefa belongs on that list.

It follows Israel “Reefa” Hernandez in the days before he and his Colombian immigrant family receive their green cards. Though the parents are all nerves, Reefa stays calm. This teenage visionary—or this broke immigrant kid, as his father would describe him—is convinced that everything will work out, and that his art will change the world.

Seeing Reefa in his element, in the artsy underbelly of Miami and with other first-generation friends, is instructive. We don’t learn as much about his motivation as we watch how he spends his days, but we do learn plenty about the pressures his generation faces. Doing something wrong won’t get them grounded; it’ll get them and their families deported. They remain upbeat, skating and cracking jokes, kids after all. But it’s clear that they live concerned.

As we are. Especially so when we’re introduced to the third-generation, rough police who patrol the city; especially so when Reefa gets the itch to do something less than legal. He needs to go to New York like his art idols, but before he can do so, he has to create a masterpiece for his city. His friends say that it’s dangerous, but if he doesn’t tell his story, who will? 

Indeed. 

In this last portion of the movie, Reefa’s dreams come to a head. The tacky lines, extraneous interludes, and unnecessary romantic storyline dissolve from our memory as we focus on what is happening right now. The moviemakers move the lens from Reefa to his friends, and in doing so, wrap us in a straitjacket.

Reefa, played by Tyler Dean Flores, can be both charming and maddening. The same can be said for this movie. Though it’s well-intentioned, it’s a fair amount choppier and sappier than it needs to be.

Nevertheless, it reminds us that our world needs people like Reefa, with their head in the clouds. Unfortunately, it also reminds us that this alone won’t stop the rain.

The Loneliest Whale: The Search for 52

There’s a whale out there who has swam alone all of its life, crying into the vast nothingness of the oceans and never hearing a reply.

What a sad story—and one that we are all too ready to believe is true. You see, we don’t actually know the details of 52’s life. The scant data we have simply tells us that it communicates at a frequency which we haven’t encountered before or since. 52 hertz, hence the name, 52.

The Loneliest Whale is the riveting story of the first ever search for 52 in the flesh—if it’s still out there. We learn about the military who first discovered this phenomenon, the civilian scientists who dedicated years to studying the unknown, and one moviemaker who, like so many others, had his life change after learning this story.

The movie condenses years of preparation—and shows mere days of electric, open-sea adventure—in a way that puts the videos you watched in science class to shame. It’s a modern-day treasure hunt which also explores why so many people identify with an animal yearning for connection.

This duality is what makes the movie. It’s curious and playful even as it helps us contemplate serious (and sometimes uncomfortable) questions about connection and meaning in our world. The pace is smooth and engaging, and yet in only one hour and thirty-six minutes is still reminiscent of the highs and lows of life: Brief moments of ecstasy as we approach majestic creatures are balanced out by the more typical—and many—mundane moments. 

Having hooked us with all that, the movie draws us in with booming, plaintive whale songs. I could listen to these endlessly. It’s a language like ours, from a creature who thinks and feels and has families. Hearing it, knowing this, will have the sound resonate through every fiber of your being. This is just one example of how the movie will affect you.

The needle in the haystack may never have been so thoughtfully used to weave a story.

Naomi Osaka

You’ve just achieved your lifelong dream. Now what?

This is Naomi Osaka’s dilemma, and she’s only 23. Though she has broken professional tennis records and started important conversations about identity, it is difficult to say she’s content.

This eponymous three-part series dives into this discomfort, and is equal parts talent show and coming-of-age tale. Or put another way, bingeworthy.

Part 1, “Rise”, introduces our soft-spoken, dutiful superstar. We learn about her childhood apart; her desire to win for family and home-country of Japan; her extraordinary prowess on the court—and her inability to deal with fame. Home movies, grainy and muted, set the tone from the start. This life is crisp, but soft; this life is not automatic movement, but focused motion.

Part 1 has us feeling sympathy for our young champion. Surprisingly vulnerable narration shares the pressure she feels to do right by just about everyone. And lucky for everyone, Part 2, “ Championship Mentality”, provides breathing room. Naomi talks about her talents beyond tennis. Fashion? Well, she has sketched clothing for years, dreaming about wearing something other than sports clothing all the time . . . In this part, we see Naomi step off the court to reconnect with her curiosity and her family—and in her doing so, we see radiating positivity. 

This of course thickens the plot. Watching Naomi realize that fulfillment may exist outside of tennis is as haunting and exciting to us as it is to her. And not only does this make it easier to root for her, it makes it painful to watch how others glom onto her fame at the cost of her discomfort. The series does not hide these moments.

As you’d guess, Part 3, the “New Blueprint”, shows Naomi exploring this tension and following her inclinations. We learn about her Haitian father and Japanese mother; about her upbringing; about her desire to create conversations about identity, race, nationality, and more in a world that continues to navigate its own type of conversations.

