Vivo

Has your life gone the way you thought it would?

Or does it sometimes feel like you’re just a monkey, flailing around in a complicated world? Well, Vivo can relate with the latter.

OK, he’s a kinkajou, not a monkey. Irrelevant! What matters is that he can sing and dance! Along with friend Andres, he busks at the local plaza. Connection and fulfillment in sunny Havana, Cuba; what’s not to love?!

A letter. A letter written by someone from Andres’s past, asking him to travel all the way to the United States. The old man is ready for this, probably his last big adventure. But Vivo is not. His world was once big and scary, before he found meaning in Andres and his music, and he’s not ready to lose either.

But life happens, doesn’t it? Vivo finds himself journeying alone to Miami, and in doing so, re-learning what it means to engage with his surroundings.

It’s a sweet story, and very often funny. This world is colorful; its animation, in that sweet spot between campy and hyperrealistic. And though a cute, singing animal can do no wrong, Vivo’s friend-along-the-way Gabi, played by Ynairaly Simo, steals the show. Not only is her character (arc) adorable and instructive, Ynairaly’s performance hits high notes across the emotional spectrum.

Music, of course, rounds out the movie. The songwriting is recognizably modern (and recognizably Lin-Manuel Miranda), though rooted firmly in its Afro-Cuban inspiration.

Vivo’s earliest scenes may be on the nose, but that doesn’t bog it down. It’s an energetic, fun family movie—and one whose best parts, funnily enough, are its heavier scenes. When the music stops and the hard work of feeling begins, characters and audience alike have a chance to reflect.

So what if life doesn’t always go the way you thought it would? If it did, how could it ever be better than you had imagined?

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.

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.

Drunk Bus

How do you feel when things don’t go as planned? Do you get frustrated, or down? Do you giggle and shrug it off? 

Our reactions to life are important, and this is what Drunk Bus is all about. Take its open-air screening last night at the Montauk Film Festival, for example.

The showing started a tad late; we had to wait for the sun to set. Gorgeous, elemental, but slow! And when the sky eventually darkened enough to see the projection, the movie wouldn’t play. And when the movie played, no sound came out.

And then the heavens smiled on us and said let there be sound. I was ready to be hurt again! A darkly beautiful, music-driven opening scene drew me and the rest of the crowd in. It was at precisely this point that the director stood up and asked us to stop the movie. We should have been hearing dialogue, but weren't. Did I mention that it rained, too?

Michael, our lead, would’ve sat through all of this with a blank stare, his mind elsewhere. Actually—he wouldn’t have come at all. A late-shift campus shuttlebus driver, he’s stuck to the same routine for years. Since his girlfriend left for New York, he’s been both upset and incapable of changing anything about his life.

The college-coming-of-age tale has been written before, but that takes nothing away from this one. Michael is played convincingly by Charlie Tahan, a young and promising, depressed and muted individual all at once. And then there’s Pineapple.

This punk rock, Samoan Santa is hired as security after Michael loses his latest battle with belligerent passengers. Pineapple is not the answer to all (or really any) of Michael’s issues, but he is something different. Very different. Thanks to Pineapple Tangaroa (the real person), Pineapple (the character) is a confusingly soft and intense presence. His dark sense of humor and worldliness makes it easy to build a bond with Michael—and just about every passenger who jumps on that bus.

Their interactions move the movie, but even bit players like Fuck You Bob (a grumpy passenger) and Michael’s intercom-only boss add levity and depth to the story. The writing here—like the direction, art direction, camerawork, editing, and music—are thoughtful, well-balanced, and dark in the lightest way.  

As expected, Michael and Pineapple go through their ups and downs. Michael’s loop of indecision and unhappiness doesn’t change, but it hurts ever more. The impending return of his ex adds to the discomfort. We begin to wonder whether he will ever make it out of his self-imposed prison, just as we wonder where the heck Pineapple came from.

Before Drunk Bus, my perspective was lacking. After Drunk Bus, I was able to see how a speed bump-filled evening was indeed a fitting host for such a quirky, touching movie. 

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.

Shiva Baby

Somebody died. Wanna get frisky? 

That’s one of the things Danielle is thinking right now. Others include does my mother think I’m a failure because I’m bisexual and why can’t I get a job in gender business?

These concerns may sound naive or niche, though Shiva Baby is anything but. It is a transgressive, sensitive, and observant work, one that’ll mesmerize you even as you peek through the cringe-shielding hands on your face. 

After meeting Danielle in a most abrupt (compromising?) fashion, we are thrown just as abruptly into a shiva. People, at a house, in mourning. And wow are they alive. 

They’re saying hi, catching up—and asking Danielle questions she can’t answer. Things become increasingly uncomfortable as it becomes clear that she isn’t growing up at the pace or in the way everyone expects. And the schmear on the bagel? Danielle’s ex-girlfriend and current sugar daddy are in attendance.

The editing and direction superbly cramp us in, and together with pitch-perfect writing, acting, and music, connect us with Danielle. Can we just have a minute, please?! Yes, yes, back to the food table for the fifth time, whatever works!

