On March 11, 1989, Cops premiered on American TV. The reality show—still going strong today after 33 seasons—pairs camera crews with American law enforcement, giving small-screen viewers a front row seat to the day-to-day protection provided by the men and women of countless local, state, and federal jurisdictions. Invoking memories of Cops comes Ukrainian Sheriffs, a ride-along documentary from director Roman Bondarchuk.

The doc follows the exploits of a pair of sheriffs—Victor and Volodya—in the remote Ukrainian village of Stara Zburjivka. The duo, appointed by village Mayor Viktor Marunyak, respond to any and all calls from the town’s 1,800 residents, be they issues as mundane as domestic complaints or as serious as the discovery of a dead body. With cameras ever at the ready, the film is reminiscent of that American reality crime show.

Truth be told, Ukrainian Sheriffs pales in comparison to Cops from the angle of pure onscreen gratification. Where the US television show has the luxury of cherry-picking from only the sauciest of crimes recorded, this film, despite covering a period of time that is at least a year long (based only on seasonal clues), has very little excitement in the area of criminal activity. Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe, in a town of 1,800 citizens, things like broken windows and domestic squabbles are good to be the worst things these men see. But that doesn’t make it a compelling documentary. And while it’s quaint that Victor and Volodya are less enforcers of law and more voices of reason (arbitrating conflict in most cases and deferring real crime to Ukrainian police officials), it all grows tiresome.

Bondarchuk also struggles to find anything interesting in the personal lives of his two protagonists. The film attempts to humanize these individuals, but instead only succeeds in giving the viewer a look behind a very dull curtain, revealing activity that isn’t interesting beyond the base curiosity of seeing how people live in a part of the world otherwise unknown.

Where the film excels, though, is its look at the bigger political picture. The film is slow to start, but as it gets going, it delves into political areas similar to those found in other Ukraine-centric docs like Maidan and Winter on Fire, by visiting and revisiting the escalating Crimean tensions. However, Ukrainian Sheriffs does so on a local scale—namely, how the national crisis and the battle with Russia could affect local men subject to being drafted. It’s thought-provoking stuff that offers insight into the conflicting approaches to responsibility, survival, and patriotism that these men wrestle with, and that other men judge them on.

As a whole, Ukrainian Sheriffs can’t meet the challenge to make its own subject matter interesting. It might have its moments, but those moments aren’t enough to compensate for the rest. This is a film best suited for Ukrainian doc completists or people with a vested interest in the regional ongoings.

When Sonita premiered last year at Amsterdam’s documentary film festival IDFA, it walked away with the audience award, a win that isn’t too surprising considering the film’s story. Director Rokhsareh Ghaem Maghami follows Sonita, an 18-year-old Afghan immigrant living with her sister and niece in Iran. Sonita is a restless creative, who aspires to become a rapper despite the personal, cultural, and political hurdles in her way. And perhaps the biggest hurdle comes from Sonita’s own family, who tell her she needs to come back home so they can force her into an arranged marriage. The reason for the marriage is purely financial: they’ll be selling her off to another family, and by doing so will have enough money to pay for the wedding of Sonita’s brother.

Sonita plays out as a conventional success story, and Maghami’s commitment to this structure eventually holds the film back from exploring issues beyond Sonita’s own story. It’s an issue that comes to a head around the midway point when Sonita is days away from being taken back to Afghanistan. After Sonita’s mother says she’ll postpone the wedding if they get some money, Maghami considers paying the family off herself, a breach of ethics that even her own crew tells her to avoid doing. Maghami’s transparency about her own involvement into the story, along with her selfish intentions (at one point she says that if Sonita goes to Afghanistan her movie will be over), adds a layer of complexity that winds up highlighting her film’s shortcomings.

By paying off Sonita’s family to let her stay in Iran, Maghami exposes her desire to mold the film in a way that fits the success story narrative. And while Maghami’s openness about becoming a direct player in her film is commendable, it’s not a topic she dwells on too much; the debate over her actions gets swept under the rug not long after it’s brought up, and the focus switches over to Sonita making a music video for her first proper single. It’s not the manipulation itself that’s bothersome (documentaries always manipulate in some form or another, and the expectation of objectivity is an archaic one), it’s that Maghami does it to help her film follow a smooth, accessible narrative arc.

Still, Maghami has found a compelling presence in Sonita, and her film has a feel-good quality that’s undeniable. But it’s hard to remove the feeling that, because of her motivations, Maghami is less of an observer and more of a puppet master.

The implicit trust that comes with viewing documentaries gets abused in Penny Lane’s NUTS!, a documentary about an interesting—and overlooked—story from Depression-era America. The subject in Lane’s film is Dr. John Romulus Brinkley, a doctor from Kansas who attempted to cure impotence by putting goat testicles into his patients. The method appeared to work, and Brinkley went on to be a success, turning his fortune into an empire when he invested it into building a radio station. As Brinkley’s success grew, the American Medical Association began targeting him because of his unorthodox medical practices, taking him to court and trying to ruin his businesses. Lane tells Brinkley’s story entirely through animated re-enactments, with a few talking head interviews along the way.

If the idea of goat testicle transplants curing impotence sounds too good to be true, that’s because it is; Brinkley was nothing more than an excellent con artist who took advantage of the placebo effect to paint himself as a medical genius. And Lane, taking inspiration from Brinkley, structures her film as a con job on viewers, treating Brinkley’s story as true until she pulls back the curtain in the final act. But Lane’s decision to deceive is misguided. In her attempt to point out how people are easy to let themselves be duped Lane only highlights the staleness of her message, along with the ethical murkiness of lying about such slight material. In reality, Lane’s deception is fueled by entertainment more than anything, as it gives her the ability to manufacture a twisty narrative while excusing her own behaviour by explaining herself at the end.

If NUTS! had a purpose for its narrative structure beyond trying to pull a fast one on viewers for kicks, it might have been less objectionable. Instead, Lane takes advantage of non-fiction for petty and selfish reasons, which makes Lane not too far removed from her own subject.

Wizard Mode, from directors Nathan Drillot and Jeff Petry, is named after a term used in the pinball community. Some pinball machines have something akin to a video game’s hidden or locked bonus level achieved after executing a series of difficult tasks. Salazar attempts to make a metaphoric connection between this achievement and the achievements of Robert Gagno, a top-10 globally ranked competitive pinball player and a twentysomething young man suffering from autism, who has been trying to live his life as normally as possible.

At a high level, the metaphor works. Just as Gagno strives to win pinball tournaments, climb the world rankings, and achieve “wizard mode” in those machines that have it, he realizes over the course of the film he has to put the same kind of focus on gaining his independence. He has goals—a job, a driver’s license, living on his own, and eventually romance—but it will take a “wizard mode”-level effort to achieve this.

Presented in the film are some components one would expect about the life of an autistic pinball wizard, like old home movies flashing back to Gagno’s youth while haunting voiceovers from his parents offer memories of learning about their son’s condition. There’s also footage of some tournaments Gagno competes in (with his father playing the role of chaperone, driver, and coach), plus a who’s who of globally ranked pinball players, about each of whom Robert can point out player strengths. But with the exception of that narrated home footage, none of these parts are the least bit compelling in their presentation. Even the moments at the tournaments—regardless of how Gagno performs at them—fail to generate any sense of excitement or intensity.

Those tournament scenes also expose two fatal flaws in the film. The first is that it’s incredibly one-sided. Perspectives are offered from Gagno and his parents, but the pinball community is not tapped to speak to the type of person or player Gagno is. The second is more of a technical issue: Salazar doesn’t know how to make pinball very interesting. There is a lot of visual action in the game of pinball, from the speed of the silver sphere to how much of a nudge will earn the player a tilt. All of that visual action, combined with the glorious sound of an arcade running at full speed, should grab the viewer’s attention, but that never happens.

Despite some strengths, Wizard Mode’s inability to ever find a rhythm is too much for the film to bear. Gagno seems like a good person, and pinball sure looks fun, but in this film neither of them are sold very well.

Regardless of industry—sports, music, journalism, etc.—a Hall of Fame is the last stop for anyone who has had an impact on, or is a legend within, their field. And what usually accompanies an induction into a Hall of Fame is a retrospective of that person’s life and/or career. Burlesque is no different, and director Rama Rau uses the Burlesque Hall of Fame induction weekend as the backdrop to her new documentary League of Exotique Dancers.

The film looks at the lives and careers of golden-age burlesque dancers, as recounted by the dancers themselves. The women, with sensational names like Gina Bon Bon, Kitten Natividad, and Lovey Goldmine, are as brash, sassy, and unfiltered as one would hope retired burlesque dancers would be. These “titans of tease” are also quite eager to capture one more moment in the spotlight, and they get their chance when asked to perform in front of a live audience as part of the induction weekend. The revisiting of their professional paths and personal perils within their vocation is positioned to offer a unique and thorough perspective on the history of burlesque dancing and the lives of its dancers.

In addition to the women’s tales, there are plenty of greater stories to be told in League of Exotique Dancers, including the history of burlesque (or at least its golden age), the impact—good or bad—the burlesque trade had on women (and not just the women featured here), and in the case of the dancer Toni Elling, how being an African-American burlesque dancer affected her in a racially-charged time in our country.

