05 April 2018

Best of 2017

We put a brave face on things, but 2017 was a bad year at the movies. With nonsense like Dumbkirk and Grinding Nemo pulling down most awards at the Oscars, it made last year's surprise Moonlight win feel like a dream. We're back to the old darkness, with small bits of light provided by (incrementally) more diverse casting, non-actors, Olivier Assayas and, of course, #KSTEW. 

2017 was slightly stronger than I indicated in my earlier Top 10 for the Sonoma Index-Tribune. So read on for new entries in the Top 10! As you read through a hierarchy topped with beautiful dresses, listen to this by Marlon Williams. As the artist has said of the tune: "I don't know what this song is about, and I don't want to know."


Best Supporting Actor

We can all only dream to have a boyfriend as delightful as O'Shea Jackson in Ingrid Goes West, his attachment to Batman fanfic not withstanding. Ben Safdie was unbelievably good at absorbing all manner of abuse in Good Times. What a delight it's been watching Timothee Chalamet flit about in Lady Bird and Call Me By Your Name, reading fine literature and flashing those vulpine features softened only by the haircut all the boys had at my middle school. It's incredible that Lil Rel Howery did not even get an Oscar nom for his role as Get Out—he is the truth telling friend we all desperately need before making weekend plans, and the WTT awardee for Best Supporting Actor.


Best Supporting Actress 

In the battle of best supporting moms I'll take Holly Hunter in The Big Sick over Allison Janney in I, Tonya over Laurie Metcalf in Lady Bird. And the better lady movie of the year was Lady Macbeth, which had a great mute performance by Naomi Ackie. The best uses of breakfast foods came from Get Out, where Allison Williams deconstructed Froot Loops and milk, and Girls Trip, where Tiffany Haddish repurposed a grapefruit and banana to uproarious effect. But my award must go to the grand dame of the breakfast table, my old so-and-so, Lesley Manville in Phantom Thread. Please come run my life Cyril!


Best Actor

In the auto-nominations category, we have WTT's daily inspiration Channing Tatum in Logan Lucky. Of course I have to praise the dual android, poetry-spouting Michael Fassbender in Alien: Covenant, proving that quoting "Ozymandias" makes you sexier than Ryan Gosling's Blade Runner 2049 replicant. Gael Garcia Bernal was back to his best as a voice in Coco and live action in You're Killing Me Susana. Vin Diesel was so pleased to be starring in xXx: The Return of Xander Cage you couldn't help but grin along. But 2017 had only one acting performance: Daniel Day-Lewis in Phantom Thread. What a man, what a man, what a mighty mighty good man. The ultimate expression of WTT motto NO MEDIOCRE. 



Best Actress

Vicky Krieps was excellent as Day-Lewis's media naranja in Phantom Thread and in her way kicked as much ass as Charlize Theron in Atomic Blonde (make her the next James Bond, dummies—the world demands more of Charlize beating the everliving shit out of everyone!). As time passes I grow more enamored of Aubrey Plaza's total investment in her roles—she was fascinating in Dirty Grandpa a couple of years ago and has much stronger material in Ingrid Goes West. Like Plaza, Bria Vianaite of The Florida Project comes out of left field, straight from Instagram to the cinema crackling with intensity that just isn't seen from more mannered actresses. But the award goes to the only thespian who reliably shakes me from my comfort zone (almost nodding off in an overpriced chair on the lefthand aisle of the cinema): Kristen Stewart. I feel her character in Personal Shopper in all my anxious texting, all my late, frustrated days.


Best Pictures 

Coco - Pixar does its finest world-building ever in Coco—the Land of the Dead is a marigold-drenched wonderland in which the skeletal spirits of your ancestors sing, dance, and make art. It’s also happy news that, even without flesh, the dead can still drink tequila. When you (re)watch the film, remember to bring a box of tissues to the theater with you—as one character says, speaking to the afterlife or the best Pixar films: “This place runs on memories.”

Lost City of Z - From Aguirre, the Wrath of God to The New World to this film there is something endlessly appealing about pushing upriver into the unknown. The fact that none of these dumb, self-mythologizing white boys would ever return only adds to the romance. Director James Gray adapts the wild excellence of David Grann's book and, especially on the big screen, you can feel the Amazon wrap its arms around you as Percy Fawcett follows the lure of little voices to his destiny. 

