Lapsis

D’you ever think about what the world was like before you were born? How people accomplished things without computers, or telephones? Lapsis puts us in this thoughtful mindset—while maintaining a compelling story. It blends old-school thriller with new-school looks, and the result is a slow-burn, down-to-earth sci-fi that you don’t want to miss.

Its world is very much like ours. Tech companies monopolize profits while traffic cops sneak tickets onto your car. New Yorkers speak with unmistakably New York-accents. The only difference is, the computers are quantum.

Don’t worry, you don’t need to know what that means. Ray, our lead, certainly doesn’t. He won’t risk bringing untested tech home while his grown but sickly step-brother still struggles to get through each day. What the family needs is a cure, not faster internet.

It’s a fair point. But for Ray, it’s a losing one. This charmingly polite, rough around the edges everyman—played wonderfully by Dean Imperial—can’t pay the bills with his odd jobs anymore. The quantum bandwagon is beginning to look golden.

And so, picture Tony Soprano with a rucksack, dragging a lawnmower behind, and you’ll have a good idea of Ray at his next gig. As a cabler, he’ll hike through the wilderness and lay down cable for the quantum computer overlords. The job pays well. Really well, actually . . .

How? And why does Ray’s trail name make his fellow cablers shudder? Why does his employer hire humans to do work that its robots can do better?

With each footstep, Ray creates more money, more enemies, and more questions. The tone is uneasy from beginning to end, really; unfolding, refolding mysteries spook and entice us at the same time. It is a treat to watch.

And top notch moviemaking makes it so. Lapsis appears to be the baby of Noah Hutton: He wrote, directed, edited, and composed its music. This is an impressive workload, but especially so given how subtle and powerful each of those aspects is. Erica A. Hart has picked a wonderfully realistic and talented cast (with Madeline Wise standing out as the reserved but piercingly intelligent foil to Ray). And Mike Gomes’s cinematography gives us grains and hues and symmetry that make us see the cables in trees and the vines in computers.

This is a movie to watch, and these are moviemakers to follow.

Promising Young Woman

That girl is absolutely GONE right now. And look at that outfit, I mean . . . she’s BEGGING for it, isn’t she?

We’ve all heard this kind of talk before. We may even have debated its merits. But in real life, at night at the bar, things happen faster than philosophers can discuss them. And this is why Cassie’s plan is so intriguing.

She’s that girl, head rolling around, eye shadow running. She doesn’t say much when a man (inevitably) swoops in. And she continues not to say much when they’re at his place and he’s even more brazen about taking advantage of her. Then, when things are about to get very, very bad, Cassie sobers up instantly. What do you think you’re doing?

Their stunned, contorted faces—what a pleasure to witness. Yassss Cass, let the predator squirm under the weight of his own inadequacy; longer, longer!

And yet, stop Cass, please stop. Your behavior isn’t changing any minds in a meaningful way. You’re still depressed; still not over what happened to your friend back in med school. Why do you still do this?

And why would we watch something so uncomfortable?

Because we remember our mothers. Because we recognize those lines up top. And because this movie is catharsis itself. A treasure.

After seeing Cassie malaise through days at the coffee shop and nights at the bar, we get the picture. Then a real man enters it and gives us all some hope. He’s socially awkward still, but in an endearing way. Not out to take advantage, but around because he cares about that girl from his med school class who was so smart, so wonderful. The plot thickens.

I certainly had my guesses about where it would go. And they were all wrong. The movie takes everyday interactions and lays them out before us in an original, devastatingly illuminating way. Fairy tale blends with horror, mystery with thriller. The end product is a nauseating, tear-jerking, and triumphant work of art.

Special recognition must go to writer and director Emerald Fennell. Though the story speaks for itself, so many moviemaking techniques amplify it. Take the camerawork for example. It’s almost brazenly different than the usual. In many of the early scenes, the bottom of the picture falls just above foot-height. It’s not noticeable at first, but it’s a brilliant technique to freak out our subconscious: we’re on edge partly because we can’t get grounded, and we can’t get grounded partly because we can’t see the ground. With techniques like this or an asymmetrical or wide-angle shot, it can feel like we’re floating with the characters through a bad dream.