By the end of the film, none of these larger themes are ever explored. The perspectives of the dancers are certainly unique, but the thoroughness of their stories is the film’s ultimate weakness. This doesn’t happen in spite of the fact Rau has the shared experiences of these dancers in front of her, it happens because of it. Rather than pluck stories from each dancer’s life and use them to build any kind of greater narrative, Rau offers a hailstorm of experiences presented in such a staccato fashion that the film leaves the impression that each of the dancers filled out the same questionnaire and filmed their answers.

A few ladies talk about bad relationships. A few ladies talk about addiction. A few ladies talk about their current professions, and so on. It’s an attempt to tell history by way of list-making, and it fails to resonate. To its benefit, League of Exotique Dancers offers a terrific collection of vintage imagery, including still photos, old reels, etc., but these become nothing more than slideshow images accompanying a collection of verbal bullet points. There’s a story to be told about the golden age of burlesque. This film isn’t that story.

What begins as a search for a humourous news story turns into something far more insidious in David Farrier and Dylan Reeve’s Tickled, a documentary that’s living proof of how truth is always stranger than fiction. Farrier, a reporter in New Zealand, comes upon a website offering young men money to get tied up and tickled in front of a camera (something the site calls “Competitive Endurance Tickling” in the hopes of making it sound more professional). When he tries getting in touch with the site’s owners about doing a story, he gets a nasty reply mocking his sexual orientation followed by legal threats. The unexpected response only interests Farrier more, who recruits his friend Reeve to help investigate by flying to America in the hopes of finding out who creates these tickling videos. What they find is the stuff of conspiracy thrillers, except it involves an empire of online tickling fetish videos (like I said: truth is stranger than fiction).

Tickled is the kind of documentary that relies almost entirely on the twists and turns of its story, meaning that it’s best to go in knowing as little as possible about what Farrier and Reeve discover as they dig deeper into the rabbit hole they stumbled upon. It’s as if both directors know just how incredible their story is, preferring a straightforward, investigative approach that’s paced like a mystery/thriller. And while this approach is entertaining enough, its adherence to a more conventional narrative format winds up sidestepping some of the important questions and ideas that come up during the course of the investigation. There might be plenty to say here about the power of the internet, how for some it can be used more as a weapon than a tool, but it’s drowned out by Farrier and Reeve’s desire to package their film as something more accessible and familiar. Tickled tells a great, sensational story, one that will have people buzzing the same way that Catfish did back in 2010, but it’s hard to escape the feeling that Farrier and Reeve could have done a lot more with their story than simply tell it as is.

Two siblings’ underlying resentment for one another is put to the test by a new love interest in My Blind Brother, a rom-com that often feels like it’s cutting with a blunt edge. In a clever bit of character building, the film opens with Robbie (Adam Scott) effortlessly running through the end of a marathon while his brother, an able-sighted Bill (Nick Kroll) sweats the last leg out trailing behind on Robbie’s guide rope. Here both the plot and joke remains purely on the surface; Bill’s life and accomplishments are performed in his blind brother’s shadow. Often, the unsatisfying aspect to Sophie Goodhart’s directorial debut is in its inability to mine its premise further.

The brothers become increasingly petty to one another over Robbie’s new girlfriend Francie (Jenny Slate), a woman in crisis after her ex-boyfriend gets blindsided by a bus. Slate and Kroll have worked together previously and share a dynamic chemistry on-screen as a romantic pair. Her presence elicits a warmer, more verbally unhinged side to his character—the only version of him in My Blind Brother with charisma. She also has moments of unexpected vulgarity spoken with her delightful, squeaky tone. This movie and everyone in it knows that Francie is dating the wrong brother; however, in the frustrating tradition of romantic comedies, the tension is left to linger everyone cowers away from confrontation.

Considering the level of comedic talent involved, one of the most surprising elements to My Blind Brother is its saccharine quality. Robbie is treated as an unrepentant dick throughout the movie, only to be given a tearful confession at the movie’s end. The character’s disability provides a few solid gags but is handled with a level of naturalism. Kroll, Scott and Slate are all charming presences in their roles—as is a totally magnetic and slightly underserved Zoe Kazan as Slate’s roommate—but knowing each of those actors’ penchants for hilarity, My Blind Brother feels lean on humor.

My Blind Brother is mostly amusing and its performances are strong, however, the tone remains unwavering until the film’s ending: lightly comedic, but unrelentingly self-serious. With so little actively happening in the plot the movie grows dull between stretches of more consistent humor. Sophie Goodhart’s My Blind Brother is thinly plotted and familiar, but this mostly pleasant comedy has a winning romance at its center which elevates the film beyond standard fare.

“It’s a once-only chance to make the dead live again.” So states William Grimes, former book and restaurant critic, and current obituary writer, for the New York Times, in director Vanessa Gould’s marvelous documentary Obit. While the quote perfectly captures the essence of what real obituary writing is about, the film goes deeper than that, offering a lesson in history, a glimpse behind the scenes at the New York Times, a course in journalism, and a clinic in succinct writing.

It’s a tricky story to tell, as it combines a morbid subject with an activity—writing—that doesn’t necessarily make for compelling viewing. Gould understands this and rises to the challenge by approaching her subject from several angles. The backbone of the film is the linear thread: the anatomy of an obituary, from a fact-finding phone interview with a decedent’s widow first thing in the morning, to discussions on narrative approach in the afternoon, to filing the piece just under deadline in the evening.

Routinely stepping away from this so as not to get lost in function, Gould features a collection of deftly edited discussions with the NYT’s obit writing and editorial staff. Each discussion is fascinating, but none more so than those with Jeff Roth, the gloriously eccentric man in charge of “The Morgue,” where the newspaper’s history, and by extension the history of everyone who has ever been mentioned in the paper, is stored and catalogued. These discussions offer terrific anecdotal insight into the perception of obituaries and, more importantly, their history. This is where Gould’s film takes off.

A highlight reel of dazzling breadth, consisting of memories, news clips, and even video footage, spotlights one of the most interesting facets of obituaries: who gets one. Unlike your local paper, the NYT doesn’t publish everyone’s obit; someone has to have had a measurable impact to warrant one.

And it isn’t just celebrities, world leaders, or titans of industry who are considered to have had an impact. Included in this collection are the inventor of the Slinky, the pilot of the Enola Gay, an exotic dancer with ties to Jack Ruby, and the last surviving plaintiff from Brown v Board of Education, to name only a few. Every story is as amazing as the one before it and after, and if the anatomy of an obit is the backbone of the film, these highlight reels are the alluring soft parts.

With Obit, Vanessa Gould proves something I’ve said for years: pound-for-pound…or perhaps word-for-word is more apt…there is no better writing, and no better storytelling, in any national daily newspaper than there is in the obituary section. Obits are more than resumés of the deceased; obits are everyone’s last chance at life.

“The idea was to bring Vincent Lindon to uncharted waters in terms of his acting.” That’s director Stéphane Brizé describing the main reason behind using non-professional actors alongside the French veteran for his latest little slice-of-life film, The Measure of a Man. Slice-of-strife is more like it, as the story follows Lindon’s Thierry Taugourdeau, an everyman struggling with unemployment and an increasing sensation that his humanity is being eroded in the process. It’s Brizé’s third time working with Lindon, and first time working with DP Eric Dumont, whose previous work was solely on documentaries. Thanks to this naturalistic environment, the cinéma vérité style with the camera constantly following and observing Thierry, and the actor’s familiarity with the director; the weighted resonance in The Measure of a Man oscillates entirely from Vincent Lindon. The film may be little in terms of scale, but the performance at its centre is massive beyond measure.

Lindon disappears into Thierry so completely that he overpowers every other aspect of the film. The sole exception is perhaps Brizé’s and Olivier Gorce’s naturalistic screenplay, which teems with the kind of verbal exchanges that softly tighten the squeeze around a man’s soul. We follow Thierry in the middle of arguments, salvaging whatever pride he’s got left while talking to ex-colleagues from the factory that’s made him redundant. Sitting through partially-humiliating and demoralizing Skype interviews. Getting dissected like a frog in a lab by fellow job seekers, only to hear how none of his organs are functioning. We see him spending time at home with his wife and son, or enjoying a bit of dancing, and our hearts sink lower and lower at the hardships this good man is forced to endure because of an inhumane, profit-driven, system. Thierry finally does get a job, which brings a whole new type of moral challenge.

The kettle is boiling, that piercing whistle grows louder and louder, and it’s impossible to switch off. That’s what Lindon manages to convey through every pore in The Measure of a Man, one of the most depressing films of the year because of how realistic and immediately relevant it feels. The dedication on display by Lindon is let down by Brizé’s handling of the third act, wherein the climactic buildup isn’t nearly as gripping as anything that occurs in the first half of the film, while Thierry desperately searches for a new vocation. This is due to the stylistic choice of keeping Lindon mostly off-screen or on the side for the last half hour, hammering the point that the film is at its best whenever the camera is on Thierry. Those “uncharted waters” Brizé mentions earned Lindon a welcomed Best Actor award at Cannes, and important subject matter notwithstanding, it’s really the biggest reason one should go and seek this film out.