Watching Naomi crush (or fail) at tennis is enveloping enough, but this series shines at stepping on and off the court at just the right times. In contextualizing the success of a young, still-active, still-maturing superstar, it is a special story. If this series has shown us anything, it has shown us how there are molds yet to be broken, and difficulties to be surmounted, if only one considers the possibility of doing it.

Space Jam: A New Legacy

To succeed, don’t do what you want; do what they tell you.

This is what LeBron James—perhaps the greatest basketball player of all time—tells his computer-code-wiz son, Dom. By working hard and pushing computer games aside, he says, one can provide for themself and their whole family.

LeBron may be right. And this is a big problem.

You see, Al G. Rhythm is jealous of it all. The fame, the adoration. As an algorithm for Warner Brothers Studios, his work creating movies has gone unloved and unrewarded. But not anymore.

Al has a plan to finally win over the hearts of humans: He will kidnap LeBron and Dom and challenge them to a game of high-stakes basketball. Oh, and whereas Al’s teammates will be NBA and WNBA superstars, LeBron must pick his crew from the lowliest of the low, some stale old Warner Brothers intellectual property called the Looney Toons.

If you have questions at this point, I have answers. Yes, this movie is ridiculous. Yes, about half of it is as stiff and try-hard as you’re afraid it’s going to be.

In fact, it feels like Warner Brothers rushed through the brainstorming phase and made this movie purely to advertise its previous hits: It constantly ties characters, quotes, and even clips from its more successful movies into this story. Sometimes it works, but most times it doesn’t. It’s uncomfortable and embarrassing to watch a studio stoop this low, just as it’s embarrassing to think that in what was clearly planned as a blockbuster advertisement for itself, it decided to have its own computer—the thing that we’re supposed to believe creates its movie ideas—be evil. (Let’s not even think about the computer knowing that the Looney Toons have overcome impossible odds to win a basketball game before, and that it has decided to attain human validation by beating down a human admired by millions of people.)

So, this movie may be the most expensive, least effective advertisement of all time. But it’s not all bad. LeBron’s conflict with his son Dom is believable, and Dom’s acting is genuinely good. LeBron’s slighty-more-stiff delivery even punches up a few one liners. And the second half of the movie almost redeems the first: It reinvigorates the clever ridiculousness of the Looney Toons of old, toying with our natural instincts and creating laughs for the whole family. 

But that’s not enough. Although light and family-friendly, Space Jam: A New Legacy is a forgettable movie. Though “don’t overthink it” can sometimes be good advice about a movie, this is more a “don’t think it at all” one, which, if you ask me, is not a worthy way to spend your valuable time.

America: The Motion Picture

Lest you forget that the Declaration of Independence was written over a game of beer pong, or that Washington and Lincoln were totes besties . . . behold, America: The Motion Picture.

It throws whatever you know about American history into a blender, and pours out a raunchy, pun-filled adventure. Namely, some of America’s biggest names form a supergroup to, well, form the nation.

It’s mostly outrageous, and often hilarious. Take Sam Adams. He’s just a beer-chugging college bro, with blind dedication that’s somehow endearing—and racist giggles that’re telling. The writing respects people’s contributions while acknowledging their (grievous) faults. But what’s it all for?

Washington is our main character, and his inner journey leads him to realize that what makes America great is its openness. But in a whiplash moment even for such a wacky story, the movie ends with Americans fighting because of their differences, and Washington losing hope.

This is disappointing. If the moviemakers wanted to make a ridiculous, fun movie, they could’ve done so. But they brought in philosophy, and only did half the work.

Free thinking is not just a luxury, it is a responsibility to approach other ideas with patience and charity—especially if you disagree. The moviemakers seem smart enough to understand this, so the next time they make a movie about their country burning down, they’d do better than to simply draw a caricature from across the street, point, and laugh.

I'll Never Forget My High School Friends

Some people grow up faster than others. Ryan doesn’t seem to think about this when he hands his friends cameras to document the end of high school.

Not everyone likes the idea, but they oblige their nerdy, aspiring director. Unfortunately (for all of us), naiveté, intergroup romance, and jealousy get in the way. Very not lit.

There is promise in the moviemaking here, but the story does not hit home. More than one character vanishes from the plot without adequate explanation. And though we are watching people spend their last moments together, we haven’t learned enough about them—or found in them sufficiently worthwhile traits—to care.

The actors are most convincing when they lean into being teens: self-centered, peacocking, and defensive. These portrayals and their writing can be insightful. The direction, editing, music, and coloring show care, too. But the lack of connection with our characters and other blemishes outweigh the good. The sound quality drops in and out, and sustained naturalistic camerawork can be jarring. 

