Godzilla: Minus One

Horror as a genre originated from real fear—taking things we are afraid of in our real lives and turning them into something fantastic and unreal. I think all my favorite horror movies have that element to them. Some are like Crimson Peak; "The ghosts are a metaphor for the past," the characters say. And in the movie that's really all they are. Some are like 28 Days Later; people grappling with loneliness and isolation in a world where everyone you meet is either a zombie, or could turn into one at any moment. 

Metaphorical monster movies in particular stand out to me. Even if (or perhaps especially if) the metaphor is obvious or spelled out as in Jurassic Park or The Babadook, there's something about the combination of the unignorable presence of a literal monster wreaking havoc and more subtle things they represent (such as pushing the limits of science, or simple depression) that brings the fear to life. And Godzilla—the original Godzilla—is a classic example of that. A radioactive monster terrorizes Japan.

I've always understood the metaphor in my head. This movie made me understand it in my heart.

As the Godzilla character became Americanized, the metaphor shifted. It became a tool used to preach. A warning against war or the wielding of nuclear weapons perhaps, but not about the fear, and the powerlessness of being at the mercy of those things. Godzilla himself even turned into a benevolent being that represents peace, somehow. And lately, it's been nothing but a way to use CGI artists to numb audience minds for money. Godzilla go rawr, people buy ticket. 

And that, most of all, is why I love Godzilla: Minus One. It's a return to metaphorical form. And it's done gloriously. It made me feel and understand on a palpable, gut-wrenching level, the fear that Godzilla represents. And it's not even marketed as a horror movie! It's not very scary, nor dark in tone (or in lighting). It's just an action/adventure monster movie, with drama. And characters. And writing. And I mean real, honest-to-goodness, there's-cohesion-and-a-story-here kind of writing, where everything fits together and serves to enhance and balance the next element, all surrounded by artistry and understanding of the purpose and value of stories as a whole... and I... I've missed this so SO much over the past few years. 

A cohesive story is great—but can still be clinical. This one possesses that spark of passion that brings a well-conceived story to life. Really, it's more than a spark. 

Minus One follows Koichi, a failed kamikaze pilot who goes home after the war in shame to a bombed out house and no family left alive. Survivor's guilt plagues him, as do memories of a dinosaur-like creature who appeared out of the sea and killed everyone on an island outpost where he was hiding. He cannot allow himself to truly live, but neither can he turn away from life completely. He stumbles into caring for a girl named Noriko, and the orphaned baby she's become a surrogate mother for. Together they build a life and scrape by until they've found their feet. He gets a job removing sea mines from the bay. The city and the people begin to heal. But then the monster returns. And with it, the dread and the shame.

Even though the topic is depressing and the people in the story are beat down, the movie's tonal feel is incredibly broad. One of my favorite things about Japanese entertainment. The sweet/pleasantly goofy humor sparked laughs, then it seamlessly falls into the quiet character moments, or to energetic scenes, anger and joy in turn. There is a prevailing sense of hope and perseverance present, and when the monster thrills come, they do not disappoint. The awesome, boyish, "that so cool!" element is as necessary as the underlying seriousness. And neither undercuts the other. Some of the monster moments were outright stunning. I never thought I could take Godzilla seriously enough to get a jolt of fear seeing him chase down a ship. Or the dread—a true sinking sensation—as his atomic breath builds through his spine.

Those monsterverse movies, with their oodles and oodles of cash, never came close to hitting like this.

There were one or two times when I reflexively gasped, and I spent several minutes in debate with myself over who would survive and trying to figure out if a happy ending was earned, or would it be tragic, or bittersweet. I fell in love with Koichi almost instantly, understanding and sympathizing with him, hoping he'll find a way to beat both the monster and the metaphor. And all the side characters as well. They were all their own people, their personalities and arcs mattering every bit as much as their functional purpose within the plot. It feels so strange that an action flick about an atomic sea-dino could throw me so effectively and cleanly through a gauntlet of emotional ups and downs, but that is, after all, what stories are meant for—even if we've forgotten.

Monster movies at their best aren't monster movies. If the creature is a metaphor, or some fantastic extreme fictionalization of a real fear, then if it's done right, the monster can reveal a human heart even more clearly than a regular-sized movie that's only about the people. Done right, monster movies are more human than human movies. And Minus One knows that. It earns everything it reaches for (and it reaches far!) because it reaches for understanding and connection, using monster mayhem and spectacle as a means to achieve that end. There's plenty to be said for the spectacle this movie delivers, but the true beauty here—like a metaphor—isn't in what we can literally see, but in what that sight prompts us to feel and understand.

Back to the Future

"Marty! You gotta come back with me!" "Where?"
"BACK TO THE FUTURE!"

The 80's were a great time for movies. But as far as 80's movies that fall solidly under the category of "Fun" and follow a teenaged lead, it's hard to find something truly remarkable. Movies like The Last Starfighter or Adventures in Babysitting may have a winning concept or teen appeal, but then the plots seem to spin their wheels for an hour or so without going anywhere, while the runtime is filled with character antics that grate on your nerves, fluffy, nonstarter side plots, and boring car chases. John Hughes had unique characters and romance, but what about adventure? Danger? High stakes? Back to the Future ticks every box. And it fulfills each category better than its competitors often can even fill one. 

It's easy for me to take things about it for granted. Like Marty, to start. He was established in my brain as that archetype from childhood. 80's teen. Main character. Running around, getting in and out of trouble for our enjoyment. He's the standard I hold others of the kind up to—and yet I've barely considered that's what I'm doing because I knew who and what Marty was before I knew how to define it. He seems so simple and straightforward; but watching this movie and paying attention to his characterization, it's astonishing how many moments are made to serve him. It's a plot movie. Marty is made to have an every-kid feel on purpose. But he's still so established. His life, personal dreams, girlfriend, that almost have no relevance to the time-traveling adventure. And yet, if he were never in a band, we'd never have the show-stopping Johnny B. Goode performance. And that's the best dang scene in the whole movie!

