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in the heights

I’ve been excited about the In the Heights movie since the production was announced…three years ago? I love musicals and I love Lin-Manuel Miranda, so I considered this a gift to me personally. When Jon M. Chu was announced as the director, I got even more giddy. The big, bold, over-the-top flair of Crazy Rich Asians seemed like a perfect fit for this joyful celebration of a musical. So my expectations were pretty high. And this beautiful film met every one of them. Watching this in the back of a theater with my sisters was one of the highlights of my year.

The music that greets us at every corner is catchy and moving and so clearly Lin-Manuel Miranda’s work. I’ve listened to the soundtrack more days than not since I saw the movie. Add in huge, glorious dance numbers and I’m all in. The scale of some of the musical numbers is outrageous, with dozens of dancers in pools and streets. Everything is colorful and moving and so overflowing with vibrant life, and I love it so much.

‘96,000’ is one of my favorite numbers–I can already tell it’ll be near the top of my most-played list in my Spotify year in review, since it’s almost impossible for me to listen to it just once. The overlapping parts that all come together are incredible, and the number in the film is one of the biggest and most joyful. Jon Chu’s direction shines here, as he manages to showcase all the different performers, throw in some lighthearted illustration, and never leave us behind. The number for ‘When the Sun Goes Down’ is equally fantastic, blending magic and reality as the singers dance on the side of a building. This blend of grounded love for a very specific place and over-the-top imagination seems unlikely to mesh, but it works stunningly to illustrate the big dreams of the characters we’re walking with.

Behind the song and dance is a compelling story, which weaves together the lives of different members of this community and gives us a glimpse into their corners of Washington Heights. Since he narrates the story, we see the most of Usnavi’s perspective as he tries to make a living, honor his heritage, and get back to his parents’ homeland. But we also see Nina’s struggles with the burden of her community’s high expectations, Vanessa’s dreams of success as a fashion designer, Benny’s fierce work ethic, Abuela’s love to the kids on her corner, Sonny’s challenges in navigating life as an undocumented immigrant, and so many more. These characters’ lives and experiences come together to form a mosaic, each piece helping us understand the community a little more. 

It’s clear that Lin wrote this out of a deep love for a community that shaped him–his affection for the characters and the physical place is evident in every moment. His love elevates things we might overlook: the corner bodega, the open fire hydrants, the fireworks, the family dinners that include everyone who walks through the door. He takes the time to honor the generations who have gone before and made their children’s dreams possible in the first place. And he reminds us to look around and appreciate the beauty and the value of our community.


It’s easy for me to romanticize city life, to imagine that it’s always like the Washington Heights depicted in the film. That everyone is part of a tight-knit community, sharing meals and dreams and daily life. That everyone dances when it’s hot or sets off fireworks when the power goes out. That spontaneous musical numbers break out in the street or the pool every day (Okay, I’m aware that doesn’t actually happen but I wish it did). But even as I know that my imagination paints an overly rosy picture of city life, I think this film captures something real and beautiful. The power of life in a community, of sharing both joy and sorrow with others. The value and the joy of building roots, of investing in a place and committing to the people there. And the way the anchor of a community like this can give you the strength you need to move out into the world if and when you must leave. My experience of this kind of community is through church, not a neighborhood, but I see a lot of parallels and I love the way this film reminds me to appreciate the people around me and to pour into them. To rejoice at being able to walk through life with others by my side. And maybe to dance in the streets just a little more.

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pride and prejudice

There’s a never-ending discussion in my family about which adaptation of Pride and Prejudice is the best. Most of my sisters prefer the BBC miniseries led by Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth, with its period-accurate costumes and closer adaptation of Jane Austen’s original novel. But as much as I appreciate that series, my heart has been captured forever by the beauty and joy of the 2005 film. When the soundtrack starts to wash over me as the film opens, I feel somehow like I’m coming home.