But, because in the casual dialogue and uncomfortable emotions there is some truth, my advice to the moviemakers is to keep putting themselves out there. To quote the All American Rejects once more, “when we live such fragile lives, it’s the best way we survive.”

Wish Dragon

You have three wishes! Go!

Of course Din, our dear, kind-hearted Din, can’t go. What he wants most in this world can’t be granted. 

It has to do with Li Na. She’s gone from the neighborhood and on to richer things. But she still remembers Din and their friendship, right? If there ever was a time for him to find out, it’s now, with the help of a wish-granting dragon from a teapot.

Don’t let the extremely-on-the-nose opening sequence scare you off. What we have here is a wholesome story for the whole family to enjoy, one that highlights the deep joys of human connection. You’ll smile and chuckle plenty—and breathe a sigh of relief when you realize it’s not another story where a dull boy pines for an impossibly perfect girl.

Smooth, soft animation rounds out the feel-good feeling. Though we’ve seen this idea done before, good execution is good execution.

I Am All Girls

I Am All Girls will confront you. You have been warned.

Ntombi is an adult now, capable and strong, working in police forensics to hold sexual criminals accountable. Jodie is her lover—and a detective with the same goal. With a tender romance amidst difficult work, it’s dang easy to root for our heroes.

But the plot thickens. Ntombi’s methods do not always follow police protocol. And Jodie has no idea about that—or Ntombi’s past as a child sex slave. For now.

The production value is top quality, though the writing has flaws. Jodie’s character is unbelievably dedicated, Ntombi’s psyche is barely explored, and for a movie about an uphill battle against evil, the ending comes all too easy.

That said, this thriller is about remembering real lives that were taken—and that continue to be taken, each day. There can be few better reasons to base a movie on a true story, and for this reason alone, it is worth a watch.

Cruella

In to déjà vu? Then Cruella is for you.

It’s the origin story of a fashion designer, though you need not care about clothes to enjoy: Everything about this outfit is high-end.

From the larger costume and set design down to the quirks of the perfectly acted, perfectly one-dimensional supporting characters, many of its threads are creative and entertaining. How can you not feel for a little girl wronged before she had a chance to do right? And did I mention that the lead acting is fantastic? Cruella and her frenemy boss provide brilliant, brilliantly wicked performances.

The problem is, we’ve seen this all before—and to better effect. A hard-driving, ungrateful superior; the strength of chosen family; revenge and dirty tactics posing as justice. OK, but what have you done for me lately?

Although the movie’s production aspects deserve display at the poshest runways and movie theaters, the goal of its writing seems to be lionizing a deranged selfishness. This is not something our world needs more of, and no amount of glamour should change that.

Monster

How long will you read this before your mind wanders? 

I’m not asking to judge you. I’m just curious, because it happened to me watching Monster, early and often.

It’s funny, because the movie is very good. Steve is a budding moviemaker, open-minded student, and good friend and family member. So how strange and scary it is when he’s charged with murder. Just another young Black man found at a robbery gone wrong.

Tight writing, smart structuring—everything from the color of clothing to ambient music gives us a moving watch.

Most of the performances are expert, too. But Steve’s is extraordinary. When he quietly narrates his aspirations from the rooftops, or shakes in a mix of guilt and fear in front of his parents, it’s difficult not to marvel at how good this actor is. How genuine it feels when he explores the possibilities of his life, unsure all the while. It’s both personal and universal.

A story about an upstanding kid caught up in the pains of experience and prejudice is worth a watch. But more than that, as great art does, this movie makes you think about things outside of what you’re seeing. So let your mind wander on this one: It will always come back.

The Underground Railroad (Parts 1 and 2)

Within seconds, The Underground Railroad will shake you.

The gravity of the situation alone is . . . planetary. Cora, a young woman enslaved on a Georgia plantation, has been left behind by her mother. Even her community, which holds together what shreds of humanity it can in the face of such brutality, looks askance at her. Tragedy on tragedy.

But Cora is not alone. She has Caesar—and his ideas. He reads Gulliver’s Travels by night, contemplating human nature and the journey of life. The two know in their hearts they cannot take this anymore. So they try for freedom.

If the writing wasn’t already intelligent and powerful enough for you, it will start to be here. The underground railroad is not what you think it is. Or put another way, it is exactly what you think it is, and will still surprise you again and again.

This work is so delicate and intoxicating that it can only be described as awesome. Images and sounds which are intensely vivid take the raw stuff of life and translate it into emotion. You will find crickets in your ears when you watch this, and feel someone else’s heaving breaths reaching deep down into you.