Then give it all to Michael J. Fox to play and I have to check my taking-things-for-granted tendency again. To me, they're one and the same person. And even if Fox is essentially playing himself, his balance of traits is calculated. He's goofy. But, pretty cool, actually. Charming, but with an accidental feel. He can win a beautiful girl, but he hangs out with an eccentric inventor. He's not the popular guy in school, but neither does he have to deal with bullies—unless you count the principal! We easily believe both his dumb, bumbling reactions to events, and his ability to jump into action with confident competence. The likes of Tom Holland have probably lost long hours of sleep over this characterization and how balanced and blended it all is. I think Fox has a lot to do with it. But also the writing can't be ignored. It gives him so much to work with for such a tonally light character. 

And all that being said, my favorite character has long been Crispin Glover's George McFly. What's a transformation! What awful oily hair! What sincere, aching blue eyes! Watching Marty work to gift his parents with a happier, more fulfilled life has always been the highlight of the movie for me. The time travel is the fun part—that allows us to go through the extreme ups and downs of the family drama. George and Lorraine both seem hopeless losers, but all that can turn around in one immaculately set-up, powerful moment—and then seal it with a song, a kiss, and a song—as only a true 80's movie can. After how beautifully and satisfyingly that thread concludes, I often forget that Marty still has to, you know, get back to the future and all that.

The movie really has to go to work on the third act wrapping up because of how many threads it has going. And having each one conclude in ways you don't quite expect (but that make perfect sense because the set-up was there but not projected) really makes the whole last third of the movie feel like a rollercoaster of thrills and heartwarming victory—where the highs are high and the lows are high, too. Even when we're finally allowed to settle, after all the good news is out, it's not long before they're off again, promising more and more in the next movie. Even if you don't go right into the sequel (which I rarely do) the euphoric feeling sticks. How do they do it? How do they make every subplot feel vital—and each payoff feel inevitable and also like beating the odds?

Such an interesting love story because it's not about who loves who, will-they-won't-they, but it comes from a very honest perspective: "These two HAVE to end up together. Here's how." 

All I can figure is that when every detail and facet of your story is important and useful and built upon each other, it hides which ones will be used for the next payoff. Or maybe it's all so extraordinarily entertaining that you look past the moments of set up. Because even if they weren't used to set something up, they were still good moments that elevate, deepen, and give momentum to the story. Not a second wasted. Not a moment falling short. All as a fun 80's scifi teen adventure, with all the life-or-death situations, romance, and chase sequences you could ask for. That, and Doc's wide-eyed crazy expressions, too. I love this movie; and that's one thing about it I could never take for granted.

1917

Spoiler-free!

1917 is a WWI picture about two soldiers, Blake and Schofield, who are sent with a message of warning to a neighboring regiment, telling them not to attack lest they fall into a trap and be massacred by the enemy. It's told in real time. And oh yeah, it looks like it's done in one take.

Technical masterpiece, immersive wonder, blah blah blah. Here's the fact of the matter: "one take" films are useless gimmicks -- unless -- they have, like all good films do, a story worth telling, and worth telling in that specific way. This film not only has the right story, led by talented actors playing honest and beautiful characters -- its technical aspect actually supports and strengthens the story instead of being a distraction from it. Now that is impressive.

Directed by Sam Mendes. Co-written with Krysty Wilson-Cairns.

I spent a lot of time since August worrying that the continuous camera view would prevent me from becoming invested -- or even worse that the filmmakers would skimp on things like character and meaning in favor of showing off their technical achievements. I needn't have worried. Films like Children of Men gave me reason to, where the long shots are made to amaze to the detriment of everything else -- but it's clear that Sam Mendes had the opposite mindset. He utilizes the long takes as a storytelling medium rather than artistic ploy, and finally I see the value of the technique.

To see the step-by-step journey of those two men; the small talk, the jokes, the pauses, the contention and friendship, the frantic action, and the quietly harrowing moments, all pressed together into the same continuous space and presented in a realistic pace of time; it brings a unique sense of connection. Not ten minutes go by before you feel like you know them, and when you aren't spoon-fed aspects of their character such as their desires and fears, but instead must find them within the passing details of their actions, the reward for your noticing is all the greater.

The challenge is making it look effortless.

Roger Deakins did the cinematography work, and what stands out about it is that it doesn't stand out. It's not showy and doesn't call attention to the behind-the-scenes challenges that no doubt existed. Achieving its lovely simplicity while also keeping the picture free of any empty space in need of a cut is deceptively hard. One bothersome thing about long takes is when the camera must move from person to person during a conversation or action, and the delay drags the pace down. Not so here. The plot, actors, and cinematography are crafted into a trinity knot; an interweaving dance that has no perceptible beginning or end, lead or follow, but where each element supports -- and leans on -- the others equally.

The pacing is incredible. The rise and fall of tension, action, and emotion all crafted in front of our eyes instead of spliced together in the editing room. Nothing against editing of course, but it's a testament to the dedication and effort put into this work that it thrills and moves on the same level as any other film, when the rhythm of pace is so vital to creating investment and holding attention. They had no room for error, so they were sure to have none. Because what's the point in creating a technical wonder if the story leaves you cold and the characters are paper-thin? Why bother telling a story with masterful command of technique unless it will move an audience through honest meaning?

If this movie had been no more than an impressive technological feat, I wouldn't care two beans about it.

Which brings me to the heart and soul of the film -- Schofield, Blake, and the two young, relative unknowns who play them -- George MacKay and Dean-Charles Chapman. They are supported by the talents of Colin Firth, Andrew Scott, Mark Strong, Benedict Cumberbatch, and Richard Madden; and even in such brief roles these established actors bring great depth and detail. Still it was George and Dean always who held my attention, who I wanted to see more of, and whose two every-men characters I wanted to know better. I've been a fan of George MacKay for a while already, seeking out even his obscure bit-parts to see more of his work, but it was no pre-established bias that made me fall in love with his portrayal of Schofield.