Dawson City: Frozen Time - In this superlative documentary, Bill Morrison provides a meditative mélange of photographs, documentary footage, silent films, and early talkies from Dawson City, a turn-of-the-century gold rush town in the Yukon that was the end of the line for thousands of reels of early movies. The doc includes amazing nuggets, like the reason Jack London turned back for home before reaching Dawson City (scurvy) and the origin of the Trump family fortune (brothels). By the end, you almost can’t imagine cinema history without this small town—if not for the future moguls who intersected there, we might never have had the chance to watch Snatched, 2017’s worst film.

Call Me By Your Name - You try to think of yourself as the kind of person who would never cry while listening to a Sufjan Stevens in public but then you do, and it's Luca Guadagnino fault. CMBYN also deserves credit for spawning the most enjoyable meme of the year, moves so cold even those of us who are more rhythmically challenged can't help but try to duplicate them—see, we're just doing the Armie! There's also the outstanding mood of doomed love and wistfulness and regret—all while the romance is still happening!—capped with a great dad talk and an amazing winter lookbook.  

Wind River - Writer/director Taylor Sheridan is among the best at leading us to the dark places in our society and this trip to the Wind River Indian reservation is no different. As a young man (and potential murder suspect) on the rez explains: “I wanna fight the whole world.” Despite the bracing violence in the film, it’s fascinating to watch Jeremy Renner’s tracker Cory as he moves from hunting mountain lions that prey on livestock to hunting death itself.

Good Time - Josh and Ben Safdie direct what is, for a few minutes at least, a straightforward picture about two brothers, Connie (Robert Pattinson, very good) and Nick (Ben Safdie, extraordinary) bumbling through a bank heist. From there straight through the end, the plot goes spectacularly off the rails—the hilarious, truly inconceivable twists are so uproarious that you run the risk of peeing your pants from the sheer giddiness. Future filmmakers must take notes on how to craft a proper thriller that never comes up for a breath.


Get Out - The film was nominated for a Golden Globe in the “Best Musical or Comedy” category but, crucially, director Jordan Peele has called the film a documentary. The power of the piece is the utter believability of the ills that befall Daniel Kaluuya’s Chris, a black man trapped in the hell of a long weekend with his white girlfriend’s parents. While often very funny, Peele’s film is heavy on bitter truths. A cop car appears twice and both times you immediately fear for our hero—across the country, police have generated a well-earned, gut-level fear from their constituents in minority communities.

Logan Lucky - With little else to recommend it, 2017 can at least be remembered fondly for Steven Soderbergh’s return to filmmaking. Like Good Time, the criminals in this robbery picture are not overly bright but possess a desperate ingenuity. It’s so fun to watch country-fried narrative threads spread in many directions before being tied back together. Logan Lucky boasts a brilliant climax at the Charlotte Motor Speedway, which Soderbergh photographs in popping bright colors to capture the rainbowed American glory of all those glittering stock cars.

The Florida Project - Sean Baker famously shot his debut feature Tangerine on an iPhone and returned to shoot The Florida Project on even more beautiful 35mm. This film, set in the strip mall and cheap motel squalor outside Disney World, is about people pushed too far in an unnatural, lavender-and-fuchsia landscape. Much has been made of performance from seven-year-old spitfire Brooklyn Decker as a free-roaming child but the startling, discomfiting acting by newcomer Bria Vinaite as her mother is indelible. As with Sasha Lane’s Star in last year’s American Honey, the finest recent acting has been done by untrained presences like Vianaite. 

Phantom Thread - Easily the best PTA picture, thanks to the cast—all of which has been lauded above—and the relative restraint of the director. The film is not about wild tracking shots and enormous amounts of acting. The most exciting set pieces are of Daniel Day-Lewis at work—cutting, sewing, staring down the lines. In addition to motivating future breakfast orders, Phantom Thread shows the ways in which idiosyncratic artists, whether the subject or the maker of the film, help show why it's worthwhile to keep fighting through the cruelty and banality of life—think of the couture we'd miss if we died today! 

Personal Shopper - Any film is bound to be excellent when the best French director, Oliver Assayas, works with the best American actress, Kristen Stewart. Assayas wrote the film for Stewart when they were working together on the magisterial Clouds of Sils Maria, and the script addresses fashion, the supernatural, and the burden of being a talented personal assistant. Surrounded by jittering wraiths and glittering couture, Stewart moves through Paris and London with the radical coldness that sets her apart from her contemporaries. The cinematic sound from 2017 that will linger longest in the ears is the skittering of Stewarts’s fingers over her phone as she composes text messages to a ghost.