But dream it is not. Promising Young Woman confronts us with reality.

The Orange Years: The Nickelodeon Story

The thrill of this movie may be lost on Generation Z; its members can access endless, personalized entertainment at any time. But Millennial viewers who had even sporadic access to the Nickelodeon channel growing up will know: It is special to experience something just-for-kids in an overwhelmingly adult world.

This nostalgia is made for the in-crowd, but even so, The Orange Years: The Nickelodeon Story is an uplifting watch.

One reason is its people. So many of them, it seems, were genuinely passionate about creating entertainment that nodded to the inherent unfairness, loneliness, and helplessness of being a kid. Executives, creators, and performers alike sit down with us to describe just how moving that was—and still is—to them. Nobody around was doing what they tried to do.

And not only does it uplift, it excites. We hear tales of underdogs from different fields banding together to fight for yet other underdogs—and in short order, hear snippets of success.

The movie unleashes all this goodness in order. First comes the small-time, Ohio public access inspiration. Then, the slow, deliberate focus on figuring out what it really means to be a kid. Then, the journey; its twists, turns, and hit shows.

Even if you don’t care how Nickelodeon got its name, or why it picked an orange logo, or why so many of its early shows were successful, you’ll likely enjoy the positivity and resilience on display in this documentary.

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. 

A Most Beautiful Thing

When every day is a struggle, there’s no time for games.

Think about it. If you go to sleep not knowing whether your drug addict mother will come home; if you walk to school through multiple gang territories, your mind might be on other things. 

A Most Beautiful Thing opens our eyes a bit wider to living like this. Through interviews, montages, and discussions, we hear about growing up in the dangerous west side of Chicago. Our stars are now a group of middle-aged friends, but their story starts years ago, when they were teenagers at odds and on high alert. Yes, they made a movie about it, but no, you can’t make this stuff up. 

The sport which eventually brought them together, crew, drew their attention simply because of the free pizza at the high school info session. Hearing tidbits like this one will bring a smile to your face, and our stars speak often speak with one, reminiscing sometimes and actively thinking others.

But light this movie is not. Not only do the stars speak about crime and fear and violence, subject matter experts provide statistics to contextualize their lived experience.

Indeed, the movie walks a balance beam between poverty porn and fairy tale. In a positive but realistic manner, it shows how a group of people (who could be any of us) gained perspective and built healthy habits and relationships. It is sobering and uplifting at the same time.

Parts of the movie can feel like filler. Listening to stories, we see montages of “the streets” instead of looking into the eyes of our stars. But the emotional connection—and the statistics of pain—draw us back in every time.

So who need sports? Well, what if in blissful silence you found yourself gliding over water? What if after hearing sirens all your life, you now hear calm as YOUR tools slide into a cool blue mirror; now silence as you listen to YOUR heart still beating, still alive, still capable, now powerful, with your thoughts and with your family?

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. 

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.

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.

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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.

Wolfwalkers

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Do you remember your favorite bedtime story? The bedsheet fuzz which lulled you to sleep, as you and your loved ones explored worlds? This is one of the treats of childhood, difficult to replicate as we age.

But we try. And it’s more than just nostalgia-seeking, or a bribe to sleep. We tell bedtime stories to teach our most vulnerable, receptive minds the knowledge of generations. We want them to know what we know, and more, without them having to endure the hardship. It is a rational and laudable goal.

The story from Wolfwalkers seems made for this ritual. But is it worthy of it?

Robyn would say yes. She’s an adventurous young girl, ready to explore the world. While father sets wolf-traps in the forest, she shoots her crossbow around the house. Sure, chores are important, but higher callings even moreso. Like catching wolves.

That’s our first problem. Robyn’s higher callings have been chosen for her: by her father (to keep her safe) and by the Lord Protector (to keep her civilized). The three are English invaders, and must be careful in this wild, pagan Ireland.