MacKay brings depth and nuance that fills up every moment. He's not overly expressive, more internalized, yet his every thought is readable through a genuine performance that can only come out of a fundamental, and deeply empathetic understanding of the character on the page. He brings both the character, and the film to its fully realized life. Chapman is equally immersed. You can tell they are both there feeling and thinking as their characters rather than putting on a show and pretense. They play off each other as foils to reveal the other's character in the true British fashion of not saying what you really mean, and the subtle detail with which they achieve it makes me eager to be there again and search for further understanding between the lines.

"Be there again." As opposed to "see it again."

I guess there is something to be said for the immersive experience of this film after all. I just think it's important to note what it is that you're being immersed into. A perfectly choreographed dance of actors, sets, and camerawork? That is impressive, yes, but add what that dance means -- the poetry of it, the sense of humanity, the struggle of an individual with individual hopes and cares on full display down to the smallest detail -- and that's when an impressive feat becomes art. And it is that art into which we are being immersed.

It's not the immersive quality in itself, or the mastered technical achievements alone that makes this film remarkable; the immersion is only the path we travel. In the same way that we understand the intangible thoughts and motivations within the characters of Schofield and Blake by reading beyond the tangible surface of their words and actions, so 1917 uses what technological, material language it has at its disposal to express truths of the immaterial human soul that extend beyond what mere words can say.

Joker

Spoiler-free!

What I expected to be a dark and disturbing downer meant to leave me unsettled and unhappy, is instead an intense and scrutinizing look at a descent into madness and villainy, so thorough and unflinching that one can't help but see a reflection of themselves hidden within the frames. In a day when movies about villains are just movies about anti-heroes, and comic book movies are more commodity than art, Joker reminds us of how relevant and uniquely valuable a medium they can be.

Directed captivatingly by Todd Phillips, written along with Scott Silver.

Joaquin Phoenix takes on the role of the iconic villain in the rich setting of late 70's/early 80's Gotham City. Arthur Fleck is clown-for-hire striving to keep smiling in a rough and messed-up world. In gradual progression, the film shows us what it takes to transform him into the Joker that we know and love. The journey is too long and complex to break down, but the important thing is the way it draws you in to start. Though we know his villainous fate, we must be invested in the decent -- to take the ride along with him -- for the movie to make the impact it desires. Two or three scenes hook you at the beginning, and then the slow reeling in process begins.

I think it's wonderful that this film is making people angry. I can only imagine it's a visceral reaction to having a mirror thrust so unexpectedly in their face and showing them something that they don't want to recognize. I found myself doing a little soul-searching last night, that's for sure. But though this film is politicized, it isn't political. It doesn't show left and right, but rather an up and down balance of right and wrong. Gotham politics are similar to the divide and unrest in the real world today, but they are grown in an organic fictional environment rather than being transplanted to invoke cheap parallels. The fictionalization and over-the-top comic book style makes the open exploration on ideas palatable to a potentially stubborn audience -- exploring all sides of questions that we might otherwise dismiss offhand.

This is not a Conservative film; it doesn't push propaganda of any kind. But it does feel out of place with Hollywood content common to today.

People keep saying they handled mental illness badly in this film, and I'm not sure what they mean by it. What I saw was the subject being handled with care, and like the rest of the film's subjects, being explored from all sides. I found Arthur's illness to be the most constant source of empathy throughout his descent. Particularly the condition that makes him laugh uncontrollably when he feels entirely different. Everyone asks him, "What's so funny?" never understanding his mind as we do. Makes you think twice about judging people based on assumptions and appearances. In fact, the film refrains from any kind of judgement altogether, counting on the audience's moral compass to draw the right conclusion. The movie itself embraces the madness -- but never glorifies it. Every beautiful moment has horror in it, and every horrible moment, tenderness. There is always a balance of tone and no idea is presented without being challenged.

Phoenix's performance is precise and extreme; he runs wild with an exact and calculated grace and balances the evil and the good side by side with great skill. No one could doubt that he can play a scene with honesty and complexity; what's remarkable about this performance is the characterization: The way he runs. The way he laughs. The way he dances. The way he sees himself in his imagination. The twisted glee that pokes through his shell before it bursts out of him like a shot and blossoms into the full-fledged character with immaculate timing. To be honest, I expected his take to be more of a twist on the character, so seeing him open into full Joker so effortlessly once everything was properly developed was nothing short of astounding. It's the best performance of the year, but it's also one of the most full and complete performances I've ever seen. It's immensely satisfying, heartbreaking, and glorious.

Supporting actors include Robert De Niro, Zazie Beetz, Frances Conroy, Brett Cullen and Shea Whigham. They are all great, but this is Phoenix's movie. 

The imagery of the movie is beautiful, as many movies are, but sets itself apart by serving to elevate the film beyond making it look nice. Framing is all about evoking a visceral response, and colors used to convey emotion. Sets and lighting play their part in setting the right mood too. Gotham has never been more beautiful, looming, bold, or grimy. Scenes are filmed with purpose behind the structure, and the effect is that the film feels richer, and more focused. Intentional. My favorite, and perhaps the most obvious example, is the huge flight of stairs Arthur must traverse to go home every day. He trudges up them in weighty gloom day after day -- until he snaps, and dances down them, having embraced the new life he's descending towards.

I've heard Joker declared to be not really a comic book movie at all, and though it isn't what is currently expected of CBM's, being free of action sequences and the narrative structure of good fighting evil, it's not true that it's a basic, "one man's descent into madness." Since when was being a popcorn movie a requirement of CBM's, anyway? DC especially has a dark richness to it that practically begs for serious and introspective character studies like this one. Iconic characters and fleshed-out fictional worlds used to examine truths, ideas, and perspectives -- without the baggage of reality -- in vivid color, and that heightened aspect that comic books provide so effortlessly. Through the lens of a comic book, this tragedy becomes art in a way it never could otherwise.

