Category: academy award nominees

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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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2021 films academy award nominees reviews

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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academy award nominees all time favorites reviews

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.

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2020 films academy award nominees reviews

another round

I’ve never seen a movie quite like Another Round. The premise of this Danish film is intriguing: a group of teachers hear a claim that humans’ natural blood alcohol level is .05% too low, so a slight state of inebriation would enable them to function better. The friends decide to conduct an experiment in order to determine the veracity of this claim, faithfully documenting their results to remind themselves that they’re doing this for the sake of science. We join them on this journey as they seek to reclaim the joy they’ve lost and find a new way to make meaning in their mundane days.

From almost the first moment he appears, the film’s excellent writing and directing clearly lets us know who Martin is. He and his wife hardly speak, his students essentially accuse him of being so boring that they can’t learn from him, and he refuses to join his friends for a drink at a birthday celebration. We get a glimpse of the man he used to be–a jazz ballet dancer who was passionate about learning and on the path to excel in his field–but see that he set aside those dreams for the sake of practicality. 

So the transformation of the first act is an exhilarating ride. Mads Mikkelsen portrays Martin with captivating, intense charisma as the quiet history teacher comes alive. He becomes an engaging leader who, with the boost of a slight buzz, masterfully helps his students see the connections between their own experiences and the events they are studying. He rebuilds his relationship with his wife and children, finding a joy their family had been missing for years. His friend, a music teacher, finds that being intoxicated enables him to point the youth chorale toward the sound they’ve been looking for. Their rehearsal is one of the most stunningly beautiful scenes of the film, as a group of awkward, uncertain teenagers unite to produce an ethereal harmony. Despite some minor missteps, it seems like these friends have unlocked the secret to a happy and fulfilling life.

Though Another Round is billed as a comedy, it straddles the line between humor and tragedy as things begin to fall apart for the friends at its center. They decide to push their experiment to the limit, imbibing more and more alcohol and going from buzzed to barely functioning, unable to fulfill their obligations at work and at home. Three of the group’s members come to a sharp awakening when they wake up bruised and dazed after a night of binge drinking. They’re able to pull back–to see how close they are to ruining their lives and to step away. Their friend Tommy, though, is no longer conducting a scientific experiment. He’s become an alcoholic and can’t escape his dependence, which ultimately leads to his death.

So the magic answer turns out to be a false hope, and these friends must return to a sober life a little sadder and a little wiser. Another Round lets us draw our own conclusions about their choices, never completely condemning the use of alcohol as a tool for overcoming anxiety or fear. But it shows us how quickly intoxication can go from invigorating to debilitating, how something that once helped you see the beauty in life can begin to blind you again. The film quietly encourages us to think about the crutches we rely on and to ask if they are enabling us to engage with life more fully or if they are standing in the way.

And what about Martin? Will he retreat back into his shell, especially as he has lost some of the relationships that were once keeping him afloat? The film’s magical conclusion gives us hope for him. The newly-graduated students from their school parade down the street, celebrating success on their exams, and Martin has a choice. He can look on and smile, passively watching their joy as he would have at the beginning of the film, or he can join them. And he chooses to dance.

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academy award nominees all time favorites reviews

the social network

Every time I look at my shelf of DVDs, intending to watch an untouched Criterion Collection film I bought aspirationally, I have to stop myself from picking up The Social Network instead. If someone forces me to name a favorite movie, this is always one of the contenders in my mind. I’m still irrationally bitter that it lost the Best Picture award to The King’s Speech in 2011. I brought a copy all the way to South Africa so my sister could watch it with me. I love this film.

An essential part of The Social Network’s appeal for me is Aaron Sorkin’s writing. No matter how technical the subject matter, he crafts dialogue that is almost musical in its rhythm. The film’s opening conversation perfectly captures this flow, as Erica tries to carry on a normal discussion while being constantly interrupted by Mark’s three-thoughts-ahead statements. Sorkin matches quick, witty conversation with an idealistic view of the world–his stories are grounded by a clear sense of morality, with protagonists who are trying to do the right thing despite the obstacles they face. His writing makes me believe in a better world, in politicians and lawyers who choose truth and justice rather than personal gain.

David Fincher has quite a different view of the world, a much darker and bleaker perspective. He is often drawn to violence and chaos, filling the movies he directs with characters who are delusional or framing their husband or serial killers. The darkness here is much subtler than in films like Zodiac or Gone Girl, but it still lurks around every corner. Through his eyes, The Social Network is not simply a story about a man building a website or about legal battles in boardrooms. It’s a look at how power warps perspectives, how the pursuit of even a worthy goal can become all-consuming, and how genius comes at a cost.

As collaborators, then, Sorkin and Fincher come together to paint a nuanced, complex picture that manages to walk the thin line between propaganda and condemnation. The film lets us draw our own conclusions about Mark Zuckerberg and his company, but informs us with a series of revealing parallels. As it begins, the view cuts from students partying at exclusive clubs to Mark sitting alone, coding in his dorm room. We immediately understand that he wants to be admitted to those social circles and that his actions throughout the film will be driven, at least in part, by his desire to prove himself to these people. Later, we watch Mark and the Winklevoss twins taking two different paths as they each explore the creation of a new website. Mark sees himself as above the rules, and he is happy to offend people and ignore social norms in service of his ideas, unconcerned about the collateral damage. The Winklevoss brothers, in contrast, assume that the system around them will work in their favor as long as they behave like gentlemen–and find themselves coming up second both in business and in sport. The whole film is bookended by two differing declarations about who Mark is, leaving the viewer to determine which perspective is the most accurate.

And, at its heart, the film shows us Mark’s values through the lens of his contrasting friendships. Eduardo invests both time and money to support Mark’s project, even before he knows whether it will be successful. He sees the two of them as a team, working together to create something revolutionary. Mark, though, views Eduardo’s successes apart from Facebook as competition and disloyalty, building up a list of grievances he ultimately uses to cut his friend out of their shared venture. In exchange, he foolishly shifts his allegiance to Sean Parker, whose flashy success and irreverent attitude align with Mark’s view of himself. Despite his paranoia, his drug habit, and his self-destructive tendencies, Mark chooses Sean. Even worse, Mark acts as if he doesn’t care that this choice hurts his friend. In his mind, the success of Facebook is worth any sacrifice, so he leaves Eduardo behind and moves on.

It’s hard to remember that Facebook had only been a public site for four years when this film was being made. The Social Network is eerily prescient in many ways, capturing Mark Zuckerberg’s close control of his invention, the legal proceedings he would be embroiled in, and the way the site would so quickly become ubiquitous around the globe. Most significantly, though, I think it foreshadows the way Facebook would redefine friendship–how easily it would tempt us to substitute a series of shallow connections for true relationships. And it reminds us to look up and ask ourselves if a website can fill our emptiness. Can it make us feel like we belong? As the film closes on Mark refreshing the screen over and over, hoping that Erica will accept his friend request, it seems that the answer is no.