Month: February 2020

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all time favorites cheesy but i love them reviews romantic comedies

(500) days of summer

On the surface, (500) Days of Summer looks like half of the films in my Netflix queue. Full of glowy lighting, quirky characters, and songs by Regina Spektor, and more interested in mood than plot, many of these films are stylish but quickly forgotten. However, while (500) Days of Summer might look like a dozen other indie rom-coms, it uses the tropes of its genre to tell a smart, humorous, and heartwarming story that we’re still talking about ten years later.

The narrator opens the film by telling us, “This is a story about boy meets girl. But you should know up front, this is not a love story.” We nod and smile, and immediately forget his warning. Five minutes later, Tom announces, “I’m in love with Summer,” and we are certain that they’ll end up together despite any hardships the film throws at them. We’ve seen a ring on Summer’s finger, so we ignore every warning sign that comes next. And as a result, we begin the film in the same frame of mind as Tom: expecting true love to prevail and certain that he’ll find it with Summer.

As the film continues, we realize that this story is told entirely from Tom’s perspective, shaped completely by his feelings and perceptions. We are, essentially, another member in the group of friends listening to Tom’s stories and trying to diagnose what went wrong with his “perfect” relationship. Even when we’re not hearing directly from Tom, the film makes it clear that we’re in his head the whole time. The world reflects his moods, with a warm glow lighting the exuberant first days of his relationship and the city around him fading to gray and disappearing when he starts to lose hope. In perhaps the clearest example of Tom’s feelings reshaping reality (and one of my all-time favorite movie moments), Tom is so happy that he steps out his door and into a musical number. He proclaims along with Hall & Oates, dozens of strangers, and even an animated bird that Summer “makes his dreams come true”. Even as the moment reminds us that Tom’s perceptions of Summer are more fantasy than reality, the sheer joy of this scene is so infectious that I can’t help grinning along with him.

Of course, Tom’s inability to see past his own perceptions dooms his relationship with Summer. Trapped in his fantasies, he’s unable to hear what Summer is trying to communicate or to see past the “manic pixie dream girl” persona he’s constructed for her. So her rejection is a heartbreaking surprise, leaving Tom hurt, angry, and confused. He starts to wonder if his belief in love has been misguided, if people can truly find happiness together. More cynical films might leave Tom here, alone, certain that love itself is a fantasy. The most he could hope for, in such a film, would be to find moments of fleeting happiness with someone else, knowing that the relationship was doomed and would end in hurt sooner or later. 

But the magic of (500) Days of Summer is that disappointment does not ultimately leave its characters disillusioned. Summer never believed in love, but she finds unexpected happiness after a chance encounter in a diner. And, though it may be cheesy, the film’s ending gives us hope for Tom as well. He was a hopeless romantic when we met him, and I think the film is ultimately on his side, even though he initially pursues the wrong object for his affections. He grows as a result of his relationship with Summer and meets Autumn as a better version of himself, more honest about his desires and ready to pursue his dreams even through rejection. 

The narrator told us in the beginning that this isn’t a love story, and it certainly doesn’t fit our expectations of a typical romantic comedy. However, this film believes in love and encourages us not to give up hope. It reminds us that relationships are hard work, that we make mistakes and struggle to communicate, but that love is real and beautiful and joyful and messy and worth it.

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all time favorites reviews

creed

I’m skeptical of the seventh film in any series. Whether it’s Pirates of the Caribbean or Star Wars, I expect large franchises to run out of ideas and slowly decline in quality as they churn out sequel after sequel. Add to that the fact that I have little familiarity and zero emotion tied to the original Rocky series (there’s a chance I’ve been mixing it up with Raging Bull for years), and you’ll understand why I had low expectations for Creed. Unfamiliar with Ryan Coogler’s work, I assumed that it would be a by-the-numbers boxing movie that relied heavily on nostalgia and brought nothing new to the series. Instead, Coogler builds on Rocky‘s legacy while telling a powerful new story, pointing our attention to the struggle of a young man in another Philadelphia neighborhood.

From the first minutes of the film, Coogler roots Creed’s story in his search for an identity and a family. Growing up in the foster care system without a father, he’s alone and anchorless. Even when he’s given a stable home, he can’t rest in that security. Motivated by a relentless need to build his own legacy, he decides that his boxing skills are the way he’ll make his mark and abandons everything else to pursue that goal. He destroys his connections with trainers who don’t see his potential and moves to a new city to start with a clean slate.