If DC continues in this direction instead of blindly following the MCU, we're in for a treat. 

Comic book films can be a lot of different things, and I'm glad to see that they haven't become completely pigeonholed yet. Joker is a difficult movie. Not so much because it's dark with disturbing aspects and a bleak ending. In fact, the ending isn't bleak at all, but you'd have to see the film to understand my meaning on that. Joker is difficult because it challenges you in ways you might not be prepared for; and connects with you in the same surprising manner. It moved me deeply, and I can't believe I'm saying this, but I cannot wait to go through it again. No, it's not bleak; it compels you to search for hope.

Dark

Spoiler-free!

When Jonas Kahnwald returns to school in the quiet town of Widen, Germany on November the 4th, 2019, all his schoolmates think he spent the last two months in France, but that isn't true. Really, he spent the time in a psychiatric hospital trying to recover from the trauma of his father hanging himself in the attic that August. All he missed was a local boy, Erik, going missing -- oh, and his best friend Bartosz is now dating the girl he likes, Martha. Things don't seem to be looking up, but at least they know where Erik kept his drug stash -- out by Widen Caves. A group of them go out there after dark, and some strange sounds and a wild sprint back to safety later, another of their number is missing. This time, Martha's younger brother Mikkel.

A German-language Netflix show, directed by Baran bo Odar, co-created with Jantje Friese.

What follows for the next nine episodes is a breathtaking downward spiral of ever-increasing complexity and interweaving madness that will leave your head spinning. There are so many elements going on in this show that I can't possibly hope to cover all of them. I'll stay away from plot for no spoilers, and unfortunately can't talk much about the characters either for the same reason -- plus there are just plain too many of them. Nearly 20 could easily count as main characters, and they all have their motivations, secrets, and conflicts with each other. At the center is always Jonas (Louis Hofmann), but even he doesn't appear in two of the ten episodes, so wide is this show's scope. Ulrich Nielsen (Oliver Masucci), Mikkel's father and a detective looking for the missing kids, is the only person in all ten.

So, it's down to quality, technique, tone, and vibe then -- and I could talk about the latter two all day, but let's start at the top. I'm not sure how big a production this was in Germany, but it was either impressively big or incredibly efficient with what it had, because it comes across as massive. It opts for practical effects over digital whenever possible, and invests strongly in what it has. The casting director (Simone Bär) deserves a medal; you rarely see such obvious care put into the amassing of a cast, let alone one this big and this capable. And the score caught my notice by being so strange and mood-setting with odd percussion sounds, and weird airy hoots and screeches. Then the soundtrack is occasionally obscure and always to die for.

Some German, some English, some 80's classics, and some strange to amazing modern stuff.

Writing is clearly exceptional. I am amazed at how masterfully this complex plot was doled out for a steady build of wonderment. Every reveal has maximum impact. And I have to say I loved hearing the German language spoken by normal people. More often I hear it in WWII pics where it's made to sound as harsh as possible, but here it's so laid back and beautiful. Rich, with an edge, just like the show itself. Though I'm sure at least a little is lost in translation, the lines are smart but not showy, and nicely cryptic, forgoing blatant exposition, so many connections in the plot are made in reverse, which is a remarkably satisfying thing to accomplish.

The scifi elements are presented with such realism, and the character's reactions to them are the perfect level of confusion and acceptance that things never come too easily, but no one's annoyingly obtuse in understanding either. Objectively the show is paced slowly, but as you watch it, it feels relentless, like if you don't keep up, you'll be left behind. No serving things up on a platter here; we must dive in with the characters to discover and piece things together. Nicely, the show does give us the required information to solve a mystery before the character does, and this slow accumulation of clues helps. The first time I watched it, I was on the verge of being lost the whole time, and the mental challenge it presented was thrilling.

Even just keeping track of who is in who's family was a fun challenge!

One of my favorite things this show does is probably at least partially meant to provide a break from the mental strain, and it is that in the 3/4 mark of every episode (or nearly every) the plot will pause, and the soundtrack will gear up to a thousand and play a moody piece of licensed music while the show casually checks in on its characters -- usually not doing anything particular except being moody. The show does have consistent style throughout, but it's these moments that really leave an impact as to how incredibly beautiful this show gets. It lays it on thick, and without an ounce irony; and it's mesmerizing. This show doesn't hold back, doesn't apologize, and doesn't need to. It's fascinating, and richly decadent.

My other favorite thing is how well the characters are handled. We get to know them all deeply, and whether our knowledge leads to love or hate for them, it's always done with subtlety -- with sympathy for the bad ones and flaws for the good. I found it wonderfully satisfying to harbor hate for one particular character, but it doesn't lack in villains. And I naturally invested with Jonas' story most, but there's no lack of lovable, sympathetic, and fascinating characters either. Character arcs are a strange thing, and often are completed out of order, so that the journey is only perfectly clear in retrospect. Theme is remarkable, and remarkably well done: I almost wish I could explain, but even with spoilers I'm not sure I could do it justice. It seems to go deeper than I could find the words or the time to describe. Suffice to say, it left an impact.

"What we know is a drop; what we don't, an ocean."

Dark is streaming on Netflix. I recommend it as a science fiction mystery and drama; bleak, but determined to entertain with every moment. Comparable to Stranger Things, but with less pop-culture and comedy, and for more mature audiences. Its relaxed pace and dark tone won't be for everyone, nor its complex puzzle of characters and rare mature content; but another season is on its way, so now's the time to catch up if it at all appeals to your sensibilities. For me, I'm excited to see where these characters will lead us next -- with new interweaving mysteries, a fresh bounty of mind-blowing twists, that sweet, sweet mood-setting soundtrack, and patent German style -- eager to discover what the future holds for this magnificent treasure of a show.

