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lady bird

On the surface, I have almost nothing in common with Christine ‘Lady Bird’ McPherson. Our home towns, our parents’ vocations, our interests–few of our experiences overlap. But despite our differences, I immediately connect with the struggles and feelings Lady Bird encounters. Greta Gerwig chooses to limit her field of vision in this poignant film, allowing us to discover the intimate details of one situation and to know Christine deeply. By narrowing her focus in this way, Gerwig is able to tap into universal experiences that cross boundaries of place or social class, to explore the longings and dreams that characterize human experience wherever we are.

This shouldn’t be surprising, but I’m realizing as I write that many of my favorite films see the world the way I do: through the lens of emotion. I’m delighted when others manage to capture this on screen, and especially when they can inspire emotion in the audience as well as the characters. Greta Gerwig does this magnificently. It may help that she’s telling the story of a high school senior, a young woman going through big transitions at an always-emotional time of life. But her film does not limit itself to depicting teenage angst. The opening car ride, as Christine and her mom conclude a college visit, captures a wide range of feelings in just a few minutes: melancholy tears provoked by the end of The Grapes of Wrath, frustration from both mother and daughter as they struggle to communicate, and an instant flash of anger that leads Christine to roll out of their moving car. And emotion follows us throughout the rest of the film, always simmering just under the surface, ready to be released at the slightest trigger.

While it overflows with feeling, the events of Lady Bird may seem insignificant; I showed the movie to one of my sisters, who didn’t like it because “nothing happened.” However, Gerwig seems to hold the same philosophy as the nun who asks Christine, “Don’t you think maybe they are the same thing? Love and attention?” As she does in Little Women, Gerwig pays attention to the intimate moments that make up her characters’ lives–and in doing so, demonstrates her love for each of them. She notices the boys’ names Christine writes on her bedroom wall, the gifts her mom brings to coworkers, and the way an affirmation makes Julie light up. Her characters are complicated and messy, and through her eyes we learn to see how the “insignificant” moments of their lives add up to define each person. By paying attention to the small details others might overlook, Gerwig elevates their importance and makes them meaningful.

When we first meet her, Lady Bird has not developed this skill: she doesn’t know many people well, unable to see past the facade they present to the world. She doesn’t see her parents’ struggles, fails to recognize Julie’s loneliness, and falls in love with the fantasies she’s constructed about two different boys–only to be disappointed when their reality doesn’t match her expectations. Christine doesn’t even really know herself; she knows what kind of person she wants to be, but not where her strengths and interests might actually flourish. She tries on identities, successively defining herself as a theater kid or a rebel or a girlfriend as she searches for the place where she fits. Through this process, though, she slowly learns about herself and begins to celebrate her family and her hometown as important parts of her identity. She reclaims the name her parents gave her, choosing to introduce herself to a new acquaintance as Christine instead of as Lady Bird.

Christine’s growth is captured in miniature on a Sunday morning early in her freshman year, as she encounters again the religion she left behind. In her Catholic high school, the rituals of the church were something to be tolerated or laughed at. Lady Bird snacked on communion wafers with Julie, made fun of a nun by decorating her car as if she were just married to Jesus, and promptly ignored the instruction to leave “six inches for the Holy Spirit” between her and a dance partner. In her first weeks at college, though, Christine’s perspective starts to change. Walking home hungover, the Sunday morning church bells are suddenly appealing. She climbs the stairs to the balcony of a beautiful church building, finding her way upwards in a physical reflection of the journey of transformation she is undergoing. As she emerges into the sanctuary, her eyes are opened. Rather than a scripture reading grudgingly performed by a sullen high-schooler, she is surrounded by stunning choral music. She glimpses the profound beauty of the rituals on display, able to sense the meaning in the traditions. On this morning, at least, the church becomes a refuge, a haven in the midst of uncertainty. And as Christine continues to explore her identity, she is anchored by the familiar things, like religion, that she once held in contempt. With that foundation established, she finds her footing.

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la la land

Since the infamous moment when it was wrongly announced as the Best Picture winner, La La Land has largely faded from discussion–except as an overused punch line at award shows. I haven’t been able to shake off the spell of this beautiful movie, though, especially when I recall the first time I got to see it. It was the last showing at a film festival, several months before the film would reach theaters, and I anxiously stood in line and hoped that tickets would still be available. When we finally reached the ticket counter, a couple beside me graciously bought me a pass so I could rush in to claim a seat–a small moment of shared anticipation and generosity I still treasure. In a hotel ballroom masquerading as a makeshift theater, the screen lit up and the surroundings fell away. Even before the first musical number ended, I was sure that I was witnessing magic. I walked out of the screening with tears in my eyes and spent the next months counting down the days till the film’s official release, when I could see it again. I told everyone who would listen that they should see the movie, that it was special. And that December, I sat in a dark theater and fell in love all over again with Damien Chazelle’s glorious film.

