2021 films – Joy On Screen

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.

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.