As we wander through the Bennets’ house at the beginning of the film, we meet five sisters and their slightly-overwhelmed parents and glimpse the chaos and the joy of their shared life. The Bennet sisters, both in their close bonds and their petty squabbles, remind me so much of me and my own sisters. I can’t help but smile as I watch them. And, though they are trying to navigate a very different society than my own, their struggles are so familiar. They’re looking for love and security, worried about their futures, their reputations, and ultimately their hearts. 

This rendition of the classic story allows the characters at its center to be open with their emotions, less tied to the reticence that would have been expected in their era. As a result, we get to see their confusion and their longing, their hope and their fear, more clearly than in other adaptations. We witness the awkwardness they experience as they try to navigate the etiquette of their complex society with varying levels of success. We cringe with Elizabeth at the self-absorption and naivete of her younger sisters, and we feel foolish with her when she realizes the ways she has judged others incorrectly. We see Darcy’s discomfort and uncertainty, which give those who don’t know him the impression of arrogance. We hope for the best with Jane, and mourn with her when her expectations are dashed. And, of course, we experience Mr. Collins’ complete obliviousness to all social expectations and the general cloud of discomfort that surrounds everyone who interacts with him. We get to enter into these characters’ lives, to experience their emotions along with them, and we care more deeply for them as a result.

Beyond the excellent performances of the cast, which beautifully capture Austen’s iconic characters, the craftsmanship of this film makes all the difference. The cinematography is breathtaking, full of life and color and gorgeous landscapes. The soundtrack matches it for beauty: the piano-led score is one of my favorite musical pieces on earth. And the costumes, while criticized by some of my sisters for being less than period-accurate, play a key role in helping us understand the characters better. To give just one example, we first meet Darcy dressed in stiff, formal, dark clothes. Later, when he meets Elizabeth at Pemberley, he’s wearing a brighter coat with the buttons undone–he’s opening up. And, of course, when he and Elizabeth meet on the moors, he’s lost all the formality, the layers of vests and waistcoats that represented the barrier he’d built, and he approaches her in vulnerable hope.

I could talk about the moments in this film I love for hours–the scene where Darcy and Elizabeth dance and the rest of the world falls away; the sheer panic when Elizabeth realizes that Mr. Collins is about to propose; the delight of watching Mr. Bingley rehearse his proposal with Darcy by the lake…and so many more. But more than anything, I love this story. It’s the story of two people whose lives intersect, and who make snap judgments about each other. Who choose the wrong paths and communicate poorly, so it seems impossible that they could ever find their way to each other. But who are wise and humble enough to reconsider their original perceptions and to realize that the other is worthy of love. It may be set two hundred years ago, but it’s a story that never gets old.

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memento

Many films have compelling narratives or interesting story structures, but it’s rare for the two to combine in perfect harmony. When I try to explain this concept, I often mention portions of Terrence Malick’s A Hidden Life, where the slow, deliberate pace matches the long imprisonment of the main character and allows the audience to endure the weary monotony with him. Christopher Nolan takes this to another level with Memento, masterfully intertwining its narrative with its structure from start to finish to create a haunting, compelling film.

Memento’s structure, with a primary storyline moving backward and revealing the motivation for each chunk of narrative after we’ve seen the result, is uniquely disorienting. As viewers, we haven’t experienced anything like this–it doesn’t hit the familiar beats we’re used to encountering and we’re never sure what is coming next. This uncertainty places us in the same state of mind as Leonard, our protagonist. With him, we’re disoriented and nervous, unsure who we can trust and what led to the situation we’re witnessing. As the movie continues, we start to piece things together in a way Leonard can’t, but every new scene forces us to reorient ourselves as we try to figure out what’s happening.

And every time we think we understand what’s going on, a new revelation pulls the rug out from under our feet. We think Natalie is helping Leonard, but realize that she suspects him of being involved with her boyfriend’s disappearance and is manipulating him. We think Teddy is untrustworthy, but we learn that he is one of the only people who knows what’s going on and has tried to help. We think Leonard is pursuing justice for his dead wife, but discover that the guilty party was already found–and that the story he tells of his wife’s death is not the full truth. Even the things Leonard is most certain of, that he tattoos on his body so he won’t forget them, turn out to be less than trustworthy. 