Refusing to hide behind ironic appreciation, La La Land immediately draws us in with genuine, earnest excitement about the art some might consider irrelevant. On a concrete Los Angeles overpass, we are quickly inducted into a world full of passionate creators, people who are willing to sit for hours in crazy traffic for one chance to chase their dreams. When shared enthusiasm spills out the doors of a hundred cars, the resulting dance number overflows with joy–and if the movie ended there, it would leave us smiling. Instead, we get to meet Mia and Sebastian. We root for their success almost instantly because, as Mia says, “People love what other people are passionate about,” and each of our heroes has a deep love for the art they’re trying to create. Mia has been telling stories in different ways since she was little, and clearly adores the way words can bring a world to life. Sebastian is stuck playing piano in the background at restaurants and parties, but he’s obsessed with the beauty and legacy of jazz music. And at its core, La La Land is the story of Mia and Sebastian trying to follow their passions and find their own places in history. They stumble past dozens of dead ends on their way to success, but every wrong turn brings them a little closer to their dreams.

And, over time, Mia and Sebastian start to believe in each other and to merge their individual dreams into one bigger vision. They support each other’s pursuits, encouraging their partner to take big, bold leaps instead of hiding behind the fear of failure. So many moments from the beginning of their relationship make me smile: their witty banter at a pool-side party, their first dance in the Hollywood hills, the panicked honk when they start a summer together by driving the wrong direction down a one-way street. Later, they sing “City of Stars” together and something makes them laugh, and the joy in their voices is so real and infectious that it always reaches past the screen to pull me in. It’s such a simple, small moment, but it encapsulates the joy they find together, the ease of their relationship, the way they delight in making music together. They’re happy, and so are we. 

For me, much of this film’s magic lies in this ability to provoke emotion in the audience, to include us in the joys and confusions and laughter and sorrows that the characters on screen experience. With quick pans and spinning cameras and riotous colors at every turn, Chazelle’s cinematography overwhelms our senses. Everything is larger than life: more vibrant, more beautiful, more Hollywood than seems possible. The heightened reality reminds us that this isn’t meant to be a naturalistic depiction of Los Angeles life, so we’re not surprised when characters break out into song or float into space. As it blends the fantastic with the mundane events it depicts, La La Land uses its form to capture emotion perfectly. It lets us experience the magical beginning of a relationship, where pure happiness makes you feel as if you’re dancing among the stars. The music, the color, and the stunning images all combine to create this enthralling emotion that captures us and refuses to let go.

Being under the film’s spell, though, means that we also experience the sadness it presents. I’ll never forget my feelings during the first viewing, when the film cuts to “Five Years Later.” I was so desperately sure that Mia and Sebastian would ride off into the sunset together, and I started weeping during the final “what if?” montage, crying so hard that I could barely see the screen. I clung to that montage, sure it was the real ending and everything else was a dream. But I know I was wrong. The ending isn’t a perfect Hollywood fairy tale, but it’s something more powerful. Though it’s bittersweet and even painful, their final glance reminds us that what Mia and Sebastian had was real and beautiful even though it was temporary. That they loved each other. That they helped each other achieve more than they ever could alone. And that they’ll be a part of each other’s stories forever.

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the tree of life

Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life is almost certainly the film that sparked my love of cinema. A friend and I drove an hour to see it in theaters, and (in part because we missed the first ten minutes) didn’t understand it at all. We spent the whole ride home discussing the film, and I’ve continued to ponder it in the years since. A poster from the film adorns the wall of my office cubicle, and I know I’ve met a kindred spirit when someone else mentions the movie.

Though I’ve thought about the film so often, it’s still hard for me to categorize–or even describe–The Tree of Life. Malick’s creation is so unique that it makes more sense to compare his film to the Bible than to another work of cinema, to understand it as a modern psalm or even a retelling of the book of Job. He encourages this connection in the opening frames of the film, which begins with a quotation from Job 38: “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth…when the morning stars sang together?” Like the book of Job, The Tree of Life offers more questions than solutions as its author struggles to understand the purpose of the pain that enters our lives. We explore this tension by walking with Jack, a still-grieving older brother, as he reflects on his childhood and tries to make sense of the world that has made him. With him, we search for answers.