And that’s our next problem. Whether it be the Irish hunting wolves or the English hunting the Irish, nobody seems to get along. So when Robyn sneaks out of the house, difficulties surround.

What she doesn’t expect is to befriend a wolfwalker named Mebh. But this part-human, part-wolf teaches Robyn more about family and harmony than any civilization has.

The moral of the story—that all living things are connected and deserving—is certainly bedtime story material. The idea that we must care for the planet while caring for ourselves is demonstrated tenderly. But the movie loses force when it picks its bad guy.

Here, that bad guy is a different religion. The Lord Protector quells wolf and human rebellion alike, and sees the Irish’s close connection with nature as something dangerous. To be tamed. This religiously-motivated awfulness is subtle, and will likely be lost on children who are paying attention to the story of two brave girls encountering danger and caring for family. And the movie is a quality one; vividly animated, touching, and family-friendly. But bedtime story material it is not.

Bedtime is for bedrock values, and this movie isn’t consistent about its own. It disparages colonialism and indenturing groups of people with the intention of making their lives better—however misguided such behavior is—while it takes no issue with its heroes using nature and other animals—even taking over their bodies and consciousness—to suit human purposes. Both “religions” are using the world around them for their own purposes and doing what they think is best for the less fortunate. The movie overlooks this fact in its search for something worthwhile to share.

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s t a n d o u t s — **spolier alert**

(1) It’s All About Perspective

In one sense, this story pits civilization and its strictures against the wild and its freedom. Even the Irish, who serve the English, fear unbridled nature and will take English help to tame it. The moviemakers’ animation styles weave in with this theme.

For example, scenes of the town are largely in two dimensions. Perspective is flattened, and highlights the symmetric, grey monotony of civilized life. There is no flourish here, no growth. Just the various cages we live in called home, town, city.

Compare that to scenes of the forest, where wolves and other creatures live together in balance. For these scenes, the animators show a lush, deep, three-dimensional world. Colors and lines are never the same. Here we see life flourishing; wild beauty unchecked.

Each kind of animation is striking, and a thing to behold. But maintaining their differences throughout adds depth to the movie.

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?

Beginning

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Why is it that we don’t seek out sad? It’s a fact of life, after all, and denying reality is a recipe for disaster. Is it because life is hard enough on its own? Because we know sad will always be there, whether we look for it or not?

Whatever the reason, we treat sad movies the same way. When was the last time someone recommended to you—truly, deeply recommended to you—a sad movie? We just don’t do it. But happy needs sad. Loss helps us recognize what we appreciate; helps us know what to look for, or remember. Sad movies do the same. Their brutal truths can be uncomfortable, but they open our eyes to what is—and therefore what can be. Think about Schindler’s List. Or Requiem for a Dream. And add Beginning to the list.

It’s about Yana, mostly. She’s having a hard time raising her son in a healthy environment. The community attacks her family for its religion. But however unfair and dangerous this is for them, this is not our brutal truth. The brutal truth is that here, men treat women like tools.

Take Yana. She does the work around here: teaching the neighborhood kids about faith; caring for the house and her son, while her husband goes out on business for extended periods. And yet, he expects this and more from her, without giving anything in return. Whenever he is home and Yana doesn’t blindly support his insecurities, or have sex with him, he tosses her aside like the wrong screwdriver. No questions about her day. No words of support. And the cherry on top? He gets upset at his wife when she opens up about being raped.

This is just awful. How can we watch something like this? Well, you can if you care about people. If you care to learn more about what hurts them, and what helps them. If you’ve ever appreciated when someone sat down with you and listened, that’s how. And if you take the time to do so here, you’ll remember that there are still things of beauty in a sea of heartbreak.

Like Yana. Every day, she’s alone and uncomfortable. Dissociating. But every day, she fights through this to teach children; to care for the future. Floating alone, she tries to do right by others.