26 February 2017

Best of 2016

I have, for THE paper of record in Sonoma Valley, already given you my top ten wide release films from 2016. But there is an alternate best of list, a superior and updated one, below. And it's not too difficult to separate out the pretty good from the more or less unwatchable in 2016—the real challenge would be to parse the extremely narrow margins amongst the bottom 10 (or 25). I am, however, not brave enough to revisit my thoughts on Warcraft v. Suicide Squad v. Marvel Horseshitiverse: Civil War v. Batman v. Superman v. the sweet sleep of death.

As the Hollywood productions I watched continued to enervate and enrage with their lack of ideas, I tracked the demographics among the filmmakers of 2016 movies released in Sonoma, CA (where the wine and people are slightly better than those in Napa). To use a horrifying neologism, I briefly tweetstormed on this topic. I assumed women and people of color would be underrepresented but how can it be this bad? Directors of films released in Sonoma (which I think is a reasonable representation of small town, one-AMC-Theater-only America) are 94% male and 89% white. It's a disgrace. Films and performances by non-white, non-men are, as usual, overrepresented on my year end list but that does little to rinse the bitter taste.

Here's hoping that 2017 holds more directorial efforts from the Solanges of the world and fewer from the Zack Snyders.


Best Supporting Actor

The best idea is probably to copy Manohla Dargis and give all five noms to the supporting actors in Moonlight, but I pretend to use original thought on the WTT. I always appreciate a madman spouting aphorisms, so love to Alessandro Nivola in The Neon Demon: "True beauty is the highest currency we have. Without it, she would be nothing." It pleased me to no end that antagonists on The OfficeJohn Krasinski and David Denman—are superbros in the good(!) Michael Bay film 13 Hours. And John Malkovich is a great scenery snacker in Deepwater Horizon. But it all comes back to Mahershala Ali in Moonlight. He is not just the best of the year but one of the best for all time, a role that fills me with wonder. Come back to me Juan!


Best Supporting Actress

Chloe Sevigny
is a perfect supporting actress for any movie but especially in a Whit Stillman film like Love and Friendship. Scarlett Johansson and Tilda Swinton are marvelously sharp in Hail, Caesar! but slip away too quickly. I'll give a random shout to Aubrey Plaza for embracing exactly how awful Dirty Grandpa is and delivering every leaden line with disgusted gusto. But the most excited I was for a supporting actress in 2016 was Janelle Monáe in Moonlight and Hidden Figures—she vivified the screen with her snap and verve. Hopefully much more to come from her—I suggest a film on yoga.


Best Actress

Credit to Blake Lively for her excellent use of her jewelry to stitch wounds in The Shallows,
Samantha Robinson for her delirious embrace of Anne Biller's vision in The Love Witch, and Amy Adams for her ultra-linguistic brilliance in Arrival. And, because it's too hard to select between the harrowing continental performances of Sandra Hüller in Toni Erdmann and Isabelle Huppert in Elle (they both seem the only actresses who could play those very difficult parts), my best actress is Sasha Lane in American Honey. My longterm affection for nonactors stems from performances like this, the pleasurable wildness of an actress, a director and an audience seeing something new together. My sense is that Ms. Lane herself wasn't sure what she was selling in certain scenes: magazines, sex, her own charisma.


Best Actor

First a nod to Christian Bale for putting up with whatever dizzy shit Terrence Malick was doing in Knight of Cups. Michael Shannon (still holding the belt for favorite domestic WTT actor) proves in Midnight Special he's continually awe-inspiring. But the real race is for best facial hair, wherein Vin Diesel in The Last Witch Hunter is a glorious, braided option, Colin Farrell's Lobster character has the most depressive mustache you'll ever see and Chris Pine in Hell or High Water sports a delicious mustache to beard muddle that recalls, well, Colin Farrell in Miami Vice. But the nod goes to Tom Hanks in Sully—in film after film he is as immaculate as Chesley Sullenberger's neat white pushbroom.


Best Pictures 

See also: Arrival, Loving, Midnight Special, Hell or High Water, Ixcanul, Elle, Zootopia, and, if you're very patient, Knight of Cups and Neon Demon.