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse

Spoiler-free!

Ever since Tobey Maguire, we've seen plenty of silver screen iterations of Peter Parker. Time to give Miles Morales a place in the spotlight. He sure does make it shine.

In a movie that could easily be overstuffed and distracted, it all serves to help him along his way.

Plot, premise -- whatever. It's a tale as old as time, really, and you know it already. There's Miles. (Shameik Moore) He becomes Spider-Man. Through related circumstances, other Spider-Men/Women/Beings accidentally get pulled into and trapped in his universe. They need to get back. Spider-Man is the only one who can get them back. And Miles Morales is the one-and-only Spider-Man!

Somehow I didn't expect this to be an origin story. Not sure why, as in retrospect it's obvious. But while it is an origin story for Miles in the sense that when the movie begins he's not Spider-Man and when it ends he is, it does away with the dragging feeling of a typical origin tale by doing away with one thing. See, the main restriction of origins like Spidey is that they're lonely. The hero randomly obtains these incredible powers, and has no one to tell. No one to confide in. No one to give clear advice. So, he flounders by himself. It's natural, and it's not like it doesn't work as a story. It can be and has been compelling. Many, many, many times. Time for a fresh angle.

Like a super strange mentor situation maybe...

Enter Peter Parker (Jake Johnson), Gwen Stacy (Hailee Steinfeld), Spider-Man Noir (Nicholas Cage), Spider-Ham (John Mulaney), and Peni Parker (Kimiko Glenn). It may sound complicated but no worries. The first is the classic Spidey, just older and a bit washed up. Then, naturally, Spider-Woman. The noir one exists in edgy black and white newsprint and wears a fedora, the next is a cartoon pig (self-explanatory if you ask me), and finally the anime version with a cute little girl and her pet spider. They're what drive Miles to truly becoming Spider-Man -- in that if he doesn't, they can't get home, and they're there to instruct and advise. There is still floundering, and loneliness to deal with too, but it all hits so much harder when it's sudden, and not par-for-the-course.

It only felt like an origin it the obligatory power-manifestation scene (which was unusually funny; it's usually just cringe to me) and then near the end for a moment. In between it could've any other day of the week, of missions and plots and action/adventuring. Miles spends a lot of time sans webslingers. A great choice because the lessened ability made for higher stakes. And he wears a Spider-Man Halloween costume. No, I'm not kidding. There were moments I wished he'd get a real suit already, but once he did, I understood why they delayed it so long. Well, besides thematically. The personality comes through so much better in the pieced-together, home-spun suit, it really does. And Miles is not a character you want to hide.

Plus, the long-awaited suit reveal moment was spectacular. (Or should I say "ultimate"?)

Anyway, the movie very respectfully but very firmly sidelines the side-Spider-Beings. If you're worried the movie might be crowded with them, don't be. They appear when they're useful and don't hog the scenery. If Spider-Ham isn't doing something worth looking at, you don't see him. Plain and simple. And there's a definite hierarchy of importance with these characters. Miles is number one. Always and forever, and the movie never forgets it. Peter is next, then Gwen. They have arcs. The rest get solid moments to shine. The temptation to overuse Spider-Ham had to be huge, but they never do. This is Miles' movie, and boy is it Miles' movie.

He's instantly established as the every-kid type, with his own passions (street art and music), his own issues that would seem big for a normal kid (being transferred to a boarding prep school) and complex relationships. He has no annoying-level problems with his dad (Brian Tyree Henry), but there's enough tension between them to be important as the plot rolls on. And he admires his maybe-not-so-great-but-definitely-very-cool uncle (Mahershala Ali). He's also enough of a dork to consider the friend-zone a fine place to be, and I think that's just too cute. Fact is, you care about this kid from the get-go, and from there it's only up.

Gwen is so extra. She has ballet shoes, and they're teal, AND they're point shoes, AND she USES them!

The voice performance by Shameik Moore is infused with teenage innocence and pathos to remarkable levels. To the point where I was shocked at how relatively inexperienced an actor he is. I took him for a long-time professional voice actor. Jake Johnson also is remarkable. He hits the comedy and the genuine drama equally well. Zoë Kravitz is Mary Jane. Liev Schreiber plays Kingpin. Chris Pine is there for a hot second. I mean -- Nicholas Cage! As a hard-boiled Spider-detective! There's not a bad performance in the lot -- whether for pitch-perfect comic delivery, or heart-breaking drama, or both together -- and since I don't have space to individually praise everyone who left an impression, I'll have to leave it at that.

Animation style is the big thing that sets this film apart. Without it, it would feel fairly typical, and even cheesy if they kept the filming style. It was a risk -- the thing that had most potential to put off viewers. Its goal was to maintain a comic-book look. There are print dots and hashing in the bright, comic-y colors. The motion is sometimes visibly choppy, like the movie's running at a slow frame-rate. (Much like The Lego Movie, for comparison.) And there's sometimes panels and split-screens. Miles' thoughts even translate to thought boxes for one sequence. In my opinion, it not only works -- it's the thing that makes the movie. I'm a firm believer in a movie's style matching the style of it's main character, and they nailed it here.

Even without the stylistic flair the animation is wonderful. Those expressions and character designs!

I couldn't ask for more. Grand, colorful, peppy and powerful in turn, uproariously hilarious beyond expectation, with gleefully involving characters and a plot line that doesn't feel stretched thin in this comic-book-movie world. Yes, this movie may be one of many, but like it's new-to-the-team hero, it plays it like it's the one-and-only. I could have happily existed in that crisp, splashy, and moving little universe for another adventure, or two, or five. So, welcome to the team, one-and-only Spider-Man!

Mission: Impossible - Fallout

Spoiler-free!!

This is what happens when the people who work on a franchise respect the franchise. Each film stands alone, yet each new release still inspires fans to rewatch previous installments. The past is respected, but the agenda is always to move forward. And the films themselves... they never count on selling tickets by brand-name, but are hard and winning pieces of filmmaking; carefully crafted and assembled by talented people who push the envelope beyond the realm of the possible. In a world overflowing with franchises, Mission: Impossible stands alone.