Leonard uses his system of tattoos, polaroids, and notes to function in a world that could quickly become overwhelming, but he also uses it to deceive himself. He builds a reality that gives him a purpose, destroying or twisting details to give himself mysteries to solve. He tells himself that he is doing all this for justice, that he’s on a noble quest to avenge his wife, and that, despite his amnesia, he’ll know in his heart when he’s finally accomplished his goal. But we find out that he and Teddy already found and punished the man responsible–and that Leonard chose to forget it. He burns the photo that recorded the moment of vengeance and erases that reality from his world. Then, when Teddy threatens his carefully constructed world with the truth, Leonard decides he’s an enemy and chooses to eliminate him.

All this exploration of meaning and memory occurs within a meticulously-scripted story, directed and performed to perfection. Though the film wrestles with big philosophical ideas, we never feel like we’re sitting in a lecture. We walk with Leonard through frustration and uncertainty, and we wonder what we would do in his situation, how we would make sense of the world. And those questions, more than anything, are what stick with us when the screen fades to black. Memento shocks and terrifies us–we could never be like Leonard, taking lives in order to feel like we have a purpose. But the film asks us to consider the ways in which we are deceiving ourselves to create a more comfortable world. What we’re choosing to forget because it’s convenient. And, ultimately, whether we can trust our past selves, our memories, or the truths that we build our lives around.

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nomadland

Chloé Zhao sees a different side of America than I do. She gives her attention and her affection to people I tend to overlook or ignore. In Nomadland, as in her equally stunning film, The Rider, she shares her unique vision with incredible beauty and compassion. This new story gives us a glimpse of lives we may never experience and people we’ll never meet, and we are better for the sight.

From the very beginning, Nomadland is full of both wonder and pain. The camera lingers on awe-inspiring vistas of the American west, showing us landscapes of stunning, formidable beauty. We wander past mountains and rivers, through badlands and forests as we follow Fern on her travels. In the midst of this awe, though, we never escape the pain of the people who inhabit the glorious landscapes. We meet a now-joyful woman who nearly committed suicide a few years before; a kind woman whose eyes light up as she remembers the wonders she saw in years past, but who is slowly dying of cancer; a community leader who can hardly speak of the pain of losing his son; and many others who carry their own invisible burdens. 

These nomads come together to build a community, and many of the film’s most joyful moments arrive as they experience the mundane tasks of life together. Tedious chores like cleaning bathrooms, doing laundry, chopping vegetables, or walking the floor of a giant Amazon warehouse are redeemed because they are shared. Their friendships are built on a common understanding: they all know they’re broken in some way, and they find the support they need as they lean on each other. And, through these friendships, we get to see some of their pain start to fade. One of my favorite moments of the film is when Bob and his formerly estranged son play a piano duet, improvising together to create something beautiful and mending some of the hurt of their past.

As we learn more about Fern, we see that she, too, is carrying her own pain even as she revels in the beauty of the world around her. At the beginning of the film, we see her sorting through belongings in a storage unit and finding a plate given to her by her dad, watch her experience a fresh wave of grief as she finds a jacket worn by her late husband. She carries those memories in physical form on her travels, some of her most precious possessions. She wanders the country, free to live and work wherever she chooses, but simultaneously trapped by the memories she’s holding onto. Fern’s attitude is encapsulated in the poem she used as her wedding vows, which she recites to a young vagrant on the side of the road. “Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?” concludes with lines that capture how she feels responsible for keeping those who have passed on alive in her memory:

“So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”

Through Frances McDormand’s glorious performance, though, we also get to see Fern begin to break those chains. She returns to the storage unit at the film’s end, and she’s finally ready to move on. She gives away all the things she’d been holding on to. She visits her husband’s now-defunct workplace and the home they shared, and she walks out the other side free. She’s found some comfort in hoping that she’ll see those she loves again “down the road”.