10. The Lobster - In this highly credible satire, "The City" is patrolled by uniformed men demanding marriage paperwork and, if you don’t have it, you’re sent to "The Hotel," where you’ll find a mate or be turned into a wild animal of your choice. The Lobster is the logical extension of our current mania for the polite emptiness of online dating, where couples are pressed together by algorithms and every dream vacation destination is deadened by the tepid prose of glossy airplane magazines. In the movie at least, those who break free spend an uproarious time on the lam, in woods filled with people they used to know, now in the form of a camel or flamingo.

9. Cameraperson - We need many more cinematographic memoirs. Kirsten Johnson, who has lensed dozens of documentaries (including motherfucking Citizenfour), here collages footage from many of her projects, much of it absolutely hair-raising. For a somewhat disorienting 20 minutes, the sequences seem unconnected but a pattern emerges as the film marches ahead with incredible storytelling of genocide in Bosnia and Darfur and almost unwatchable scenes from a makeshift maternity ward in Nigeria. It is an excellent film, and a test of even my voyeurism.

8. La La Land - I give this more points for sparking so many angry spats amongst jazz people, musical people, people who hate mansplaining in all its forms (so, many of my friend groups). Regardless of where you stand in the standoff between Gosling vs. Legend for the future of jazz, this is the throwback to classic Hollywood we pretended The Artist was in 2011. As with Whiplash, when director Damien Chazelle swings, he swings hard over and over, until his arms get tired. Seeing a Los Angeles where the old movie palaces are shut down and the big band halls have transitioned to samba and tapas places, Chazelle reveals his burning passion for jazz and classic cinema. La La Land is jammed with song and dance, rash technicolor displays and literal flights of fancy. Charming actors Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone often wear looks that show they can’t help themselves—they've made something special.

Beyond the words in my review of the film I can report something else as important: the two times I saw La La Land and got to the audition scene, I had chill run straight up my spine. Right or wrong, if I had the chance, I'd stand up right now, walk to the theater and watch it again.

7. Manchester by the Sea - Casey Affleck proves a thousand times better than his brother at playing a damaged man, featuring in one of the best films of the year while Ben cast his steely gaze at whatever it was in the last Batman flick. Given the brutal plot summary of Manchester by the Sea, it's surprising that it’s also the most laugh-out-loud funny film of the year. Writer/director Kenneth Lonergan provides a savagely hilarious script, including a very funny cameo for himself, yelling at the good Affleck. As a bonus, the film doubles as motivation to drink less, despite daily provocations, in 2017.

6. I Am Not Your Negro - This documentary goes well beyond journalism to get to the truth, challenging viewers to wrestle with the deaths of Martin, Malcom and Medgar as written in the unpublished notebooks of James Baldwin. Eschewing talking heads, I Am Not Your Negro is all Baldwin footage and prose, with some contemporary clips cut in, from Ferguson and elsewhere in the disintegrating United States of America. The material is strong enough that it forces Samuel L. Jackson, who narrates, to tone down his histrionics and smolder, to be as lucid as Baldwin was eviscerating the iniquities of our nation.

I remain proud that the place I work made this film happen and that one day Raoul Peck walked in the door and I got to shake his hand and tell him his film is better than O.J.: Made in America. It's a film about genius rather than notoriety (and thus has no chance to win the Best Doc Oscar).


5. Toni Erdmann - This is a rewarding, very long comedy about work that almost reaches the delightful pain of the British Office or Lars Von Trier's The Boss of It All. The aforepraised Sandra Hüller and magnificent Peter Simonischek are an indelible daughter/father pairing in this film studded with shockingly funny deadpan moments, including a tender shot of semen-spattered petit fours. Directorial marvel Maren Ade accomplishes the astonishing feat of shooting a scene as great as the one in which Hüller bangs out Whitney's "The Greatest Love of All" then somehow tops it later in the film (using a costume as fine as Octave's bear suit in The Rules of the Game).

(Also: it is an official WTT prediction that the Kristen Wiig/Jack Nicholson Hollywood remake will be one of the ten worst movies ever made.)

4. American Honey - In making the combustible American Honey, Andrea Arnold (director of WTT-favorite Fish Tank) embedded herself with many nonprofessional actors and one merely unprofessional one (Shia LaBeouf, rocking a most alarming pigtail). The best of her finds, picked off a beach in Miami, is of course Sasha Lane, who brings startling passion to her role. A whole crew of hustlers is shot hazily in vans and cheap motels—this is a meandering road movie lensed across the South and Midwest, places deep in the American twilight full of poverty and grace and bad tattoos. Arnold knows how music can make or break a moment and when Rihanna’s "We Found Love" blasts across the Walmart checkout aisles it's a fitting hymn for the film and for our time.