How does it do it? Well, you could say it's in the job description.

I could spend all day talking about this franchise as a whole. How it's a trendsetter, how casting choices always give dramatic boosts to the actors' future careers as they cycle through, or how the films are contradictory; of an extremely high quality, but also mainstream action films made to entertain. Entertainment can get lost in the fray of making films into high art or a message to change the world, but entertainment has always been the goal of Tom Cruise, and he always seems to trust the continued creation of this, his baby, to artists who share his vision.

Christopher McQuarrie is the first M:I writer/director to stay on for two films, and as he's taken the series to a whole new level, the second one feels like an extra-deserved bonus round. From my perspective, Fallout is similar in construction pattern to Rogue Nation, but makes everything new again in the way a fresh director usually does. Under his direction, the creative action beats are even more relentless, thrilling, and involving. I'm not usually vocal during movies at the theater, but I was exclaiming things like, "Oh no!" or "Look out!" all over the place. Once I even pointed at the screen and told Ethan, "He's over there!"

It's either a death-wish or a contagious and daring desire to entertain.

McQuarrie crafted this movie intentionally that way, because what's the point of all those practical effects and stunts if it doesn't all engage with the viewers and keep them thrilled, amazed and eager for more? This isn't a character film, but the story is personal enough for the characters to let us care about the result, down to each small goal. This whole film feels like a series of impossible tasks that, when each is amazingly accomplished is a mere stepping stone to the next. Even the extended sequences are constructed that way, keeping boredom far, far away.

Tom Cruise is amazing. He does his own stunts, his own driving, motorcycle riding, helicopter-flying, and fist-fighting. He executes difficult skydiving maneuvers, and even breaks his foot and keeps going until the take is over. Still my favorite is always the running. There are few things that can be captured on film as thrilling as a tracking shot of Tom Cruise in a full sprint. At some point he even has some genuine acting to do, and at that point he's just showing off. And I hope Simon Pegg stays as long as Cruise does, because Benji is basically the heart and soul of these movies. He handles the comedy, and always gets something awesome to do too.

Tom always comes out at the center, but he's not afraid of sharing screen time or being overshadowed.

Rebecca Ferguson is back, still brimming with grace and power, and feels so settled into the team it would be sad if she left now. Ving Rhames is always a great addition, and this film uses him better than ever. Sean Harris was the one return I was hesitant about, but seeing how he was utilized, it all make sense now. Then we have newbie lady Vanessa Kirby. She's this movie's personification of one of the main reasons I adore this franchise as more than films, but as boosts for actors. She's a good actress in need of a step up and is given a spotlight to take advantage of. She does. She stuns with a joyfully sultry character.

And, Henry Cavill. He's more well-known already by mainstream audiences, because mainstream audiences always know who's playing Superman. But his M:I role still gives him the same kind of opportunity as it does Kirby -- even more so since his character is more prominent -- a chance to impress, and to show himself to be capable of more than he's known for. He knocks it out of the park, and I've never enjoyed him more. He was so perfectly irritating and pompous. I hope this can rocket him out to find new roles that are more fun and/or meaty than the dull, handsome hunk of meat.

I sense good things in this guy's future.

Some of the set pieces blew my mind, and I spent a lot of time full-on giggling at how awesome everything gets. With a very basic understanding of how the production works, the stunts and camerawork are awe-inspiring. Sometimes you might realize how hard that would've been to pull off, like the skydiving shot, and sometimes I was simply left agape, wondering how the heck they did that, like the first hurdle of the helicopter sequence. It feels real because, well, it kind of is. But the movie does have moments for you to catch your breath with small and intimate character scenes, too.

I barely noticed with how completely mind-boggled I was over the relentless action, but there were a few one-on-one talking scenes that were full of subtext and motivations and themes to explore -- just like any other movie that doesn't feel like non-stop running, fighting, and crazy death-defying stunts. And those scenes are every bit as alive and electric as the action, not functional plot-ties only, but engaging on a different level. There's not much emphasis on character, and the plot isn't overly-complex; but even in the backseat, the same wonderful, commendable devotion is applied all around.

What the heck.

There's no shortage of films that are carefully crafted to have artistic merit, and, there are no shortage of films that are meant to be entertaining. Mission: Impossible is the place where those two sides unexpectedly intersect. Fallout is an immaculate and artistic creation; three years in the making; worth nearly two-hundred million dollars; of massive scale and aggressive ambition; and it was built to do one thing, and one thing only -- knock your freaking socks off.

Lean on Pete

Spoiler-free!

Want to see the saddest, most wonderful movie ever? It's this one. A heartfelt and brutal coming of age tale, where Charley (Charlie Plummer) the teen son of an affectionate but neglectful single dad (Travis Fimmel), must find his way through a hard and cynical world when he's left alone.

How does he get by? He leans on Pete.

Written and directed by Andrew Haigh, based on a novel. Charley gets a job at a horse track run by Del (Steve Buscemi), who cheats and misuses his animals in his desperate attempts to keep afloat. There, Charley becomes attached to a failing racehorse called Lean on Pete, and worries for Pete's safety. He must also contend with drama at home, and when things go bad, and then worse, his own inherent aversion to accepting help from strangers, who only ever seem interested in interfering with his life. The movie observes as he tries to go it alone, only to be beat down by life every step of the way.

The plot's constant down-turning is heartbreaking, but never enters unconvincing territory. Disaster gets its due of foreshadowing, and bad choices made are also the most natural ones -- stemming from Charley's flawed mindset, and admirable sense of obligation. He does reprehensible things out of perceived necessity; regret and an inner war is clear, yet his goal drives him on. Adults and authorities can seem antagonistic and careless, but they have cares of their own. There's no black and white villainy; it's just Charley's stubborn and driven naivete, clashing with a jaded and immovable world.