The longer we watch, the more we see how this takes a toll on her. The last scenes are some of the most shocking and elemental you’ll see in a long while.

Nobody likes sad. But sad teaches. Sad is universal. So take some time for yourself and watch this movie. Maybe it’ll help you remember that you’re not alone. Maybe it’ll help you remember what makes you happy, so you can go for it.

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s t a n d o u t s — **spoiler alert**

(1) d a r k n e s s

Yana is in a bad place, both literally and figuratively. Though the moviemakers express this in several ways, a simple and striking one is the use of dark and light.

See below, how much of the frame—of our perception—is darkness? How light (how goodness? how Yana?) can sometimes feel small? Separate?

(2) t o g e t h e r b u t a p a r t

Not just Yana feels detached. Each of the characters is dealing with an issue, and the way they are framed hints that they are working through their issues alone.

Take a look below. Each of these people is having a conversation. But they are alone, surrounded only by emptiness. Sitting together, but apart. The moviemakers are talking to us here.

Even Yana’s attacker, a man who arguably has power, is shown apart. Left behind by his hunting party, he falters. Is he thinking about his atrocity? Being punished by a higher power?

(3) n o t h i n g n e s s

Just keeping the good times rolling here! After darkness and separation, we come to nothingness.

A recurring theme in the movie is Yana’s dissociating, discomfort, and depression. We know this in part because of repeated long takes of nothing, where we simply watch Yana live in silence. In these moments, we see Yana exhausted, defeated. Giving in to the abyss of sleep—almost as if she craves death.

When Yana visits her mother, she asks why they never talk about her father. Yet another man missing from the picture. Apparently, he used to call his daughter Sleeping Beauty. Remember that story? When a girl was cursed to die too soon, and then instead cursed to sleep, not living, but waiting around until a man kisses her, to live? The are layers of meaning here.

I Care a Lot

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What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? Well, who cares? These days, we can chomp on popcorn and watch superhero movies, comfortably knowing that the good guys will win. Forces and objects are gonna clash in flashy ways. Awesome. But the methods come second to the outcome. Second to the good guys winning.

Again and again, we go into superhero movies assuming this ending, and yet we still have an exciting, fun, even exhilarating time. How?

One reason is that these stories contain conflicts so difficult that we truly question whether the good guys will win. We start thinking about how we would win. About each character’s approach to winning. In other words, good writing makes us think about the process as much as the outcome. Makes us question what those unstoppable forces and immovable objects really are, and whether it would be OK to use them, or be them.

So it turns out we do care about the winner of that clash. I Care a Lot is a savage, delicious study on this. It moves our burning question out of superhero space and into the real world, and adds a twist: What happens when there are no good guys?

It’s subtle about it, and it’s not. Our lead, Marla, asks us the question as soon as the movie begins. As a legal guardian unashamed of taking advantage of her elderly wards, she has no qualms putting it all out there.

Watching Marla string a web to catch her prey, slowly tying up their living situation, their finances—their life—is a deeply disturbing and interesting watch. Costume design, editing, camerawork, and acting of the highest level highlight how high this makes Marla feel, and how confusing and terrifying it is for the people she traps. It is compelling watching on its own, but it is just the half of things.

At some point, it becomes clear Marla shouldn’t be messing with one of her wards. A powerful, dangerous person is connected with this ward, and will do whatever it takes to save the ward. Marla becomes our immovable object; the most determined, stubborn, capable being. The dangerous person is our unstoppable force; no single entity could possibly withstand its attack. So who wins?

We do. This movie is beautifully paced, shot, acted, directed, edited, sound-tracked, costumed, cast, set, color-schemed. Sure we’re watching bad guys, but clever writing makes it impossible not to empathize with them. It creates a tug of war in our hearts, as we constantly change who we want to win; who we think deserves what treatment; who we hate or admire.