Fully committed to his pursuit, Creed wants the best trainer around and enlists the help of an icon. Rocky left boxing behind years ago and has no interest in returning, but Creed slowly tugs him back into his old world. Michael B. Jordan carries this film, pairing an immense physicality with moments of stunning vulnerability, but his partnership with Sylvester Stallone gives the story its heart. Stallone returns to the Rocky identity with ease, as if this is who he’s truly been all these years, simply waiting for someone like Coogler to lift the mask. And as Creed and Rocky learn to work together, to push together toward the same goal, and to trust each other, it feels like Creed may have begun to find the family he’s been searching for.

As soon as Creed begins to trust this new relationship, though, the foundation he’s started to build crumbles beneath his feet. Rocky’s cancer diagnosis, and his refusal to fight for life, feel like a new abandonment. And when Rocky responds to pleas for him to get help with “We’re not a real family,” Creed’s world falls apart. Suddenly he’s back where we met him, throwing punches recklessly and finding himself alone, behind bars. 

But, for the first time, Creed decides not to let the people he loves fade out of his life. Rocky is ready to give up, but Creed ties their success together, telling him, “If I fight, you fight.” Watching Creed grow stronger and faster in the film’s early training montage was exhilarating, but it’s better to watch him now as he races up hospital stairs and shadowboxes around the nurse in Rocky’s room. This fight means more, and we watch the two of them learn to lean on each other to find the strength they need.

After facing cancer together, Creed and Rocky seem like an unstoppable team as they head for the climactic fight. We’re rooting for Creed to win the match, of course, but Coogler helps us realize that there are more important victories to be had. In one of my favorite moments of the film, we see Creed embrace the new family he’s found. Rocky tells Creed that he loves him, and, for the first time, that iconic theme plays. It gives me chills and, even when I’m sitting in a Starbucks and watching the movie on my phone, never fails to bring tears to my eyes.

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academy award nominees reviews

1917

War movies are rarely at the top of my “to-watch” list. I loved Dunkirk, but I struggle to think of another film about war that I’d include in a list of my favorites. Yes, these films capture real experiences that have changed thousands of lives, but I don’t love immersing myself in the horror of war and calling it entertainment. As a result, I almost skipped 1917–but I’m glad I didn’t.

Discussions about 1917 have centered on the “one-shot” cinematography, with some hailing it as the greatest technical achievement of the year and others deriding it as a gimmick that attempts to mask the film’s other weaknesses. I fall squarely in the former camp. Many modern action films are dominated by quick cuts and dozens of sliced-together angles, so it’s refreshing to be able to follow the characters so clearly and to be so fully immersed in each scene that it feels like we’re living it. Roger Deakins always produces glorious images, even when the story he’s capturing is subpar, but his work here is stellar. The stunning images of Schofield running through the burning village of Écoust, lit only by the flames and the flare of falling bombs, feel like they were crafted by a magician. I don’t fully understand how the production team was able to create these incredible long takes–and I refuse to watch any behind-the-scenes documentaries that will reveal the mechanism behind the magic. 

Setting aside the technical achievement and the immense work that must have gone into choreographing each shot, the one-take style beautifully supports the story Sam Mendes is telling. It allows us to experience the world of the film from the main characters’ perspective: we only get to see what they see, as if we were reading a book written from a first-person point of view. With them, we wonder what lies over the next hill, if the brother we’re searching for is still alive, if the enemy has already won and we just haven’t heard. It’s a uniquely isolating and often overwhelming view of war, never relieved by another storyline or even another angle of the events taking place. We can’t escape the horrors right in front of us, no matter how much we may wish to.

As it shows us the misery of World War I, 1917 is more interested in the experience and emotions of its characters than in the military tactics of the opposing sides. It captures the hopelessness of soldiers unsure if their actions will make any difference in the larger war, the numb despair that sets in after watching countless comrades die before their eyes, the inability to escape from the destruction that has ravaged every inch of the countryside. And, most importantly, it helps us see the courage and perseverance of the young soldiers at the center of the film. Under great pressure, facing a seemingly insurmountable task, confronted with the fallibility of their leaders, and growing in their understanding of the enemy’s ability, they refuse to turn back. When Blake dies, it would have been easy for Schofield to abandon the mission he’d never wanted to undertake, that had nearly killed him already. But instead he plunges on, accepting help when he can and bravely walking forward alone when he must. Though his mission is often solitary, Schofield is always propelled forward by his commitments to others–to Blake’s brother and to the family at home for whom he must survive. He looks outward, rather than focusing on his own suffering, and finds the strength to keep pressing forward.