Originially posted on October 11th, 2015 as part of our NYFF coverage.

At a certain point during the WonderCon screening of AMC’s new show Preacher, based on the dark and brazen comic series of the late ’90s, I wondered fleetingly if what I was seeing was even allowed on television. Then I remembered AMC has basically rewritten the “rules” of television since Breaking Bad, The Walking Dead and Mad Men. The network that has pushed how ambitious and movie-like television can be, pushes that scope even wider with its most comic-like comic adaptation yet, and indeed perhaps done anywhere.

Whereas The Walking Dead is a gritty adaptation of a comic based in real-life scenarios and post-apocalyptic relationship dynamics, Preacher is your definitive supernatural and even horror-ish comic series. And not only does the show not tame down any of it, the show’s creators—Garth Ennis, creator of the original comic, with Evan Goldberg, Seth Rogen and Sam Catlin producing and writing as well—have figured out how to create a screening experience that feels similar to the pacing, reveals, and character details one gets when flipping through the panels of a comic.

Dominic Cooper is Jesse Custer, a man with a dark past (of which a few black and white flashbacks only really hint at) who returns to his hometown of Annville, Texas to be the local preacher. Of course, he’s not actually any good at it, and there’s the small matter of him not being entirely sure there is a God. Joining him by way of passing airplane is Cassidy (Joseph Gilgun, who’s role in the British show Misfits immediately gives him my personal approval) an Irish vagabond with fighting skills and an unnatural ability to regenerate by drinking blood. But it’s by far Tulip O’Hare (Ruth Negga, also a Misfits alum!), Jesse’s ex-girlfriend, who makes the most impressive entrance: wrestling with a bad guy in a moving car through a corn field and then putting together a homemade bazooka with a couple of farm kids to take down more bad guys.

Fans of the comic will be glad that another familiar face from the series is introduced in the pilot. Though, to be honest, you don’t forget a face like his. Eugene, aka Arseface, is a teen in Annville who sports a particularly freakish mouth after a botched suicide attempt. His introduction is just one of many darkly comedic moments in the series.

And in fact, what makes Preacher most work is that dark comedy. It’s subtle in parts, like a news channel playing in the background of a scene announcing Tom Cruise has exploded (all part of the supernatural plot of Preacher), and blatant in other ways like a slow motion zoom in on Jesse’s face as he gets an obvious sense of pleasure kicking the shit out of a dude who deserves it.

In the WonderCon panel, producer and writer Sam Catlin mentioned that they were determined not to create “AMC’s Preacher” or “Preacher the TV Series” but just plain “Preacher,” which would suggest we’re sure to see even more of the incredibly dark elements that make up this series. But credit is most certainly due to AMC, whose freedom-giving to its showrunners has yielded some pioneering results. Those of us feeling the sting of The Walking Dead’s season coming to a close soon can find solace in knowing our thirst for blood—and some needed comedic relief after a dramatic season—will be quenched come May.

Preacher premieres May 22 on AMC. Follow Way Too Indie for further coverage.

When looking at a festival like New Directors New Films, a question comes to mind: what should be expected from a first film? There are plenty of cases where a director’s first outing can produce a stunning masterwork, but it would be absurd to put those expectations on every single debut. It might be best to look at first features, especially within the context of a festival like ND/NF, through a bigger scale rather than scrutinizing each title on its own merits. Sometimes a first film can establish a new, distinctive, and underdeveloped voice, showing off filmmakers brimming with a potential that might not be fully realized just yet.

From what I’ve seen at ND/NF this year, Anna Rose Holmer’s The Fits feels like an ideal film for this festival. It starts out with a shot of Toni (Royalty Hightower), an 11-year-old girl doing push-ups in a boxing gym. She goes to the gym with her older brother Jermaine (Da’Sean Minor) every day after school so he can look after her, and while her tomboyish looks suggest she enjoys being surrounded by so much masculinity, it soon becomes apparent that she would rather be doing something else. One day, she discovers an all-girls dance crew practicing nearby and immediately gets hooked, signing up despite having no experience with dancing.

Holmer sets her film up as the story of an alienated youth but relies on form and texture to establish Toni’s feelings of isolation. The visuals and sound design represent Toni’s heightened perspective on the world, and without using much dialogue, Holmer lets viewers pick up on her protagonists’ internal issues through the film’s rigid and well-defined style. Using static shots, shallow focus and off-kilter framing (along with a great score from Danny Bensi & Saunder Jurriaans), Holmer and cinematographer Paul Yee create a tone that reflects Toni’s detachment from both the world of the boxing gym and the dance crew (a personal favourite: the way Holmer frames a group of boys at the gym going to town on a pizza, making them look more like animals fighting over a meal).

And as beguiling as Holmer’s film might be, it isn’t always effective. The detached vibe sometimes makes Toni too vague and undefined to understand what she might be feeling within a specific scene, a feeling that can make The Fits seem like it’s missing something that can elevate it into something truly special. That almost comes when Holmer introduces a mysterious plague that starts causing girls in the dance group to suffer intense seizures, an affliction that Toni seems to be immune to (which only contributes further to her feelings of solitude). The tonal shift doesn’t do much to address the film’s more opaque qualities, but it does make some of Holmer’s themes—like the fear that comes with entering adolescence—more resonant.

Still, even if The Fits doesn’t coalesce into something more than the sum of its parts, its flashes of greatness (of which there are many) certify Holmer as one to watch. On a moment-by-moment basis, The Fits remains compelling, and at several points Holmer achieves a synergy that combines form and content into something truly singular. It’s the sort of film that frustrates in a good way, making you wish it lived up to the immense amount of promise brewing just underneath each frame. Whether or not Holmer’s next project lives up to that promise remains to be seen, but I know that I’ll be eager to see whatever she does next.

The war in Afghanistan gets a supernatural twist with Clément Cogitore’s Neither Heaven Nor Earth, a military drama about soldiers confronting the unknown while stationed at the border of Afghanistan and Pakistan. It’s 2014 and the war is winding down, leaving Captain Antares (Jérémie Renier) and his men with little to do until they’re called back home. They’re stationed in a remote valley called Wakhan, where the villagers don’t like them and enemy soldiers hide in the surrounding desert. It all looks like business as usual for the soldiers, until one night when two men vanish without a trace. Antares launches a search, thinking they might have gotten lost or injured, but then another soldier disappears. And then another. And then the group of Taliban soldiers they’ve been fighting offer a ceasefire so they can look for their own men, who have also been disappearing one by one.

At a point where the plot should thicken, Cogitore decides to let things peter out instead, preferring to focus on Antares’ stubborn skepticism (when one soldier describes what’s happening as inexplicable, Antares says that they just haven’t found the explanation yet). Cogitore fails to convincingly portray Antares’ switch from skeptic to believer, and his refusal to provide any resolution about the mysterious disappearances becomes annoying as a result. If Cogitore doesn’t want to give any answers, then his questions should have enough substance to carry the film’s weight, which turns out not to be the case when watching Antares’ crisis play out in a dull, familiar fashion (at one point, Cogitore throws in a nod to Claire Denis’ Beau Travail that only serves as a reminder of better films already out there dealing with similar subject matter). And when hints of something more to the film pop up, like the vanishings acting as a symbol for the soldiers’ fears and anxieties, they get lost in Cogitore’s muddle. Despite its strong cast and impressive cinematography (courtesy of Sylvain Verdet, who makes good use out of the soldiers’ night-vision cameras), Neither Heaven Nor Earth only winds up squandering its great premise.

Neither Heaven Nor Earth screens as part of New Directors/New Films in New York City. To learn more about the festival or buy tickets, visit www.newdirectors.org.

As a filmmaker myself, I appreciate the execution of experimental filmmaking. Crafting and producing a film–any film–is no easy task and is a feat in and of itself. Even if it’s challenging to enjoy every aspect of experimental films, you can often find some appreciation whether it’s the brilliant cinematography, vibrant colors, interesting sound design, or bizarre acting. While experimental films aren’t usually my favorite kind of film as a member of the audience, I certainly found beauty in Celia Rowlson-Hall‘s acclaimed indie drama, Ma, which played at this year’s Sun Valley Film Festival.

Ma opens with a gorgeous silhouette of a desert landscape. Our lead (played by Hall) is found wandering the desert with nothing more than a long, ratty tee-shirt, and a pair of bright red cowboy boots she may have stolen from Teddy “West-Side” Mosby. Eventually, this woman emerges from the desert to a road and is met by Daniel (Andrew Pastides)—who stops for her. She climbs atop his hood and the two drive to a dumpy motor lodge where “Ma” is raped while her driver sleeps in the car. The next morning, the two continue to drive—this time with our leading lady riding in the car with the driver. The two then travel without a destination and spend their nights in a new motor lodge. We are faced with great metaphoric imagery—sand pouring out of paintings and sink faucets—and some wonderful choreography from the writer/director/lead Celia Rowlson-Hall.