This is not an easy thing to do to us. Many movies have tried, but many have glamorized the bad guy as much as demonized. (Looking at you, Scorsese, anche se ti rispetto tanto.) I Care a Lot does no such thing. With a heart-pounding, realistic story, it makes us grapple with what we are willing to do to get ahead, and reminds us how to think about others who use different methods—but share our very same goal.

It makes clear that taking advantage of others is, at no point along the line, glamorous. It is simply delusion. But it happens. This makes the movie ambitious and important, scary and real.

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s t a n d o u t s — **spoiler alert**

Some things will catch your eye here.

(1) c o l o r

The movie uses color in beautiful ways. Yes, color can be pretty on its own, but it can also be a tool that carries meaning.

One example of color as meaning here is Marla’s outfits.

When we meet her, she is in her prime. Capable, determined, and winning. Her outfits do business in striking primary colors. Solid reds and yellows.

As she is introduced to dilemmas, the colors become darker, less flashy. Maybe she is less sure of herself. Less OK with being loud. Or maybe, the darkness means she is more serious. Stepping up her game.

So what would black mean? Or white?

(2) a l l e g o r y

The movie preaches, but is only outwardly preachy for a few seconds over its two-hour runtime. Most of the time, it relies on allegory.

(a) n u t s h e l l

The opening scene blends the two. It is an introduction to, and summary of, the movie.

“Look at you. Sitting there. You think you’re good people. You’re not good people . . . there’s no such thing as good people . . . Playing fair is a joke invented by rich people to keep the rest of us poor.” How many movies begin by calling the viewer out as a bad person? A stooge? This is as preachy as it gets.

As Marla preaches to us over a grungy, minor-chord riff, we watch elderly people being fed pills. They swallow it; we swallow it. That lie we tell ourselves about doing the right thing, as we languish, as Marla and others get rich off of us.

Gulp.

(b) ’m u r i c a

Marla also lets us know that she was once like us, and that she didn’t enjoy it. She doesn’t dwell on this as the story continues, but we do see glimpses of her motivations and life-choices in movie imagery.

We come to realize that Marla actually appreciates this conception of the world, of predator and prey, because it empowers her. If there are only two choices, then she can choose to be a predator. A simple enough path to leave a life of fear, no? We also learn that Marla believes the United States is a blessing, because it provides fair ground to become a predator—if one works hard enough and plays by the rules.

As stretched a conception as that may be, play by the rules Marla does. She takes advantage of the elderly by the books. See below where she fights for what she thinks is right, appealing to justice, and the American flag? (This makes the conflict of the movie even more interesting, as she believes herself better than her antagonist, who doesn’t follow the American legal playbook, but who is trying to prevent a wrong.)

Much later, when Marla is in the depths, losing ground to the unstoppable force, she clings to this American promise. And it saves her. When her tooth is knocked loose, a gas station and its cheap milk rescue it. When Marla is cold, a hot dog machine provides a hearth to warm up on. Red ketchup and yellow mustard sit like a dog by her side; reminders of the comfort and stability the United States has to offer. As long as she and this country are alive, she can do anything. It is no surprise that Marla finds a new resolve after this scene.

I'm Your Woman

The way Jean’s treated is antiquated and sexist—and it just might save her life.

Y’see, her husband rolls with a bad crowd. Tucking Jean at home keeps the danger away . . . until hubby goes missing, that is.

So Jean is next. We don’t know why, and neither does she. But she better do something—and fast. This makes a good portion of the movie heart-poundingly scary.

You could even say that the story is built around adrenaline. But adrenaline wears off. And when it does, scenes of Jean sitting in silence, trapped in her own fear, become repetitive.

That may be a natural reaction—especially in a world where men continue to keep Jean in the dark. But together with performances that can be so understated as to feel emotionless, it does not make for fun watching. More empty lighter than slow burn, any sparks you get won’t last.

Tenet

Tenet spelled backward is Tenet. But Tenet spelled forward is Tenet . . . So which way is which? And what if the fate of the world depended on your answering correctly?

For our lead, this problem is too real. Not only does he need to find the bad guys, he needs to fight their new weapon. Think apple falling up the tree. Or bullet speeding into the gun.