And so, we swim with Danielle through a sea of cloying, judgmental people, watching her young mind fire neurons in all sorts of directions. And so, this movie is a moving, impressive work of art. 

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.”

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.

Limbo

Life works in fits and starts. Things we’d like to change are slow to change; things we’d hate to change change suddenly and the most. Limbo, mostly.

Omar’s current one is the Scottish countryside. He’s a Syrian refugee stranded here, with just enough money to stay and not enough money to go. His parents feel the same—but in Turkey.

We watch Omar process this predicament. It’s a subtle, verging on minimalist movie. If someone asks you what happens?, all you can say is nothing much. And yet the movie holds our attention by choreography and countrysides, facial expressions and silly scenarios.

Omar and his supporting cast nail their roles. Though life away from family and past comforts is hard, they take it in quiet stride. This lets us contemplate their dilemma—and giggle at the naiveté of those around who aren’t struggling through such a thing.

It’s hard to fault any one part of the moviemaking here, and the themes are lofty. But the resolution (if you can call it that) doesn’t fit. This can feel a frustrating send-off for those who were waiting the entire time for something to happen.

Ghostbox Cowboy

If you could communicate with your deceased loved ones, would you?

Jimmy would—and Jimmy has. He’s invented a little box to do so, and is taking his talents to China in hopes of large-scale manufacturing his gift for the world.

It’s sad, and he seems to be on another wavelength. Everyone he meets takes advantage of this—because everyone he meets feels pressured by the demands of consumer culture. They all know: If you aren’t part of the system, you may be out of a job—and therefore out of a way to sustain your life.

It’s a trippy movie. Every aspect of the moviemaking provides us people, places, and things rooted in reality, but sopping with delusion. Themes like competition, hopelessness, and precarious living radiate out of each character.

Feeling bleak may not be your idea of fun. But what about watching an original, thought-provoking story, filled with characters trying to do their best in a crazy world?

Ya No Estoy Aquí (I'm No Longer Here)

When was the last time a movie snuck up on you?

And please, don’t answer with a horror movie. Those are sneaky over split seconds. What I’m asking about is that rare ninja snowball—that quiet, unassuming story which somehow builds into a knockout. Like Ya No Estoy Aquí.

Sure, the story isn’t new: A teen flees Mexico for the United States. And sure, the structure isn’t special: Scenes alternate between past and present, and are so action-less that seconds pass like syrup. But at some point, this movie hits with you an icy clarity. It is something special.

Like Ulises. He’s just a teen, but already an expert dancer of cumbia, and looked up to by his crew. They’re all terkos. In a community where every street ends in drugs or violence, the terkos decide to dance, slowly and together.

Until they can’t, of course. Bye bye loud haircuts and baggy clothing. Ulises has to flee when he gets implicated in something dangerous. And so the movie flashes between his past moments with friends in Monterrey and his present difficulties living in New York. Each scene is simple: Ulises listens to the radio here; a friend complements his hair there. But after enough rolling, we see the snowball. Los terkos is the only people, the only place, where Ulises is allowed to be himself.

The acting is raw, and the moviemaking, powerful. It’s funny how something can start so simple and transform beyond expectation. How like life.

---

s t a n d o u t s — **spoiler alert**

(1) fam

Ulises and los terkos are stubborn. We know this because the movie tells us so—it literally defines the word. And over time, we learn why the teens call themselves this. They live among violent gangs, but refuse to get involved. They seek out a different community. One that is bright and vibrant.

This is their rebellion. It’s funny, to think that non-violent dance is such, but here it is. And so, many of the scenes of this chosen family are tame. Almost boring. The kids might sit together, or dance for a song. Surrounded by violence and crumbling buildings, we see community. The terko way of life in real time. Take a look.

(2) stick around, gang

Another technique used to show us Ulises’ reality is when the camera sticks around. Ulises might walk out of focus, but the camera doesn’t follow him; it remains to capture what is going on around him.

At first, these scenes might feel distracting, or seem like transitions. But they are all relevant to Ulises’ reality, and are context clues for us.

For example, when Ulises walks by a woman in New York, the camera stays on her. She dominates the screen, preaching in Spanish. God has saved her from something. Or, when Ulises calls into a Mexican radio station and can’t get through, we watch the DJ put on a commercial. All we see is that room. All we hear is the Mexican government promising security to its citizens.

The moviemakers are telling Ulises’ story, but they want us to know that his situation is not necessarily unique.

Énorme (Enormous)

Frédéric wants a baby? That’s funny; his wife already acts like one.

Claire’s a world-class piano player—but aloof, and overwhelmed by the world. She needs Frédéric to plan her schedule. Feed her. Relax her. And it works, because the two are in love.

So what’s the problem? It’s not that Frédéric is ready for the responsibility of a child while Claire can’t even remember his birthday. It’s that Claire doesn’t want a baby, and that Frédéric does something unforgivable to get one.

This is not something to gloss over. But however it makes you feel, it makes the movie. Frédéric himself becomes a doting mother: buying all the baby gear; reading all the baby books; eating into his own baby bump. His excitement is sweet, and very often hilarious.

The way the couple reacts to their situation reminds us that both sexes contain multitudes. Throw that together with jokes? What’s not to like?

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.