We have seen respectful, blazing beauty from this director before, and music to match. Shallow focus and close stares into the camera, one of Barry Jenkins’s trademarks, continue to create connection on a fundamental level. We are seeing, but we are being seen. And the varied, vibrant musical art of Nicholas Britell accentuates it all. The production design, costumes, camerawork, acting—the list goes on. This is moviemaking masterwork which makes us feel deeply. So let’s feel, and learn.

It’s important to recognize that this is an adaptation of Colson Whitehead’s 2016 novel of the same name, a Pulitzer Prize winner. That said, there will be no comparisons made to the book in these reviews. What we watch is what we’re watching.

Mainstream

Don’t touch the stove, it’s hot! For good reason, this is what we were taught, and what we teach. But some people learn best by experience. Only pain sinks a lesson in.

So how about you? Do you need the burn to learn?

Frankie might. She feels a failure. Just another struggling bartender adding nothing to the world. If only her YouTube videos were popular! Then she’d be making a difference. When she meets Link—a charming, captivating (homeless?) man—she feels a spark. This is someone who can get people’s attention. Who can help her make a difference.

Link likes Frankie, too, but only because he likes most people. He values connection with ourselves and the world around us—and thinks that phones remove us from all of that. Why can’t Frankie see this? Well, maybe she can. Maybe she—and everyone else—can, if the two work together. If they satirize to open eyes.

With a writer friend (who completes our love triangle, of course), the couple makes videos critiquing the shallow, destructive nature of life with social media. And their videos hit it BIG. So big, in fact, that it becomes hard to remember the reasons for creating them in the first place . . .

In the end, Mainstream is a careful, desperate plea to all of us not to touch the stove. The characters are well-written, and the acting—particularly by Link—is simply riveting. The movie’s self-aware soundwork and editing only highlight how far we’ve come, and how complicated our relationship is, with attention drugs.

Stowaway

Stowaway has a major malfunction—yet still works.

That’s because, when you watch people blast off into space, you get invested. It’s only natural, rooting for the home team.

What’s more, we can identify with each of the three crewmembers on a personal level. Whether by ambition, altruism, or curiosity, their reasons for going to Mars ring true.

The issue—which is also what makes most of the movie suspenseful and nerve-racking—is that there’s a stowaway on this rocket ship. Yes. In something engineered down to the smallest detail, an entire human somehow managed to squish in.

So what to do?

Well first, push the ridiculousness of this scenario out of your mind. Then, soak in how human ingenuity and emotion can blaze through the dark vacuum of space. The ship wasn’t built to handle four people, and things aren’t looking good, but we are seeing one of life’s most pressing questions being worked through in real time: We didn’t ask to be here, but now that we are, who will help themselves, and who will help each other?

Dead Pigs

There’s a special anxiety that comes from not having. Not having someone to talk to; not having enough money; not having what they have. Insert your problem here.

We all share in this feeling, and it’s partly why Dead Pigs is so good. The movie taps into our natural anxiety—in a way that somehow relieves the pressure.

It’s a true cinematic experience, where five human stories converge into something larger than life. Sure, Candy’s doing well—but she lives in the last house in a neighborhood being torn down. And her brother? He’s a pig farmer with less money than pigs. His son, a troubled rich woman, and an expat architect round out the problem-fest.

That all sounds like a lot. Too much. But smart writing eases us in. Scene changes don’t distract or confuse; they pique our interest.

Further drawing us in is how the moviemakers create atmosphere. Each place mirrors the mood of its characters: a dark, neon city broods and seethes here; buildings fall apart there. In widescreen that both overwhelms and helps us take it all in, we find a sad, sweet, and funny story which reaffirms human connections.

In and Of Itself

These days, we can watch anything we want, any time. Go to a party, go out on a date, and you’ll talk about “what you’re watching” as much as anything else. Binging an entire weekend away has moved from joke fodder to culturally acceptable. Is this good?

Derek wants to know. He’s a magician, and In and Of Itself is a magic show, but he cares about what we do and how we define ourselves. And, I promise, this one man and his six skits will beat any binge.

It’s almost not fair. Derek’s a card sharp, after all. The ease with which he plays with our minds—even with the camera zoomed in on his hands—is downright scary. But he’s not stealing. He’s teaching: the different ways to shuffle or hold a deck; the ways he hid his mom’s sexual orientation from friends; the ways people judge him. Here, Derek’s tricks are microcosms of life.

So the show is furiously personal. Just as often as you’ll ask how he just did what he did, you’ll ask how he’s so comfortable unloading his baggage with strangers.

He speaks softly. Slowly. His eyes glass up with tears for much of the show. But this is the opposite of a sob story. It’s funny, sweet, and entertaining, and our magician knows exactly how to keep us engaged. As much as the movie showcases his talent and storytelling ability, it spotlights us.

Whatever magic is, this must be its highest calling. It’s hard to imagine it ever getting better.