Confused? You’re not the only one. But our lead has a knack for asking the right questions—and throwing the right punches.

This movie is complicated, sprawling, exhausting—but exciting and impressive. It’s a globe-trotting, mind-bending, action-packed dream, and our brains can’t keep up.

The Midnight Sky

So you’re terminally ill. Oh, and the last person on Earth. Finding it hard to focus?

Augustine sure is. But he still finds time to search for a future. You see, a few stranded astronauts can use his help.

Dystopian futures can be downers, but this one isn’t. Its weaved storylines are never boring—and never too heavy. It’s about relationships and connections, not how scary the end of existence might seem.

The story is engaging enough, but pro moviemaking adds depth. For one thing, each scene is pretty enough to watch on its own. Barren settings are made beautiful. Alternating focus draws our attention. Subtle differences in light, greys and blacks, change our mood in a split second.

In a cold, dark universe, there are pockets of light. This movie is one.

Soul

If you died tomorrow, would you be OK with it?

Without any words, that’s what Soul asks us. The short story is that Joe needs to pick between following his jazz-piano-passion and holding down a steady job. The long story is that he has other things to figure out, and it takes a journey through space and time for him to realize it.

Sound heavy? That’s because it is. But this remains a movie for the whole family, filled with approachable characters and silly scenarios. The music is mesmerizing, and the animation everchanging. You’ll be hooked in the first two minutes.

It’s something special when a movie can work on multiple levels; when your child can have fun learning a life lesson—and you can have fun re-learning it. So now that you know there’s something special in your life, what are you waiting for?

Mangrove

Before Frank knows it, his new restaurant is the hottest spot in town. That’s bad news.

Why? The police don’t see a place to relax. They see enemy headquarters, usurpers of English space and women. So begins an attack on London’s Caribbean community.

The story here is many. Many conversations, many frustrations, many injustices. It’s all maddening. And yet, the movie is beautiful.

Direction with a light touch lets the story speak for itself. And with near-perfect acting, it speaks loud and clear: There is no limit to what individuals are capable of when they work with each other.

The movie is powerful—and powerfully real—from beginning to end, but the trial sequences are some of the most memorable you’ll see in movies.

Godmothered

The Godmother industry is going out of business. People just don’t believe in happily-ever-after anymore.

That includes Mackenzie, which is bad news for Eleanor, Godmother-in-training and complete ditz.

Will Mackenzie ever rekindle the light in her life? Eleanor thinks so, and tries her best to make it happen. She’s completely out of place—and hilarious and charming. The same can be said for the whole movie. This fairy tale includes funny twists on oldies-but-goodies, but leaves behind outdated values.

The cast gels together, and every so often, camerawork adds to the theme of magic in our everyday. What we have here is a wholesome story just in time for the holiday season.

The Prom

Prom is cancelled! Thanks PTA. Now the cool kids won’t be able to flaunt it, and Emma won’t be able to finally enjoy a night in public with her girlfriend.

Outrage at this small-town injustice is trending. So Dee Dee and Barry, fresh off their Broadway flop, try to score publicity points by saving the day. Think sequin-bomb exploding in an Indiana Applebee’s.

What follows is relentlessly upbeat, filled with loud colors, broad smiles, and impromptu (but perfect) performances. It can be a bit much, especially with such a long movie, but it’s all there to create a mood of positivity in the face of pain. Snarky and self-referential jokes make it clear that the moviemakers knew exactly what they were doing here: just having fun with it.

Sound of Metal

Ruben and Lou are a metal band. They’re also a sweet couple. It looks like they’ve helped each other through tough times, and are the better for it.

Then, something happens to Ruben. Things trend towards unhealthy again, and it’s terrifying.

Watching Ruben try to plow through his new reality can be uncomfortable, but you won’t be able to look away. Can he possibly salvage things? Well, two things are for sure: the sound-work here is eye-opening, and the acting from Ruben—and Joe especially—is extraordinary.