3. Cemetery of Splendor - This film has recently increased in my estimation after a rewatch, perhaps because it is about soldiers who sleep continuously for months (they are, one character patiently explains, fighting a dream war on behalf long-dead kings in another dimension). If only I could sign up for four years of peaceful slumber in quiet Thailand adjacent a glowing neon tube floating through sherbety colors that ease my nightmares. As one character reads in a journal, "Our problem is that we think too much...at night we call these dreams." Even when the soldiers wake, it is not exactly into the real world, but a space in limbo, where deities step down from their daises and give skin care tips to mortals. I was so moved by a sequence where a nurse walks through a former palace of deceased kings that is now a ramshackle park—where a beautiful stone pillar once held a glittering roof, there is now a tree with an orchid growing on it. Director Apichatpong "Joe" Weerasethakul is a genius who helps his audience practice stillness—if we open our minds the way his characters do, we can see glittering floors of pink stone instead of dead leaves on the ground.

2. My Golden Days - Director Arnaud Desplechin is, to borrow a phrase from this film, mon amour adore. Here he's made a madeleine from an adult Paul Dédalus (played by Mathieu Amalric with his usual resplendence) to his younger self (Quentin Dolmaire), who is madly in love with Esther (Lou Roy-Lecollinet). The young actress, faced with the daunting task of becoming Emmanuelle Devos in Desplechin's earlier/later film My Sex Life...or How I Got into an Argument, owns from the moment we see her slow dancing with herself in a crowded party. In ten seconds, we are ready to buy Paul's line to her: "Have you ever been loved more than life? It's how I'll love you." The rest of the film is their passion, mostly told through their letters, which are given as wonderful direct addresses to the camera. And, as the strains from the score to Vertigo float in, I felt an old, melancholy ache—perhaps we are in love in this life just once.

1. Moonlight - No points for originality here. But it speaks to the brilliance of Barry Jenkins that the critics' choice and the Oscar favorite and the WTT pick are one and the same this season. I hope this remarkable film, eye-catching on the first viewing and rewarding across many more, is the start of a needed response to the whiteness of the Hollywood whale. After most other images from this year are forgotten, there will be the magnificent Mahershala Ali holding that boy in the water—so, so blue.


*

I ended last year's column by saying "2016's gonna be great." Jesus Christ. I hope I meant that ironically. In 2017 we're all gonna die. But perhaps the pictures will be pretty.


27 April 2016

Off White

[I had to cut a section from an essay for publication but would hate for my love of Brian McKnight to be lost to the world. It is reproduced below.]

Half an Ativan is not enough—I still think I’m going to die as we rattle down the runway.
Since I last flew, Virgin America has failed to renew their license on Brian McKnight’s “Back at One” so I cannot listen to it during takeoff. I’ve paid the premium to fly Virgin not for the mood lighting but because I can be listening to that song at the moment the wheels leave the runway—I have never yet died while it is playing.

That the music video for the song involves a plane crash is such a ridiculous coincidence that I must have sublimated the fact when I picked my to-die-to anthem.

It has an easy chorus to repeat if you picture yourself as a nervous child who has severe issues with memorizing numbers. My right hand holds the armrest as hard as I can without the knuckles whitening and my left hand grips my right forearm. I raise the fingers as I count up, mouthing silently.

“One, you’re like a dream come true,”

I listen too carefully for moment it feels to me the engines stop pushing us up and we float out.

“Two, just want to be with you,”

I would like to be in the middle seat next to She.

“Three, girl, it’s plain to see / That you’re the only one for me,”

When She rides her bike on nights when it’s too cold her fingers go white on the handlebars and for her it’s almost always too cold.

“And four, repeat steps one through three,”

Sometimes She gets home and sends me a picture so I see what She means.

“Five, make you fall in love with me.”

I write out the reply oh, I want to hold them then erase the line with the last vestiges of will. At least I am not coating my arms and back with cold sweat—thanks for that, half an Ativan. I pick up a copy of White Girls I can’t read and watch the plastic window shade, the color of clouds at 35,000 feet.

“It’s unbelievable how I used to say that I’d fall never.”

More here.