The movie is wholly dedicated to showing us who he is, and what he wants, even when he can't articulate it.

Charlie Plummer owns this movie. Even as a young, up-and-coming talent, this kind of role is already familiar to him -- he's a coming-of-age pro. His repressed, moody air is perfect for the film's tone, as is his magnetic screen presence for the singular focus on character. I loved seeing the subtle tips of balance he gives between telling the truth, and lies. Sometimes he'll give an expression that reads like words as to what he's thinking; communicating so well physically, that you only need the dialogue as a kind of enhancing chaser. Although the dialogue is often magnificent in its simplicity and powerful subtext.

I was so zeroed in on him that I feel like I barely ever looked at supporting characters, though that was almost certainly intentional on the movie's part. It frames him so that we're always drawn to him, but also so we'll constantly search too, to see him better. The supporters are excellent too, though, especially Steve Buscemi, and Chloë Sevigny who plays Bonnie, a jockey working for Del. And Travis Fimmel's father is fascinatingly complex. They have moments of guidance for Charley, but one by one, they falter. Passing characters feel real, though they're exclusively there to affect Charley. We mainly see his reactions to them, not them.

The cinematography felt like art in and of itself. Those desert landscapes. 

In true indie style, the movie utilizes long takes with confidence and grace, adding to the impact of performances, and keeping the film grounded and natural. But the longer shots are also often on the move, so changing of angle and environment is still there to hold interest. Camera movements stay simple, and there's no finagling to force extra long length. Two minutes is about as long as they go, and only then in key scenes. One such scene I can't figure exactly how they did it, but that's spoiler territory. The story is conveyed visually, and of course, crafted to reflect back on Charley.

The whole movie is a journey to understanding him; a task both easy in individual moments, and complex in the over-arc. If you think it's strange I haven't mentioned much of titular character, that's because this film isn't about the horse, really. We care only that Charley cares about him, and ultimately, as Bonnie says, he's just a horse. Well, maybe not. He's a mirror through which we can see Charley, and a metaphorical crutch for Charley to lean on as he chases goals and runs from pain. In the end the story is about family and home; Charley, and his father; a character much absent, but always in mind.

"Sorry I can't give you more." "No, don't worry about it. This is... I don't need more."

The heavy nature of the plot, the emphasis on artistic tone, and the methodical pacing doesn't make this one easily accessible to viewers strictly out for a good fun time -- but for anyone who loves character study, coming of age dramas, and the individuality of personal indie films, Lean on Pete is a must see; one of those rare films that utilizes its every feature in immaculate harmony. Moving, hard, and honest, it never sinks into sentiment or melodrama, but stings to the core, moves to empathy, and, somehow, like the best of its kind, finds hope through it all. A wonderful beast, indeed.

A Quiet Place

Spoiler-free!

Mysterious creatures who hunt by sound have invaded and prowl the earth, and a family lives silently to survive among them. John Krasinski takes a giant step into the artistry of writing and directing, and though his movie is often quiet, it delivers a deafening bang.

Not his first directing or writing effort, but there's something special and significant about this one. Like he's crossed a boundary.

But he doesn't do it alone; the original screenplay was written by Bryan Woods and Scott Beck, who I'm sure deserve plenty of credit even if Krasinski did additions/changes/rewrites/whatever it is he did, because the story -- from its basic premise right up to the finely tuned more superfluous moments -- is masterful. Krasinski stars with his real-life wife Emily Blunt, and they both tear up the screen with strong, emotional, and nuanced performances. The kids who play their children also do a great job, especially Millicent Simmonds, the oldest, whose talents and character importance is right up there with the adults.

She's deaf in real-life, and her character is deaf in the story, which is why the family is all fluent in sign language, only 80 days into an apocalypse that requires silence. The practical, sensible way they live with this unprecedented restriction is thoughtful and full of rich detail. I love when movies make me think and ponder what I would do in an impossible situation, and that's the first thing this film does remarkably well. A low-key, semi-scifi culture that is endlessly interesting even without the monsters.

I love how the anger had to be quiet, too.

The next thing this film does right is, it has a family drama at the heart of its horror/thriller plot. It's relatively simple -- simple enough to be carried properly with limited dialogue -- but effective in wonderful, heartbreaking, and stake-raising ways in turn. In a first viewing, this element, and the more internal, softer, warmer moments that make it up are overshadowed by an extremely enhanced sense of dread that something terrible could happen at any time. The juxtaposition of the family moments and the looming terror was far too effective to be unintentional, but I'm looking forward to fully appreciating the moments of peace and internal conflict next time.

It's fitting then, that the terror and suspense are the most prominent element since they are what makes a theater experience exciting. This is the side that Krasinski gets more than right; it's not just suspense building up to some good scares; this film is a study in tension. It's an artful exploration of fear and terror of the basest kind, and never lets up through its whole runtime. The monsters are scary, but when they show up, it's a relative relief from the tension, because what is frightening in this film is not the thing that comes to eat you, but the thing that draws them there -- noise. Watching this film, you fear sound.

This movie features the most effective jump-scare I've ever witnessed. Usually I hate jump-scares, but they are so appropriate here!

And when you fear sound, the potential for sound creates tension. And the potential for sound is so wonderfully, maniacally constant, that I got a backache from being tense for an hour and a half straight. I love how boiled down the horror element is. As terrifying as those creatures would be in real-life, there's too much distance between them and reality; so the movie digs down to the core, to a practically untapped reserve of the origins of fear, and exploits it beautifully. John Krasinski does a masterful job in putting the focus where it should be, for the exact right amount of time, to get the most enhanced effect possible.