Exhausted, wounded, wet, hungry, and nearly at the end of his strength, Schofield finally stumbles into what seems like heaven. He hears an old folk song echoing through the trees, well-worn lyrics that could have been written to describe his own experience: “I’m just a poor, wayfaring stranger traveling through this world of woe.” For the first time, though, the song helps us see beyond the misery of Schofield’s journey to the goal that drives him: “There is no sickness, toil, nor danger in that bright land to which I go. I’m going there to see my father, and all my loved ones who’ve gone on. I’m only going over Jordan, I’m only going over home.” In the midst of danger, pain, and loss, these words give us a glimpse of the beauty and rest that await. And finally, after accomplishing his mission and finding Blake’s brother to give him what comfort he can from his own broken heart, Schofield gets to experience that rest for a moment. In a moment that poignantly echoes the opening shot of the film, he leans back against a broad tree trunk to look at the photo of his family that he’s carried safely through danger. He’s not home yet, but he has accomplished his mission and come one step closer to seeing them again.

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reviews

avengers: endgame

I have lurked on the outskirts of the Marvel Cinematic Universe almost since its beginning. Though I’ve gone to see nearly every one of the twenty-two films in theaters, unwilling to miss out on the larger pop culture conversation, more often than not I’ve proclaimed my disdain for the franchise to anyone who would listen. I remember using a free ticket voucher to see The Avengers back in 2012, and saying that I wanted my money back. I’ve criticized the emphasis on effects over character development, the focus on quippy dialogue over interesting (or believable) plots. The powers of the various superheroes are often poorly defined, especially as their numbers grew in the last few years.

I got excited about Marvel films when they enlisted directors I loved and let them build a unique picture within the larger framework of the universe. James Gunn’s Guardians of the Galaxy reminded us that heroes might not look like we’d expected; they might, in fact, be a tree and a talking raccoon. Taika Waititi’s Thor: Ragnarok brought color and character to a world that had often been grey. And Ryan Coogler’s Black Panther displayed a culture, an identity, that had been missing, and let us glimpse the beautiful, nuanced world that was possible. 

Even after these successes, films I’d be happy to watch again and again, I was still sceptical about the franchise as a whole. I wished the moviegoing public would get as excited about the indie films I loved as they did about these superhero stories. After the commercial success of Avengers: Infinity War, I began to grudgingly admire the world built over the last twenty years, the countless hours and dollars and imaginations that had managed to put together a cohesive story in so many pieces. But I still didn’t think it was good.

I was wrong. 

While I stand behind many of my criticisms of the MCU, I left Avengers: Endgame today feeling thankful for the franchise and the story its creators chose to tell. Because Endgame is a story about how good triumphs over evil, and about the price that must be paid for that ultimate victory. Even in this fictional world filled with superheroes who can literally turn back a nuclear bomb, success in the battle against evil is not cheap or easy. The defeat of evil demands a real and painful sacrifice.

When Natasha and Tony give their lives–knowing their choices may not be undone–they willingly give up personal happiness to secure a future for the ones they love. When Steve stands alone before an overwhelmingly, impossibly large army, with his shield broken and his body bruised, he chooses to face certain death rather than admit defeat. When Bruce chooses to bear the burden of the gauntlet, when Dr. Strange carries the weight of the future, when Sam picks up the shield to defend the next generation, each of them and many others put aside any dreams and desires to protect others.

This film will almost certainly become the highest-grossing movie of all time. Millions of people will see it, in dozens of countries around the world. And they might not recognize it, but they’ll get a glimpse of the truth. They’ll see that there is hope. That evil may seem insurmountable and overwhelming, but what we see in front of us right now is not the whole picture. That a sacrifice is required for salvation. And that, because of the sacrifice, evil can be defeated.

So I am awed by the technical achievements of Endgame and by the many story threads that the writers brought together. But more than that, I am surprised and grateful that this is the story we’ll be talking about for the next year, and for the truth it displays. I’m thankful for the reminder that the battle against evil is not eternal, that victory has already been won. 

At least until the next film.

*written April 2019

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academy award nominees reviews

little women

Growing up, I probably read Little Women more than any other book; every time I didn’t know what to read, I picked it up again. As the oldest of nine girls, it was easy for me to relate to the March sisters and the challenges they faced. I saw pieces of myself in Jo, especially as I got older and realized that I could express myself best through writing. My sisters and I quote the 1994 film constantly, and it inspired two of them to include “For the Beauty of the Earth” in their weddings. So, though I was thrilled to see a new adaptation of this precious story, I was also worried that it wouldn’t do justice to the characters I love.