Ma is absolutely beautiful. The sound design used in the film is incredible considering it contains almost no dialog. As an experimental film, it knocks it out of the park in many ways. With its slow pacing, difficult narrative, and often confusing visuals, the film may be a bit too surreal for the average movie-goer. As a piece of art and a specimen of visual poetry, Ma is a welcomed addition to the cannon of the medium.

This weekend, the 2016 Berlin Film Festival came to a close with the festival’s international jury awarding eight films that played in the main competition. Berlin, which used to be looked at as a tier below Cannes and Venice, has slowly shed that perception over the years thanks to premiering titles like The Grand Budapest Hotel and 45 Years (the declining stature of Venice might also be a factor too, but that’s a story for another day). Jury president Meryl Streep announced the winners with her fellow jury members, which included Clive Owen, past Berlin winner Małgorzata Szumowska and Italian actress Alba Rohrwacher.

The winners (listed at the bottom of the page) also help tell us a few things about Berlin and the state of world cinema right now. Here are a few things we learned:

Berlin isn’t afraid to take risks

Lav Diaz has been making films for nearly two decades, but his uncompromising approach to filmmaking and duration has acted as a sort of barrier to competing at a major film festival (when he does screen, he’s usually pushed to sidebars or out of competition slots). So it came as a shock when the Berlinale announced his latest film, the 8-hour A Lullaby to the Sorrowful Mystery, would actually premiere in the main competition. Berlin is the first of the three major festivals to give Diaz a spot on the main stage, and that alone helps establish the festival as a sort of risky alternative to Cannes (which caused a minor stir last year when it refused to consider Miguel Gomes’ epic Arabian Nights for the main competition) and Venice. Berlin still has a way to go with establishing an identity for itself—some of their competition selections still seem random—but if it continues to make moves like this one, it might start carving a place out for itself on the festival circuit where even the boldest and most unconventional works can coexist in competition with more friendly and prestigious festival fare.

The Alfred Bauer prize needs to go

First off, I want to be clear: I don’t think the Alfred Bauer prize is a bad idea. The prize, which some might consider third place, is an award “for a feature film that opens new perspectives.” It sounds like a nice way to honour a bold or daring title in competition but, in reality, it’s just a way for the jury to look like they’re not excluding “difficult” cinema. This year, the winner didn’t come as a surprise at all: Lav Diaz’s A Lullaby to the Sorrowful Mystery pretty much had this one locked up from the start. So while having Diaz in competition is great, the presence of the Alfred Bauer prize feels like Diaz’s film never had a fair shot at the Golden Bear to begin with. Unfortunately, even if the prize went away or changed its purpose of avoiding the exclusion of certain types of films, the association will probably still be there (much like how Best Director at Cannes has turned into “let’s give it to the most stylish and/or difficult one”), and until it’s gone the prize is going to look less like an award and more like an excuse.

Are you listening, Cannes?

Cannes shouldn’t have to worry about losing its status as the most prestigious film festival in the world (even if festival head Thierry Fremaux seems hellbent on turning Cannes into a laughing stock), but with every passing year, it looks more like a festival that needs to get with the times. And for a festival that loves to make egregious decisions, perhaps its most egregious one is the continued exclusion of documentaries from its main competition. The last time a documentary competed for the Palme was in 2004 when Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 9/11 walked away with the main prize, a decision that still irks some to this day. Perhaps that’s why Cannes hasn’t put a documentary in competition since, but Berlin doesn’t seem to have any biases when it comes to format. This year had two nonfiction films in the main competition, with Gianfranco Rosi’s immigration documentary Fire at Sea taking home the Golden Bear. Berlin isn’t the only major festival to show some love for documentaries either; Rosi’s previous film Sacro GRA won the Golden Lion at Venice, yet if either of them tried to compete in Cannes they would probably get denied. Perhaps Rosi’s two wins can be a sign to Fremaux and Cannes that, as documentaries continue to expand and evolve, the borders between fiction and nonfiction will continue looking arbitrary and archaic.

The unstoppable Mia Hansen-Løve

It’s only been less than a decade, but Mia Hansen-Løve has gradually climbed her way into the top tier of European directors working today, and with Things to Come she seems to have finally cemented her place. It wasn’t until 2009, with her second feature Father of my Children, that Hansen-Løve started making a name for herself (partially helped by her film earning a prize at Cannes), and with her next feature Goodbye First Love the fan base grew even more. 2014 turned out to be her biggest year, with her EDM tale Eden earning rave reviews and distribution deals around the world. Things to Come has Hansen-Løve going in an opposite direction from Eden (or, to put it properly, she’s just continuing to go in her own direction), this time crafting a story around a middle-aged philosophy professor (Isabelle Huppert) instead of a young DJ, and from the sounds of it the film is her strongest work to date. It received near-unanimous praise from critics (including high marks from Nik when he saw it), walked away with a Silver Bear for Best Director, and (perhaps most surprising) scored a slew of distribution deals, including a US deal with IFC Films. Not bad for a film with no major appeal beyond the presence of Huppert.

2016 Berlin Film Festival Winners

Golden Bear for Best Film – Fire at Sea, directed by Gianfranco Rosi

Silver Bear Grand Jury Prize – Death in Sarajevo, directed by Danis Tanović

Silver Bear Alfred Bauer Prize (for a feature film that opens new perspectives) – A Lullaby to the Sorrowful Mystery, directed by Lav Diaz

Silver Bear for Best Director – Mia Hansen-Løve for Things to Come

Silver Bear for Best Actress – Trine Dyrholm for The Commune, directed by Thomas Vinterberg

Silver Bear for Best Actor – Majd Mastoura for Hedi, directed by Mohamed Ben Attia

Silver Bear for Best Script – Tomasz Wasilewski for United States of Love, directed by Tomasz Wasilewski

Silver Bear for Outstanding Artistic Contribution (in the categories camera, editing, music score, costume or set design – Mark Lee Ping-Bing for the camera in Crosscurrent, directed by Yang Chao

Alex Gibney’s excellent new documentary, Zero Days, is infused with a sense of urgency, relevance, and terrifying propinquity. You’ll never look at your cell phone the same way again.

The way countries fight wars has evolved away from the sea (19^th century) and the sky (20^th century) to what it is today: a bunch of 0’s and 1’s in mind-bogglingly complex computer codes with the enormous potential to shut down a country’s entire nervous system, rendering them vulnerable to danger and destruction. It’s the 21^st century, and the name of the game is cyber warfare. Nations have already caught on whether they can talk about it or not, something viewers will either accept or be infuriated by. The documentary tells the story of Stuxnet, a kinetic cyber weapon of potential mass destruction, which was behind various reactor failures in Iran’s Natanz nuclear facility during President Obama’s first year in office.

Interviewing a range of professionals and people in-the-know, from Symantec coders to government insiders, nuclear physicists, and one anonymous NSA source that becomes the mother load of insider intel, Gibney and producing partner Marc Shmuger approach the subject of Zero Days as a techno-thriller choking on red tape, brimming with confidential state secrecy and mysterious agendas. As the source of Stuxnet unravels to something that ultimately makes it “look like a back-alley operation,” Zero Days will grip the viewer in ways that something like All The President’s Men must have been gripping when it opened people’s eyes to the Watergate scandal.

In the post-Snowden era of leaked information, it’s often humorous to see how much Gibney still runs into dead-ends and walls. Frustratingly, at a certain stage, there is a bit too much focus on finger pointing, which will give conspiracy theorists who have deluded anti-government stances more rope than they deserve. But Gibney pulls back on the politics just in time to conclude the frightening findings on a note of openness and discussion. If cyber warfare is the new normal, which technological advancement has turned into a foregone conclusion, nations need to start talking about it honestly and openly. Engaging from start to finish, Zero Days reminds us that Gibney is at his very best when documenting universal subjects as opposed to the Going Clear and Man In The Machine docs of last year, which, though compelling in their own right, are limited by the very nature of their own subjects.

Rating:
8/10

Considering how perceptibly poignant his first two features are, it was hard to picture a John Michael McDonagh movie quite like the unapologetic and misanthropic War On Everyone. But hey, you know what they say: everything is bigger in America. With War, McDonagh turns away from the finesse we witnessed in The Guard and Cavalry, perhaps as a way to satirize the version of the US everyone else sees. It’s tonally erratic, loud, and rude, and a hundred times funnier than his previous works. Unhinged, like a rabid dog running around that you still have the urge to pet, this anti-hero buddy cop movie has cult status written all over it, giving us a good hard look at the funny side of Alexander Skarsgard and reminding us that Michael Pena is a comedic national treasure.

Terry (Skarsgard) and Bob (Pena) are close friends and partners on the force, a job they use as a springboard and get-out-of-jail free card to do shady, corrupt business. Never starting their sentences with “You have the right to remain silent,” Terry and Bob abuse lowlifes to score drugs and money while trying to keep their private lives in some kind of order (but not really giving a shit about it). Bob is married to Delores (Stephanie Sigman), with whom he has two overweight sons; Terry is the loner alcoholic with the vibe of private eye in the 1940s from a parallel universe with a country twist, one that plays Glenn Campbell 24/7 on the jukebox. When a major deal goes bad, a British criminal (Theo James) gets on Terry and Bob’s radar, and the shitstorm starts brewing.