In many ways, Nomadland is trying to accomplish the same goal Fern is pursuing throughout much of the film: it’s remembering these often-forgotten people and giving them life in our collective imagination. The incredible cast, almost all of whom are real-life vagrants, not professional actors, bring the characters to the screen in all their complexity and heartbreak and joy. The film is filled with lovely cinematography, a perfect score, and excellent editing (also done by the multi-talented Zhao), but its true beauty comes through Fern and Linda May and Bob and Swankie and the other nomads who point us to the value of community and laughter and wonder. I love these people, and I’m so thankful that Zhao’s vision allowed me to meet them.

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a few good men

Long before Tom Cruise learned to scale skyscrapers and hang off the side of planes, he proved his skill as an actor in smaller, character-focused films like A Few Good Men. I’m always amazed by how many of my friends haven’t seen this film (and regularly make them sit down and watch it with me to remedy the situation). The costumes in this 90s classic occasionally look dated, but the ideas at its center are just as vibrant and important as they were when the film was released. 

From the very beginning of the film, we understand that Sorkin is presenting a conflict between idealism (Demi Moore’s passionate Lieutenant Commander Galloway) and pragmatism (Cruise’s swaggering Lieutenant Kaffee). When Kaffee is assigned to defend two young Marines accused of murder, Galloway worries that he’ll handle the case with the same cavalier disregard that he’s displayed throughout his brief career as a lawyer. He’s not interested in high-stakes arguments, seeking instead to add to his plea bargain total and win a set of steak knives. So the first battle of the film comes long before they enter a courtroom, as Galloway must try to convince Kaffee to give the defendants a fair chance.

As the film continues, we see Galloway’s persistence pay off, as her determination to pursue justice gradually transforms her colleague. We see Kaffee slowly start to believe that his defendants are worth fighting for, though his knowledge of the law means he is still pessimistic about their chances before a judge. We watch him and his team endure a roller coaster of hope and disappointment, and see him choose to stick with the case when every instinct tells him to walk away.

So, unsure of how they’ll win the case but determined that they’re doing the right thing, Kaffee and his colleagues prepare to make their defense–and to face Jack Nicholson’s intimidating Colonel Nathan Jessup. As Nicholson and Cruise battle, all the tension that has been building throughout the film comes to a head. Emotions rise as the young lawyer faces a veteran who can hardly believe he’s been forced to suffer the indignity of appearing in court. We see the moment when Kaffee lays everything on the line, where he decides to risk everything for his clients. And we watch him prod and probe and frustrate Jessup until he explodes, in one of the most iconic moments in cinema. I get chills when Jessup admits his culpability. No one, including him, expected this to happen and the whole courtroom is in shock.

Unfortunately, Jessup’s admission doesn’t immediately acquit the defendants. The court delivers their verdict, convicting the young Marines of conduct unbecoming to an officer and dishonorably discharging them from the Corps. After listening to Kaffee and Galloway defend their clients, we’re surprised by this decision. But the convicted officer recognizes it as a just condemnation, reminding his comrade that they “were supposed to fight for people who couldn’t fight for themselves.” They chose to follow the culture of unquestioning obedience that surrounded them, to listen to the orders of their superior officer even when they knew those instructions were wrong. If they were to truly exemplify the honor and duty they believe in, they should have chosen to stand up and do what was right, no matter what consequences they faced.

I love the smart, witty dialogue that overflows from Sorkin’s screenplay, but, even more, I love the ideals at its heart. The uncompromising commitment to justice, despite the consequences. The passionate advocate who pleads for the defendants even when they’ve fallen short of their own ideals. The way it asks us to think about who we obey, about who bears the responsibility for our actions. I’ve seen A Few Good Men more times than I can remember, and the questions it raises never get old.