But oh, what a treasure Greta Gerwig has given us! It is so evident that she cares about these characters as much as I do and that she sought to honor the book in every creative decision she made. She and the incredible cast bring the March family to life in a new way, tying the sisters’ childhood to their adult life as no one else has, without ever straying from the soul of Alcott’s book. Just as I hoped, we get the chance to watch these four sisters laugh and stumble and grow as they learn to love each other and the people around them. 

Gerwig understands that the March sisters are the heart of this story, always pointing us back to them. The film is told from Jo’s perspective, but Gerwig refuses to depict any of the sisters as one-dimensional caricatures. Instead, she helps us understand the thoughts and desires that make each of them unique, and we love each sister more as we get to know her better.

Meg gets the least screen time and could easily have been overlooked, but instead we get to see her skill as an actress, her struggle for contentment, and how she sacrifices some dreams in order to pursue what’s most important to her. When Jo doesn’t understand her choice to give up the possibility of fame as an actress in order to marry a poor tutor, Meg gets the chance to explain. She tells Jo, “Just because my dreams are different doesn’t mean they’re less important.” Through Meg, Gerwig helps us see that others may not see the value in our dreams, but that they can still be vitally, deeply important.

Beth has often been defined by her shyness in previous adaptations, loved by her family despite this all-encompassing flaw. Here, though, we get to see the wit and charm that are so endearing to the privileged few who have earned her trust. As invisible members of Beth’s inner circle, we get to smile as she feeds her dolls, talks to horses, and proclaims that purple is the best color for eyes. These quirks make Beth a real person, not merely a suffering angel, and they make us love her more–and make her death a far more painful tragedy.

Amy is beautifully transformed. We see the childhood vanity and impulsiveness that have dominated previous portrayals, but we also witness her confidence, the way she chases her dreams of being an artist, and how she’s hurt by her exclusion from her older sisters’ plans. We understand the weight placed on her shoulders by Aunt March’s declaration that the March family’s future depends on Amy’s advantageous marriage. This scene casts Amy’s later choices in a new light: her mercenary, calculated pursuit of Fred Vaughan suddenly becomes the only way she sees to support her family. And when she finally finds happiness with Laurie, Gerwig shows us how Amy is so desperately worried that choosing love would tear her family apart. When I’m tempted to grumble with Jo that Amy always avoids the hard parts of life, Gerwig reminds me that though Amy’s hardships might look different, they are just as real as others’.

And, of course, we get to see Jo through new eyes. Saoirse Ronan’s exquisite embodiment of Jo captures the tomboy who jumps over fences and scorches her skirts, but it doesn’t stop there. We watch her struggle with the burdens of poverty, wanting to support her family and especially to care for Beth when she’s sick–and see her crumble when the work she’s poured her life into can’t save her sister. We see her grow from a girl who easily gives in to anger to become a woman who has learned to control her temper, and watch her bond with her mother grow as they fight their battles together. We feel her loneliness, her struggle to balance the desire to be loved with the pursuit of artistic success. And, in one of the most moving scenes of the film, we see how she is utterly shattered when Laurie chooses Amy. We suffer with her in that moment, and watch in awe as she chooses to set aside her fantasy of a future with Laurie to support and accept their love even when it feels like it’s costing her everything. And we finally (finally!) get to rejoice with her when doors open to a future better than she could have imagined. More than ever before, we get to see Jo as a full person, shaped but not defined by her choices as a girl and by the memories she carries with her. It’s devastating and beautiful, and I’m so grateful.

I could go on about the exquisite moments that make up this film–about the beautiful cinematography and the lovely costumes and Timothee Chalamet’s stunning, emotional portrayal of Laurie–but they’re never the point of Little Women. At its heart, this film is always about the March sisters’ love for each other, and how that love expands to encompass the people around them. Their overflowing love even has room for us, letting us become a part of their family, if only for two hours. We share so many beautiful moments of exuberant joy with the Marches: Laurie and Jo dancing on the night they meet, all the sisters and their friends running together in the sunshine on the beach, the overflowing laughter when they induct Laurie into their club. And even as those gleeful moments are tempered by maturity, and as Beth’s death sobers the family, we still get to see joy. It’s just a new kind–a family together, listening to beautiful music, doing Jo’s hair and helping her go after the man she loves, coming together to teach and laugh and celebrate and go on loving. What a beautiful world we get to witness and to share. It’s captured my heart, and I can’t wait to rejoin these characters again and again.