Malick’s offers a first answer to Jack’s pain by pointing us to the beauty of the natural world. Emmanuel Lubezki’s cinematography is achingly stunning, whether he’s capturing the wide expanse of the sky or the drops of water spraying from a hose in the backyard. We get to gaze at the majesty of space and the order of a cell, awestruck by the splendor invading every level of creation. When these stunning images are paired with incredible music, especially in the long creation montage, the power of the beauty on screen is undeniable. As God does in the last chapters of Job, Malick points our attention past the immediate tragedy and the feelings that we might be experiencing. He reframes our pain by showing us the wonder and beauty that surround it. And while this may not answer all our questions, we fall silent before the immense, incredible glory of the world we’ve been given.

Yet we–and Jack–still have questions about how we are to live, questions which arose long before his brother’s death. Reminiscing about childhood summers, Jack returns to a tension between two approaches that defined his family. Strict and stern, holding his children to high standards, and working hard to achieve professional success, his father exemplifies what Malick calls the way of nature. In contrast, Jack’s mother typifies the way of grace: always ready to laugh and play and hug, overflowing with love, protecting her children (even from their father), and helping them to revel in the beauty around them. Both parents are trying to raise their children well, to prepare them for the world waiting for them beyond their Texas home, but their methods set two different examples. And as he grows, Jack must choose which path he will follow, trying to understand which path his creator will be most pleased by. 

As we witness his adult life, it seems like he’s fallen into the same habits as the father he once declared he hated, driven to pursue success through his career. We caught a glimpse of his father working in a factory, confidently commanding the obedience of his subordinates, and now see Jack in the same world. He’s surrounded by the creations of other men, spending his days in skyscrapers of metal and glass and rarely glimpsing the creation that his mother tried to point him to as a child. Indeed, the sight of a tree in the courtyard outside his office is almost shocking in its raw abundance of life, intruding into the industrialized austerity. This hint of nature seems to catch Jack off guard, to prompt his reflection and even cause him to realize (maybe for the first time) how far down his father’s path he’s unwittingly traveled. 

Jack is grown and married, but he is still coming of age in a spiritual sense and has the chance to choose his path again. We don’t get to see the outcome, whether he charges forward on his father’s way of nature or turns aside to his mother’s way of grace, but Malick gives us a hint. Early in the film, we saw Jack’s birth as the struggle of a boy making his way out of an underwater bedroom and towards the light at the surface, a metaphorical journey out of the womb. Now we glimpse the same scene, just for a moment. The repetition hints at a new birth, reminiscent of Jesus’ words to Nicodemus in John 6: “Unless one is born of water and the Spirit, he cannot enter the kingdom of God.”

So where does this rebirth take Jack? Malick leaves us to draw our own conclusions as Jack wanders through the wilderness. We’ve seen his journey through the desert in scenes interspersed throughout the film, his meandering path reminding us of the Old Testament Israelites’ forty-year journey through the desert after they disobeyed the God who saved them. Like the Israelites, Jack is lost. But then his journey brings him face-to-face with his younger self, and he chooses to follow the boy’s lead. Again, he’s unconsciously following Jesus’ words from Matthew 18: “Unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” Together they come to a beach, and Jack is surrounded by other people until he finally catches sight of his mother–and the brother they’d lost. Their reunion is joyous, full of love and tears and the glorious light of the sun illuminating them all. And when Jack’s father finds them, our joy is complete. Their family is whole again in this beautiful place, and everything broken is made new at the edge of the sea.

This might not be the answer we’ve wanted to the questions of pain and suffering the film has been posing, but it’s the answer we’re given. The voiceover earlier asked, “Where are you?”, and now we realize that He’s been there all along, in every moment of beauty and even in the pain, leading His children home. It reminds me of a quote from C.S. Lewis’ Till We Have Faces: “You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice?” Throughout the film, Malick has been showing us the face of God in the world He made, taking our eyes off the pain around us to gaze at His beauty. Though it doesn’t mention Jesus or walk us through the steps to salvation, this is a gloriously Christian film, reminding us again and again of the God who laid the foundations of the earth and helping us to dance for joy like those morning stars did. It’s more a hymn than a film, and it’s singing a song of praise. From the powerful melodies to the beautiful images to the story it tells, every moment is declaring the greatness of God and pointing us to the way of grace He’s made for us.