If you start looking at War On Everyone as anything other than a hilarious journey with entertainment as the only destination, you’ll be left with a pretty shallow outer shell. It’s all about setting up scenes, throwing punchlines, working off of McDonagh’s zing-tastic screenplay, and the unlikely dynamic that builds between Skarsgard and Pena (oh, and Caleb Landry Jones looking he stepped out of a post-modern stage play of A Clockwork Orange is not to be missed). Underneath the garish surface, there’s philosophy a-brewing; but too many swerves to random dead-end scenes stopped me from wanting to explore further. Luckily, it keeps getting back on the main road with a mean streak of anti-PC humor that’s ballsy, vibrant and refreshing.

Rating:
7/10

As I mentioned in our Top 10 Anticipation feature for this year’s Berlinale, the last film Dogme 95 alumnus Thomas Vinterberg directed was the hushed-up epic Far From The Madding Crowd. With his latest, re-teaming with old-school buddy and fellow Dane Tobias Lindholm on the typewriter (err, computer), Vinterberg narrows his focus on a tight-knit self-made commune in 1970s Copenhagen, creating a film that’s all the better for being so intimate in scope. Acting thesps Ulrich Thomsen and Trine Dryholm join Vinterberg and Lindholm for the project, and the fact that all four crossed professional paths at one point or another gives The Commune a sense of instant familiarity; something that keeps the film glued together even when it threatens to fall apart in the third act.

Local news anchor Anna (Dryholm) is happily married to a professor of architecture Erik (Thomsen). Together with their 14-year-old daughter Freja (Martha Sofie Wallstrøm Hansen), they move into Erik’s old childhood home after his father passes away. In order to spice up their lives and fill the house with more excitement, Anna has the idea to create a commune and invite all the fantastic people they know to live with them. It’s the 1970s, and co-op lifestyles are all the rage. A group of colorful characters round up the household, and everything is rosy up until Erik meets and falls hard for 24-year-old mini-Brigitte Bardot Emma (Helene Reingaard Neumann). Instead of pulling a fit, kicking him out, filing for divorce, or anything else we might expect a woman living in the 21^st century to do, Anna suggests something much more radical: invite Emma into the commune and see if they can all make it work.

While Anna’s blasé attitude towards Erik’s infidelity takes a bit of getting used to, Dryholm—with the support of Lindholm’s crackling screenplay—does an outstanding job of making us understand why she wants to give the unusual scenario a go. Besides, the foundation of a commune during the 1970s is built on open-mindedness and acceptance. The realizations that Anna goes through, while predictable, keep The Commune interesting throughout. It’s not long before we realize that the crux of the matter lies in the struggle between personal issues in an open-space environment. The central performances are fantastic, Lindholm packs in enough boisterous humor to keep entertainment levels high throughout, and Vinterberg’s direction is airtight; but there is a disingenuous imbalance in the characterization of all other members beside the original family unit, including much too much focus on an overtly engineered character that transforms from young boy to old ploy at the drop of a hat.

Rating:
7/10

The Night Manager packs so much promise with its cast, crew, and material that it would’ve definitely made our Top 10 Anticipated were it not designed for the small screen. And while we’re mostly all about movies here on Way Too Indie, this BBC/AMC co-produced miniseries gets special coverage for a number of reasons. It’s the latest John Le Carré material adapted for the screen, it packs a wallop of an ensemble cast in Tom Hiddleston, Hugh Laurie, Olivia Colman, Tom Hollander and Elizabeth Debicki, and it’s directed by Oscar-winner Susanne Bier. So there was very little standing in the way of me catching the first two episodes at the Berlinale, and I’m happy to report that the pieces are aligned just right to make this one of the most talked-about TV events of the year.

Hiddleston plays Jonathan Pine, a hotel night manager with a mysterious past who becomes privy to a massive state secret involving aspiring British Lord and all-around millionaire entrepreneur Richard Roper (Laurie). Together with British intelligence handler Angela Burr (Colman), who’s got something of an obsession with catching the crooked Roper, Pine will infiltrate Roper’s inner circle in an attempt to build enough surefire evidence to bring him down once and for all.

That’s the gist of it, and the first two episodes lay the foundation in tantalizing fashion. Beginning with a sleek, sexy, opening credit sequence that sees fighter jets morphing into champagne bubbles and a chandelier crashing in a mushroom-cloud puff, the world of The Night Manager is one of elite danger. The golden color tones, postcard locales (especially breathtaking once the story moves to the alpine top of Zermatt, Switzerland), and lavish lifestyles that festoon the series create an impossible-to-decline invitation. This being a John Le Carré story, the air is full of suspense and intrigue from frame one, when we meet our hero during the eve of the Arab Spring in Cairo.

As one might expect, the actors fire on all cylinders. Hiddleston gets to show why he’d make a perfectly cool (if perhaps still a little too dainty) James Bond, Colman steals every scene she’s in, Laurie is absolutely scrumptious as the sleazy, serpentine Roper, and Hollander makes a fantastic early impression as Roper’s Iago-esque right-hand man Corcoran. If there’s a weakness to be detected, it’s in the series’ iffy structure involving time-jumps and a weak groundwork in establishing a key relationship between Pine and one Sophie Alekan (Aure Atika). Regardless, the first two hours of this miniseries flew by thanks to the story’s reliable espionage elements and tangible charisma seeping through every element. The cliffhanger that ends the second episode had me digging my nails into the seat, so April 19^th—which is when the series is to premiere stateside on AMC—can’t come soon enough.

Rating:
8/10

If there was one movie that I wanted to watch at the Berlinale and say, “now here’s a movie Donald Trump needs to see,” it would be Rafi Pitts’ Soy Nero. The reality is much harsher: it’s hard to think of anyone really needing to see this movie, regardless of their politics, prejudices, or nationality. The story of a young Mexican-American who becomes a Green Card soldier in order to secure his US citizenship and not be deported back to Mexico is ultimately too bare-boned and thinly spread to resonate beyond any given scene. And in most scenes, it’s the kind of resonance that spins its wheels to produce a deafening sound only to signify nothing much at all.

Nero (Johnny Ortiz) is caught by the US authorities trying to cross the border back to the States. He says he grew up in California, and is attending university, but he’s got no ID to back him up so, naturally, they don’t believe a word. He witnesses a burial of a Green Card soldier, a Mexican national who joined the US army to become a citizen only to end up dying in action. Nero absorbs his feelings and continues on his path back home to the States. He eventually reaches Beverly Hills to stay with his cousin Jesus (Ian Casselberry). From there, the story is divided between Nero’s short stay in L.A. and his wartime experience in the Middle East.

Pitts creates a dislodged atmosphere of ambivalent uncertainty throughout, which is just about the only thing that kept my attention with Soy Nero. The most entertaining sequence involves Orange Is The New Black‘s Michael Harney, who plays a random American Joe with such unpredictable verve, he keeps the tension tight and manages to make a conversation about windmills totally engrossing. But he’s in it for a moment, and from there on, the story rolls on with the intensity of a tumbleweed. And it tumbled on. It’s a cascading series of mini-disappointments as Nero goes through all the familiar motions, rarely expressing himself other than literally vocalizing his thoughts. Most of the action in Soy Nero is inert and primarily revolves around Nero slowly discovering something that’s fairly obvious from the start.

As for the second part in the war zone, it’s too staged to feel real. A nameless desert with only a couple of people posted at guard is meant to instil a sense of barren existentialism, but ends up feeling stretched out and headed towards pointlessness. Even a sort-of-funny conversation about West vs. East coast rappers feels stagnant because we’ve heard it all before. But it’s when Nero has to verbalize the absurdity of fighting this war just for a Green Card when I completely checked out, realizing that Pitts is attempting to reveal something new by recycling the old.

Rating:
6/10

Poetry is in the art of subtle suggestion, the lyrical rhythm of words, and the invisible reveal of universal emotion. The more you talk about how poetic something is, the less poetic it becomes. Yang Chao’s Crosscurrent practices the opposite philosophy; literally writing out its poetry on the screen, drowning in a self-referential sea of airy profundities, and so deeply steeped in Chinese tradition that most of us unfamiliar are left one step behind with every turn.

Gao Chun (Qin Hao) travels up the Yangtze River, taking with him mysterious cargo for a shady businessman. His father recently passed, and tradition dictates that he must capture a black fish and let it die of natural causes onboard the ship in order for his father’s soul to be set free. But Gao Chun seems more interested in An Lu (Xin Zhilei), a mysterious woman he keeps seeing at every stop he makes. When he finds an anonymous book of poems on his ship, poems named after the ports along the Yangtze river, Gao Chun embarks on a (mostly inward) journey of discovery. On this so-called journey, he comes to terms with his feelings toward his father. He also remains determined to find out who this mythic woman really is and understand the spirit of the Yangtze river through the poems. Or something.

The end result kept me at bay with its molasses-like pace, overly pontificating screenplay, and awkwardly staged scenes (I’m thinking here mostly of those featuring the two central lovers). Thanks to majestic cinematography from master DP Ping Bing Lee (who is responsible for shooting the most beautiful film of last year, The Assassin) and a deeply emotive score by An Wei, it’s beautiful to look at and listen to. But I’d be surprised if the storytelling doesn’t leave many losing patience and scratching their heads.