Every moment had to have been meticulously assembled. The plot structure runs smoothly without telegraphing its direction, and with even pacing -- nothing is under-explored, and no scenes become stagnate. Sound and lack of sound is used with special care to excellent results. I especially liked the times we would hear from the daughter's perspective. Camera placement and other visual aspects isn't as purely dedicated to enhancing the tension as the audio is, but gets occasional terrifying moments to shine; otherwise the film is consistently beautiful, but not in a distracting, overly artsy way.

It's very bold and simple, visually. I really liked it.

Though there is some dialogue here and there, plus the captioned sign language, the bulk of the story is told through visual methods. Essentially a silent film -- though sound is important, words are not -- it utilizes the fundamentals of visual storytelling. Characters don't just sit down and have a conversation, they express themselves physically. And there is no stilted, lazy exposition. Instead, we have to glean explanations and translate expression ourselves. It's presented in a sure way that's not difficult to understand, but the mere fact that it isn't handed to us unearned is commendable.

Because of the silent-film type style, the plot is pretty straightforward and the drama fairly basic. This is the closest thing to a flaw the movie has. No mind-blowing twist or turns, no complicated character motivations to study -- they're just a normal family trying to survive in a permanent dire situation. And occasionally this stretches into plot events. Sometimes things happen because they need to for the story to move, and it comes across like very bad luck. While this shakes the realism slightly for me, faulting it for that seems like nit-picking in the pettiest sense.

To quote Sabrina: "More isn't always better, Linus. Sometimes it's just more." This movie refrains from overreaching.

This film allows a few traditional tropes on the side, while focusing on what it wants to do exceptionally with fervent vigor. The result is a streamlined film that follows a narrow path with absolute dedication, and takes its elements of focus to envelope-pushing extremes. It has constant, immaculate, smartly crafted tension. It has a reason for you to care, displayed through powerful performances, especially from Emily Blunt. It's thrilling and emotional, but not pushy or contriving. And it's artistic in the most natural, unpretentious and honest way possible.

Completely unrelenting, and wholly welcoming, A Quiet Place is a terrifying but open place, inviting you to enter and lend yourself to its power; it may be frightening, but it returns you safe again when it's through, with a heart fuller than when you arrived.

Dunkirk

Spoiler-free.

That Dunkirk is a great piece of filmmaking is no surprise. That it is immaculately crafted in Nolan's palpable style, that it's a beautiful and loud, that it's an intense and visceral experience; all things expected. I honestly expected that it would be every bit as well-made a film as it truly is, and from a technical aspect, as flawless as they come. I expected to feel and appreciate it's worth, but, as with so many other films of its type, to not be able to form a personal attachment to it; its story or its characters. That I would be impressed and pleased, but untouched; approving and satisfied, but aloof. As the movie continues to sink in, my surprise continues to grow, because this wartime epic is sinking straight into my heart.

"You can practically see it from here." "What?" "Home."

Unconventional in style, Dunkirk gets a non-linear timeline from writer/director Christopher Nolan that evokes a similar reaction to what we got with his sci-fi movies like Inception. The "what's going on?"'s and the quiet gasps of realization as pieces fall into place are unexpected in a true-event war film, but the three overlapping timelines made pacing a breeze, and the film feel like a concise and stand-alone story, instead of a small piece of the giant big-picture that is WWII. Executing the story with precision and minimal exposition, Nolan counts on the intelligence of his audience, and that feeling of confidence, all too lacking in all too many movies, is most welcome.

The oddest thing about this film is its characters. While labeling Fionn Whitehead's character of Tommy (so named in the credits but never mentioned in the film) as the lead is the most accurate thing to do, really the movie declines to adhere to traditional film-character guidelines such as lead or secondaries, heroes or villains, revealing names, or even conducting well-rounded character arcs. Characters come and go and we are served a brief glimpse into their lives within this crisis. Tommy gets lead status from me not simply because he's most present throughout the film, but more because his essence reflects the movie's tone, so even in the corners of the story the character doesn't literally observe, the film consistently feels as though it's shown through his eyes. If any character is important to the film, even as it doesn't rely on character, it's him.

His face is striking, and gorgeous in the cinematography, but, that's not what makes him the best pick to be the film's poster-child.

The timeline he belongs to is the longest and most filled with familiar faces. Aneurin Barnard and Harry Styles are often by his side, and Kenneth Branagh and James D'Arcy are in command on the beach. In the second timeline civilian Mark Rylance captains a yacht to the rescue. He is wonderful, and the two boys assisting him (Tom Glynn-Carney and Barry Keoghan) are excellent. Cillian Murphy's harrowing character is just called "shivering soldier." The third timeline is in the sky with heroic Tom Hardy and his wing-man Jack Lowden. Performances are all-around excellent; subtle and exceptionally real. And characterization is such as each soldier who wanders through the frame bestows that feeling you get when you pass a stranger on the street, and are suddenly acutely aware that they have a life of their own that you'll never understand. Though we often don't get to see it, we know there's more to them.

Visually the film is spectacular and intimate, giving an epic, raw experience that has that "like you're really there" feeling like nothing else I've seen. Shots from the air, showing off the distant ocean as planes chase each other down, took my breath away. And my ears are still stinging from the explosions of gunfire. I hated watching people drown, and I felt like cheering out loud in the moments of elation, relief and success. And importantly, I never felt prodded to feel those things. Nolan had no underlying agenda here; he just told his story and made it something worth witnessing, leaving us to understand, judge and love characters, and come to conclusions on our own. Hand-holding has no place in this film's style, and point-making within such complexity is arrogant and cheapening.

The emotions in this movie are as un-fabricated and honest as fiction can be.

Sweeping and intimate, deafening and still, distant and involving, Nolan has again broken convention to tell a story, and the result is a magnificent, one-of-a-kind piece of art. Tense, suspenseful, terrifying; everything it's expected to be. Poignant, complex, and sincere; everything it needed to be. A beautiful assault on the senses. Dunkirk defies the odds, breaks the rules, and becomes something extraordinarily special and magnificently rare; but is, at the end of the day, simple to define: an outstanding war film.