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emma.

As a recovering English major and one of nine sisters who all love to read, Jane Austen’s novels have been part of my life for as long as I can remember. It seems like my sisters revisit the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice every time they have a free afternoon, and we frequently play a game where we must attempt to win by marrying Mr. Darcy. So, while I was prepared to love Autumn de Wilde’s new interpretation of Emma for the sake of its source material, I was delighted to encounter a film that stands firmly on its own merits.

Almost immediately, it’s clear that de Wilde’s vision for Emma. is unique. Rather than the hushed pianos and violins that have graced recent Austen films, the soundtrack here is bold and upbeat. With choral renditions of traditional tunes, the cheerful clamor of the soundtrack acts almost as a Greek chorus, providing narration that reinforces the action and often cuts in to enhance the humor of an awkward interaction. In addition, de Wilde’s previous work as a music video director is evident in the way she choreographs the players on the screen. From the moment when we waltz into the story, the servants surrounding the main characters begin to float through rooms in intricate patterns, gliding past each other as if they’re performing a dance. As if it took place at one of Emma’s balls, the film is obsessed with appearances and style–but it uses those surface-level concerns to remind us that manners shape and define the relationships that make up this polite society.

We first learn about our heroine through those relationships, understanding her through the women revolving around her in Highbury’s shops and sitting rooms. By contrasting her with Harriet, we see that Emma is self-assured, certain of her place in society, at ease in the rituals of tea and balls. In comparison with Jane Fairfax, we see that Emma can feel only moderately accomplished, trapped in a small town by her duty to her hypochondriac father. And, unlike Miss Bates, Emma has such a high regard for the demands of society that she will rarely allow her enthusiasm or her love to break through. In the first scene, we see Emma picking flowers to give to Mrs. Weston on her wedding day–and then the camera zooms out and we realize that she is merely standing at a distance while a servant cuts the blooms she chooses. We’re instantly aware of the way Emma uses polite customs to keep others at a distance, attempting to avoid all acquaintances she deems inconvenient or distasteful.

Emma’s strengths and weaknesses are highlighted by all these women, but we find her ultimate foil in her future partner. While Mr. Knightley knows how to dance and play an instrument and perform every task required of a gentleman, he often puts aside the decorum Emma holds so dear. He follows his own desires, choosing to walk everywhere, to close off the rooms of Donwell Abbey where he’d be expected to entertain, and to freely associate with lower-class members of society. He refuses to let the rules of propriety constrain him, telling Emma what he actually thinks of her choices with an honesty that is easily avoided by others in the name of politeness. Unlike Emma, though, he backs up his manners with eyes for the overlooked, practical help for the less fortunate, and patience and kindness for those who don’t quite fit in. His affection for the people around him, in sharp contrast to Emma’s “love” for Harriet and others, always seeks their best. 

So we rejoice as we watch Emma and Knightley learn to love each other. We celebrate every shared glance, despair at each miscommunication, and swoon over the crucial dance (the only way to discover love in an Austen film). Even before their relationship becomes romantic, Knightley and Emma begin to build each other up, never demeaning or harassing each other as couples around them too often do. Knightley helps Emma look past herself to consider the impact she has on those around her, and she draws him out of his bachelor solitude to engage him in society in new ways. By the time they declare their love, Emma has grown enough that her first thought is of another person’s feelings, not just the happiness she could claim by pursuing what her heart desires. It’s a delight to watch them fall in love and find each other worthy of that love.

And suddenly we’re back where we began, attending a wedding once again. In a film so focused on meaningless rituals, it’s beautiful to see it end with a deeply significant tradition that unites instead of dividing, making two people one instead of setting up social barriers. No matter their class status, every character in the film comes together for this wedding. And we rejoice with the citizens of Highbury and the happy couple, trusting that they will continue to learn and grow and lean on each other to overcome whatever difficulties they encounter. Though it is filled with frivolity, with silk and dances and screens to protect Mr. Woodhouse from the fire, the film concludes with a genuine moment of love and joy–as every Austen adaptation should.

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whiplash

Even before I wandered towards cinephilia, I always had a place in my heart for musicals. I grew up with Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and The Sound of Music, and will tolerate any level of cheesiness if a dance number is involved (I’ll happily watch the entire High School Musical trilogy with anyone who asks). So, though I don’t remember how I found Whiplash the first time, it wouldn’t have taken much convincing for me to see a movie about musicians.