Rating:
6/10

Psychopaths and unresolved mysteries in a grim detective tale should be surefire material for someone like the prolific Kiyoshi Kurosawa to successfully tackle, right? Especially when you consider it’s adapted from a celebrated, award-winning novel. The Japanese director’s latest film was one of ten films we’re most excited about for Berlinale. Needless to say, I was very eager to watch Creepy. Alas, the film is an unfulfilling experience; incredulously dull, unwittingly absurd and comical, and featuring the most plank-like lead performance I’ve seen in quite some time.

After a psychotic incident almost kills him, detective Takakura (Hidetoshi Nishijima) quits the force to teach criminal behavior and settle into his new home with doting wife Yasuko (Yuko Takeuchi). He randomly discovers an old unsolved case involving three missing people while Yasuko tries (and doesn’t stop trying…) to befriend their strange new neighbor, Nishino (Teruyuki Kagawa). The parallel narratives converge, obviously. Nishijima plays detective Takakura with all human dimensions scraped off, leaving a vacuous non-person with the instincts of a blind wombat to handle a complex case and keep missing every red flag possible. It’s in Kagawa (reteaming with Kurosawa after Tokyo Sonata) where Creepy, appropriately, lives and breathes. His volatile, eccentric performance is the greatest joy in an otherwise detached, lethargic, and predictable picture.

It really shouldn’t be this easy to trivialize a Kiyoshi Kurosawa film. Even his misses (Journey To The Shore, Real…) usually have something exciting to latch onto. Perhaps he’s been working a little too much? Or his efforts were mostly concentrated on his upcoming Mathieu Amalric film The Woman in the Silver Plate? Either way, apart from a couple of neat camera movements where action is allowed to speak louder than words, Creepy is so disposable it hardly feels directed at all.

Rating:
5/10

A good film doesn’t always have to make sense. In some cases, a film’s perceived impenetrability might act as an invitation to theorize and discuss what’s going on; in other cases, a film can hit certain emotional notes or elicit reactions through its own filmmaking to create a rich experience. None of those scenarios apply to Daniil Zinchenko’s Elixir, which tries for a combination of sci-fi, fairy tale, religious parable, and political commentary, and winds up with a painful, mutated mishmash Seth Brundle would be proud of.

Taking place in a large, forested area, Elixir sets up a storyline it barely follows: a scientist (Oleg Rudenko) working on an elixir that can resurrect the dead assigns his assistant (Sergey Frolov) to collect the ingredients necessary to complete his mixture. Those ingredients are DNA from two cosmonauts, two guerillas, and “Him,” which might refer to a carpenter (Aleksandr Gorelov) getting hunted down by a businessman (Dmitriy Zhuravlev) because of his ability to turn water into oil.

A large amount takes place at a swamp within the film’s vast, rural setting, which turns out to go well with the slow, trudging experience of watching Elixir. Zinchenko’s blunt, obvious symbolism, and references to contemporary Russia aren’t hard to grasp, but understanding how all the pieces fit together is another story altogether. Adding to the frustration is Zinchenko’s decision to frame most of his film in long shots so he can deliberately obscure what’s going on in a scene, a choice that doesn’t seem to have a purpose other than providing more confusion (at one point he even blocks a scene so the main action gets covered by a bush in the middle of the frame). If there was a feeling of cohesion with any of this, or at least a sense that Zinchenko wasn’t just combining a bunch of underdeveloped ideas, Elixir might have provided some fun with its eccentricities. Instead, it’s just a pile of mush made up of boring quirks and unsubtle metaphors, adding up to pure, wasteful nonsense.

There’s no away around it, and it pains me to believe it considering how big a fan I am of his previous films, but Jeff Nichols‘ much-anticipated Midnight Special is a disappointment. How a film that packs so much promise with its director, cast, and synopsis can leave such a flat impression is something that I’ll be mulling over during Berlinale and beyond. A story of a close-knit family with a boy who’s got special powers, on the run from a religious cult and the government, pulsates with potential. But not even the commanding Michael Shannon can save this film from being Nichols’ first major misfire.

As most disappointments often do, things start off so well. With zero exposition, we’re thrust into the action of Ray (Shannon) and Lucas (Joel Edgerton, at his understated best here) on-the-run with 8-year-old Alton (Jaeden Lieberher) and before the brilliant title sequence even comes up, we’ve already got a hundred questions. Why is the young lad wearing goggles? Who are these men? Why is the government, who is making this national news, after them? The mystery is instantly gripping, and even more so once the Ranch—a cult that believes Alton’s words are gospel—gets involved. They want him because they believe he’s their savior, the FBI and the NSA are after him because they think he’s a weapon, and all Roy wants to do is bring him back to his mother (Kirsten Dunst) and make sure he’s where he’s got to be on Friday, March 6th, a.k.a. Judgement Day. Oh, and the boy speaks in tongues, has telepathic connections with radio signals, and shoots blue light from his eyes.

Basically, you’d have to check your pulse if you weren’t totally sucked in by the halfway mark. But as the mystery begins to unravel further, delusions of grandeur set in. The big mystery, all those gripping question marks, amount to one big “OK, that’s it?” shrug by the end. Adam Stone’s cinematography is excellent, the performances are predictably stellar, Nichols expertly directs a couple of stand-out sequences, but the story gets lost in a vague haze of questionable decisions and a final climax utterly deflated of the emotional oomph it’s supposed to have. It has its grand familial Spielbergian flourishes, but Midnight Special ends up being disappointingly ordinary and surprisingly forgettable.

Rating:
6.5/10

The Unity of All Things will screen in the Film Society of Lincoln Center’s series ‘Friends With Benefits: An Anthology of Four New American Filmmakers.’ To find out more about the series visit the ‘Friends With Benefits’ website.

The lines separating mainstream, independent, and arthouse films are often blurred (especially around awards season). But to paraphrase Justice Potter Stewart, I might not be able to definitively summarize each category, but I know what I’m watching when I see it. This is particularly true when it comes to arthouse films. As far from the mainstream as possible and certainly well-removed from the indie scene, an arthouse film can do more than challenge a viewer; it can defy basic understanding. Such is the case with The Unity of All Things, a film as arthouse as they come, from the writing/directing team of Alexander Carver and Daniel Schmidt.

There’s very little plot to speak of, but the film is no less dense. It begins on a scientific level, as its physicist protagonist/matriarch faces the inevitable shuttering of her particle accelerator and the quest to build another. Still keeping physics heavy in the forefront, but with philosophical musings injected (“Knowledge of the universe does not change reality. The pursuit of that knowledge does.”), the film then plays on relationships between and among the protagonist, two other female scientists who work for her, and her twin sons (the sons, meant to be portrayed as beautiful boys, are played by girls). Those sons begin an exploration of their own sexuality as they engage in an incestuous relationship with each other. Beautiful visuals (the film was shot on Super 8 and Super 16) get mixed with monotonous scenes (meant to be viewed as art rather than consumed as film, I suppose), and the title card appears halfway into picture.

The Unity of All Things not only refuses to be pigeonholed into a traditional genre, it defies even being called a film. Less a motion picture than a piece of moving art, Carver and Schmidt’s feature debut epitomizes the notion of something being an acquired taste.

The timing of The Eagle Huntress is perfect when you consider how much white males dominate the movies (the Academy is finally taking action to correct this). The star of this indie documentary is neither white nor male. Instead, The Eagle Huntress features a determined 13-year-old Mongolian girl named Aishoplan, who hopes to become the first ever female Eagle Hunter in the practice’s 2,000 years of existence. Capturing breathtaking views of snowy Mongolian landscapes, the documentary offers a bird’s eye view into the life of a true heroine.

Motivated to prove naysayers who claim women are “too weak” and “don’t belong in eagle hunting”, Aishoplan trains in the ancient art of eagle hunting with her father. Her first task is to capture her own eagle. This white-knuckle feat requires scaling steep cliffs to reach the eagle’s nest, all while the adult eagle soars overhead. Only a step away from death, watching her accomplish this put me on the edge of my seat. After rigorous training, Aishoplan sets her sights on competing in the annual Golden Eagle Festival, something no female has ever done before.

The Eagle Huntress is the rare documentary that makes you interested in a subject you never thought you’d care about. The documentary sends an inspirational message of never giving up for what you believe in, along with not being afraid to change the status quo. With the help of big name executive producers (Morgan Spurlock and Daisy Ridley) backing The Eagle Huntress, hopefully this beautifully shot and uplifting documentary will reach the audience it deserves.

Rating:
8/10

This first full-length feature from director Elizabeth Wood features an unapologetic portrayal of an anything-goes college girl looking for an escape. It’s not exactly clear what she’s trying to escaping from, perhaps just parental constraints, but the privileged white girl ends up getting an up-close look at the gritty underbelly of the New York City drug scene. Wood shows confidence with the scandalous direction and the pulsating visuals in White Girl (think Spring Breakers meets Heaven Knows What), but the story lacks meaningful depth and the characters are as predictable as they come.

Moments after moving into a new apartment, Leah (Morgan Saylor of Homeland) and her roommate (India Menuez) get dirty looks from guys in the area, though they don’t seem to mind. When their weed supply runs out, Leah befriends a local drug dealer named Blue (Brian ‘Sene’ Marc). They end up spending every moment between hits together, and to be fair, he does seem to genuinely care about her, even recommending that she slows down with her cocaine usage. Of course, it’s only a matter of time before Blue gets busted, and guess who’s there to get tangled up in the mess trying to help?

White Girl doesn’t shy away from showing explicit scenes involving sex and drugs, often both at the same time. By the end, there’s such an overwhelming amount of nonconsensual sex, cocaine snorting, and loud club music that it becomes desensitizing. White Girl definitely earns a certain emotional response, but it doesn’t offer much commentary on racial or gender issues, or on much of anything for that matter. Even though the film plays out in a foreseeable manner, it contains a couple solid performances and some striking visuals.

Rating:
6.5/10

Soon after its Sundance Film Festival premiere, The Birth of a Nation landed a landmark $17.5 million deal—ousting last year’s Me and Earl and the Dying Girl as the record-holder for biggest distribution deal at the fest—making it the talk around Park City and the hottest ticket in town. It’s easy to see why. This slave rebellion film is a remarkable feat for a filmmaker of any experience level, but it’s especially impressive coming from first-time filmmaker Nate Parker, who spent the last 7 years making the film (he also wrote the screenplay and stars in it). It’s also going to be released at a time when the movie industry needs it the most.

Based on a true story, the film recounts the life of slave Nat Turner (Parker) from early childhood to his adult preacher days. While serving under his master Samuel (Armie Hammer), a relatively generous slave owner, Nat convinces him to bid on a woman that caught his eye during a slave auction. Eventually, she and Nat get married and have a baby together. But when Nat travels around to other plantations to read from the Bible, he realizes the horrific treatment of blacks in other areas of Virginia.

Comparisons to Steve McQueen’s 12 Years a Slave are expected, the first of many being how similar Samuel is to Michael Fassbender’s character in McQueen’s film. While The Birth of a Nation is lensed with jaw-dropping camerawork, it also contains many heavy-handed choices, like its washed-out, white look. Even more aggravating is when Parker replays several earlier, violent scenes later on in the film to shock audiences one more time. But despite all of its blemishes, The Birth of a Nation remains undeniably powerful. There’s just as much to admire about it as there is to condemn it, and its haunting finale will get burned into your memory, leaving a devastating toll on one’s emotions.

Rating:
7.5/10

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that, given the word “diversity” dominating recent conversations around the film industry, a festival like Sundance can act an alternative to the homogeneity of the mainstream. By its very nature, independent filmmaking provides more diverse, unique and personal stories, and it’s only upon seeing these kinds of films that one can get a true sense of the importance of opening up to new perspectives. Andrew Ahn’s Spa Night, screening in Sundance’s Official U.S. Dramatic Competition, is a perfect example, a coming-of-age tale that’s refreshing just for the fact that it shines a light on an area of society that’s rarely put on film.

Taking place in Koreatown in Los Angeles, Spa Night follows David (Joe Seo), the son of Korean immigrants Soyoung (Haerry Kim) and Jin (Youn Ho Cho). David’s parents own a restaurant, and he’s been happy to forego attending college in order to help his family’s business. But once the restaurant shuts down, things change significantly for David and his family: Soyoung starts working as a waitress at a restaurant owned by one of her friends at church, Jin turns to drinking in order to cope with his inability to find work, and David starts becoming aware of his attraction towards men. Pushed by his parents to retake his SATs so he can go to college, David decides to find a job instead, working at a Korean spa that doubles as a site for discreet gay hook-ups. The spa serves as a heightened middle ground for David, providing an opportunity to explore his sexual identity while not straying too far from his own cultural comfort zone.

The film’s specificity, combined with Ahn’s sensitivity towards his own characters, go a long way to establishing Spa Night’s unique placement among US cinema, but those factors don’t change how inert the movie feels on an emotional level. David represses his homosexuality due to his religious upbringing and parents’ conservatism (when he asks how they’d feel about him dating a white woman, they stare at him with stunned, disapproving silence), which Ahn reflects through his rigid and detached form, making it hard to invest in David’s internal struggles. Beyond his attraction to men, it’s hard to pin down what exactly David might be feeling about his situation, shutting off any possibility of engaging with David’s story on a character level.

The same can’t be said for David’s parents, whose attempts to recover from losing their business help fill in the film’s emotional gaps. Haerry Kim and Youn Ho Cho both give great performances as David’s parents, but it’s Kim as Soyoung who steals the film from her co-stars. As her character transitions into the family breadwinner after the restaurant’s closure, Kim makes every aspect of Soyoung’s painful adjustment felt. The success of this subplot only makes Ahn’s issues with making David’s storyline resonate all the more frustrating.

For a film loaded with many laughs, it’s strange that Joshy begins on quite the morbid note. Joshy (Silicon Valley’s Thomas Middleditch) arrives home one day to find his fiancé (Alison Brie) lifeless on the floor, dead from an apparent suicide. But the film doesn’t dwell on her death for very long, instead jumping ahead four months when Joshy’s small crew of friends (Nick Kroll, Adam Pally, Alex Ross Perry, and Brett Gelman) elect to celebrate his bachelor party, just as they had intended before the incident occurred. When the boys arrive at their secluded cabin for the party, they discover Joshy saying goodbye to a girl he picked up from the local bar—a rather uncharacteristic move and one that isn’t ever addressed again. Other than this small inexplicable moment, the rest of the film plays out as a hysterical weekend bender of heavy drinking, drug consumption, and partying with hookers. In theory it’s a classic recipe for a “what could possibly go wrong?” scenario, but, oddly enough, the answer in Joshy is nothing.

Credit the amazing cast for making Joshy work as well as it does. Without them, it’s just another hangout movie with a paper-thin plot and very little character development. Granted, simply putting these hilarious actors together in a room would make for entertainment. Each character’s personality puzzle-pieces into the group as a whole. Kroll is the partier. Pally is the sensitive married guy. Perry is the geek. Gelman is the wildcard. And then there’s Middleditch, who’s stuck playing the uninteresting title character—ironically, the least developed of the bunch. There’s also a random appearance by Joe Swanberg (and his real family), who seem only to show up to get a few laughs.

Luckily, there’s enough humor found in sophomore director Jeff Baena’s (Life After Beth) film that it’s easy to forgive some of the off moments. The highlight of Joshy is watching Perry finally getting his wish to play a complicated board game with the group. That’s right, this ensemble even finds a way to make the struggle to play a board game amusing to watch.

Rating:
7/10

On the heels of Richard Linklater’s highly acclaimed Boyhood, director Louis Black (co-founder of SXSW and the Austin Chronicle) captures his filmography and the struggles he’s endured with the film industry. It’s a little odd, though, that the documentary was made now considering Linklater’s career is still very active, but fans of Linklater or his films will likely enjoy this tribute. It’s clearly made with great admiration and respect for the filmmaker, but it doesn’t bring a wealth of new information to the table. Because most of Richard Linklater – Dream is Destiny consists of interviews and behind-the-scenes footage, the documentary seems most practical as a DVD extra feature (we’re looking at you Criterion).

Growing up, Linklater wanted to be either a novelist or a professional baseball player. But a semester in college spent watching movies, and apparently drinking a lot of Pepsi, transformed his career path into filmmaking. Black does a good job defining how unprecedented it was for the Austin-based Linklater to make an indie film like Slacker in a city outside of New York and Los Angeles. Though Richard Linklater – Dream is Destiny makes it a point to discuss the film industry as a whole, Linklater seems mostly content with it. It’s clear that he just wants to make films that he’s proud of, whether it’s a $30,000 film (roughly the budget of Slacker) or a $35,000,000 film (School of Rock), even though he confesses that a film like Slacker wouldn’t take off now like it did back in 1991. “It’d be just another indie film. Whoopee,” he admits.

Rating:
6.5/10

You may recall reading national headlines last year about a lawsuit being filed to grant basic rights to chimpanzees. With their newest documentary Unlocking the Cage, Academy Award-nominated documentary filmmakers Chris Hegedus and D.A. Pennebaker follow the events leading to that first lawsuit. Animal rights lawyer Steven Wise believes it’s his moral responsibility to give fundamental rights to certain cognitively complex animals. He explains how chimpanzees (as well as 3 other species) have been scientifically proven to have self-aware human-life intelligence. They’re able to communicate, show emotions, as well as have an understanding of their own mind. Therefore, they’re autonomous creatures that shouldn’t be forced into imprisonment.

Those expecting the next Project Nim or Blackfish may be disappointed that Unlocking the Cage remains largely a legal drama, spending the majority of its time in courtrooms and clarifying legal speak. There’s no question that the subject of this ruling is monumental; breaking down the legal barrier that separates animals from humans has never been done before. Future generations may look back and wonder what it was like to live in an era where this was tolerated.