However, it’s clear from the opening drumroll that Whiplash has more in common with a psychological thriller than with a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical. An uneasy atmosphere infects every scene and growing tension undercuts the beauty of the central ensemble’s music. We quickly realize that Fletcher, the ensemble’s director, expects perfection from the players lucky enough to sit in front of him–and that he will employ any method to produce the excellence he demands. Every piece of music that is played, then, becomes an opportunity for a mistake. As soon as the band members start to tune their instruments, we hold our breath and wait for the inevitable error, the explosion of anger, the chair being thrown across the room.

Andrew doesn’t know what he’s walking into when he joins Fletcher’s ensemble, simply thrilled to have the chance to prove his skill after countless hours of practice. When he falls down the stairs in an effort to reach his first rehearsal on time, though, we get a glimpse of the toll his new position will exact. Fletcher begins to push Andrew almost immediately, constantly dissatisfied with his efforts. He manages to overcome one challenge, so Fletcher devises a new one, forcing Andrew and two other drummers to compete for the right to play an incredibly demanding piece. Fletcher wants to test their technical skill, but he’s more interested in their commitment, wanting to see if they’re willing to match his demand for perfection with a drive of their own. Bleeding, sweaty, and exhausted, Andrew puts everything he has into this test and claims a momentary victory.

Then Fletcher seems to go too far. The frantic need to meet his demands leads Andrew to a dangerous car accident and then to attempt a competition performance while his hands are still too slick with blood to control his drumsticks. Andrew leaves the ensemble and we are certain that Fletcher’s abusive methods are at fault. But just as we’re sure whose side we’re on, Andrew runs into Fletcher in a jazz club–and he seems different. Playing piano, he seems more free, genuinely enjoying the beauty of the music that’s filling the room. A question begins to form in the back of our minds: have we misunderstood Fletcher this whole time? Even if his methods are wrong, are they motivated by something beautiful?

Fletcher is unwavering in his defense of the way he led the ensemble, sure that the way he pushed and shouted was the key to helping his students find greatness. He tells Andrew, “I was there to push people beyond what is expected of them,” he says. “Otherwise we’re depriving the world of the next Louis Armstrong.” If he accepted their mediocre performances, they’d never work to become better. While his methods may be extreme, a great musician would be fueled by them, would take even the harshest criticism and grow because of it. But Andrew gave up–does this mean Fletcher is wrong about his tactics, or that Andrew was never truly great?

As the tension continues to build, I can’t help pausing to admire the film Damien Chazelle has created. As it must be in a movie centered on jazz musicians, the soundtrack is phenomenal, moving and full of life. More importantly, he punctuates the noise with silence, forcing us to sink into the quiet between the moments of crashing cymbals and chairs. In this most recent viewing, the editing also captured my attention. It’s alive, moving with the phrases of the music we’re hearing, cutting on the beats and arcing through longer phrases. When Andrew is utterly focused on a single drumbeat, the camera holds us there, our attention completely riveted. Damien Chazelle is in control of every aspect of the film, while managing to imbue a sense of jazz’s freedom inside the tight structure. 

Chazelle’s control extends even beyond the screen to influence our understanding of the characters he’s created. After Andrew’s encounter with Fletcher, we’re considering giving the director a second chance. And then Chazelle pulls the rug out from under our feet as it becomes clear that Fletcher is only letting Andrew play in his ensemble so he can destroy him. He’s been putting on an act this whole time, pulling Andrew–and the audience–into his trap. Forgetting every other time when his kindness gave way to abuse, we had started to believe that Fletcher had really learned his lesson, really changed, so his cold betrayal is utterly shocking. 

But Andrew refuses to be cowed. He takes control, forcing the rest of the ensemble to follow his lead and earning Fletcher’s grudging support (even if it’s only in an effort to avoid looking foolish on stage). After being sworn at, abused, and manipulated, Andrew has found the strength to fight back. And then, again, we suddenly wonder–was Fletcher right all along? Andrew has ruined relationships, dropped out of school, and crashed a car as a result of Fletcher’s relentless pressure, but he’s also pushed himself harder than he ever would have on his own, developing new grit and new skill as a result. Should we credit Fletcher with helping Andrew discover his true genius, or condemn him for his abusive methods? Chazelle doesn’t answer this question for us, forcing us to continue pondering it long after the screen fades to black.