In that respect, the documentary doesn’t feel as rewarding as it should. Maybe that’s because most of the emphasis is on our monotonous court system and not on the animals or even the background of the Nonhuman Rights Project. Or maybe it seems unsatisfying because it’s not able to tell the whole story. Unlocking the Cage quotes Winston Churchill by saying this case is just the “end of the beginning,” but it also happens to describe the documentary since it feels like the first part of a two-part story. Hopefully, Hegedus and Pennebaker’s efforts will help bring more awareness and interest in protecting nonhuman rights.

Rating:
6/10

Boyd Holbrook turns in an excellent performance as Mo Lundy, a former convict who spends time in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. The details surrounding the accused crime aren’t important, which is why first-time filmmaker Jason Lew doesn’t bother divulging them. Instead, The Free World concentrates on the struggles of adapting to life outside the prison walls. Lew constructs the film with as a subdued indie noir, but the results are surprisingly potent due to an electric third act.

Now a free man, Mo works at an animal shelter appropriately called Second Hope. The transition into the free world is challenging for Mo, who finds it easier to sleep in his closet than in a bed. Even though he keeps to himself and doesn’t cause trouble, the local police still treat him like a criminal. While on duty one night, a woman (Elisabeth Moss) finds her way into the shelter and passes out covered in blood. Over time, the two get to know one another and discover how similar they are to each other.

The Free World manages to take simple material and elevate it through artful cinematography and terrific performances (Holbrook especially). While there are some tonal quirks—like an out-of-place car chase scene near the end—the film remains an impressive debut from Lew who, at the very least, shows promise as an upcoming filmmaker.

Rating:
7/10

In Clea DuVall’s wildly entertaining directorial debut The Intervention, a group of friends decide to stage an intervention during a weekend getaway. Comprised of a stellar cast ranging from indie darlings to comedic masterminds—including Melanie Lynskey, Cobie Smulders, Ben Schwartz and Alia Shawkat, among others—the film finds the right balance of lightweight comedy and emotional drama. The Intervention is a modern take on the heavily inspired The Big Chill, while incorporating similar elements from recent indies like Drinking Buddies and The Overnight.

Performing an intervention is much more difficult than it sounds, something the friends in The Intervention soon realize. While en route to the getaway house, each couple gets introduced in a comical way; after browsing wedding invite designs and noticing her husband (Jason Ritter) is sleeping next to her on the plane, Annie (Lynskey) asks the flight stewardess for some hard liquor; a lesbian couple (Natasha Lyonne and DuVall) must deal with a flirty male rental car hitting on them; and Jack (Schwartz) shows up with his free-spirited 22-year-old girlfriend Lola (Shawkat). The group plans to collectively tell their friend Ruby (Smulders) that they don’t think she’s a good fit for her self-absorbed prick of a husband Peter (Vincent Piazza).

Just as they’re about to give their “marriage intervention,” each couple begins to realize that their own relationships are flawed. And as incidents unfold, you begin to wonder if these people are in any position to pass judgment onto others. With the help from a talented cast, The Intervention is loaded with hilarious situations and dramatic exchanges. Excelling in performances, dialog, and narrative, the film is a must-see indie gem.

Rating:
8/10

Inspired by true events (or so the opening title card claims), The Tail Job is a comedy that’s high on energy but low on laughs, getting by on its committed cast and a Hollywood-friendly narrative. After a violent and pointless opening, the film cuts to Nicholas (Blair Dwyer) taking a cab driven by Trevor (Craig Anderson) to spy on a woman with his camera. When Trevor asks Nicholas what he’s doing, he says the woman is his fiancée Mona, and he’s trying to find evidence that she’s having an affair. Several days earlier, Nicholas looked at Mona’s phone and saw her exchanging flirty messages with a man named Sio Bohan, and Nicholas wants to catch them together. Trevor takes sympathy on Nicholas, deciding to help him tail Mona for the night in order to find out who the mysterious Sio Bohan really is.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Nicholas misread the name of Mona’s girlfriend Siobhan as Sio Bohan; in fact, it only takes someone smarter than Nicholas or Trevor to make that discovery. It’s a cute misunderstanding that makes for a funny anecdote, but as the foundation for a feature-length film it runs out of steam almost immediately. Either way, the mistake causes Trevor and Nicholas to follow a bunch of false leads and red herrings until they get the attention of a dangerous gangster who actually happens to be named Sio Bohan, who sends out his goons to take care of them for some reason or another.

The Tail Job’s plot is deliberately silly, with co-directors/co-writers Bryan Moses and Daniel Millar using the standard formula for a Hollywood mystery/thriller and throwing in whatever absurdity they can. That approach can work, except the Siobhan/Sio Bohan mix-up is pretty much the height of what kind of comedy the film offers. Jokes constantly fall flat or go for the lowest common denominator, whether it’s a hacker insisting that only “full penetration” counts as cheating or a prostitute whose only purpose is to point out that she has a lot of sex. None of it works, and the poor treatment of the (very few) female characters only makes the comedy look worse.

But as problematic as The Tail Job’s script might be, it does inspire a few laughs when it skewers the kinds of familiar story beats and lines of dialogue we’re used to. Moses and Millar have a good understanding of how the genre they’re operating within works, along with a lot of ingenuity and technical skills that make good use of their small budget. That, combined with Dwyer and Anderson’s strong performances, gives The Tail Job a momentum that helps move things along, a quality that goes a long way when dealing with a comedy that just isn’t funny.

What would happen to humanity if everyone lost their ability to retain memories? That’s one of the questions Claire Carré explores with her debut feature Embers, which drops viewers into a world 10 years after a disease infects everyone with short-term and long-term memory loss. Carré splits her film up into five narrative strands, each one examining how an aspect intrinsic to our existence changes within her own dystopian vision; a couple (Jason Ritter & Iva Gocheva) wake up every day trying to remember how they know each other; a former intellectual (Tucker Smallwood) tries different ways to learn again so he can find a cure; a boy (Silvan Friedman) with no parents wanders around trying to survive on his own; a young man (Karl Glusman, credited as Chaos) filled with rage attacks everyone he encounters; and the young girl Miranda (Greta Fernandez) lives in an underground bunker with her father (Roberto Cots), safe from the disease but cut off from the world.

On the surface, Carré’s film looks like standard post-apocalyptic fare, but its tone is anything but. Shooting in Indiana, New York and Poland, Embers casts its urban decay in a bland, grey hue that should bring to mind Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, except Carré doesn’t provide her film with the same bleakness and nihilism. With no one connected to their past, the strong emotions connected to memories don’t exist anymore, leaving characters to constantly live in the moment in a somewhat peaceful state. The only exception to this is Chaos, whose violent acts take on a new meaning given they’re instinctual and without consequence. The somewhat tranquil mood amidst a dying world makes for a fascinating juxtaposition, allowing Carré the ability to weave in emotional and philosophical questions about identity and the human condition.

With a short runtime and several disconnected storylines, Embers only disappoints with its inability to coalesce on a thematic level (most segments just end abruptly). The only exception is Miranda’s storyline, as her near-decade of isolation makes her consider leaving the bunker to go live in the real world. Her father begs her not to go, telling her that once she’s infected she’ll lose everything that makes her who she is. For Miranda, it’s a complicated situation that directly addresses Carré’s question at the heart of the film, over whether or not memory is the source of our own individuality.

If you could change your identity and start over as someone else, would you? That’s the main proposition in director Joshua Marston’s (Maria Full of Grace) third feature film, Complete Unknown. The film begins as a mystery, following a woman pretending to be someone that she’s not, with Marston taking a big gamble and revealing this information early on. After that, the film suddenly shifts from cryptic thriller to slow conversation piece, a change that might frustrate viewers if it were Complete Unknown’s only issue. It’s one thing to stop asking compelling questions, but it’s another to stop providing compelling answers. After the reveal, Complete Unknown is supposed to be about why she changes her identity, and I’m not sure if the film gives a convincing answer.

Rachel Weisz plays Alice, the mysterious woman who attends a birthday party for Tom (Michael Shannon) on a date for a newly befriended colleague. She’s the life of the party, fascinating everyone with her tales of traveling to Tanzania for 18 months where people started calling her by a different name. The only person not fascinated is Tom, who seems to recognize her as someone named Jenny from years ago.

Once he confronts her about this privately, Complete Unknown transitions into a lengthy heart-to-heart discussion that many are comparing to Richard Linklater’s Before trilogy. But the conversation that follows between them never gets close to as introspective as the comparison suggests.

Rating:
6/10

In the opening scene of Kenneth Lonergan’s Manchester by the Sea, Lee (played by the underappreciated Casey Affleck) asks his nephew Patrick (Lucas Hedges) who he’d rather have with him if he got trapped on a deserted island; his father Joe (Kyle Chandler) or his uncle. He chooses his dad. This hypothetical question sounds arbitrary at first, but it becomes vital to the story as the film progresses.

Jumping ahead several years to the present, Lee lives a lonely, emotionless life as a handyman for an apartment complex. Something tragic happened to him that caused him to be this way, and everyone around town has their own rumor about him. One day he receives a phone call from the hospital informing him that his brother has passed away. Lee learns that he’s now the parental guardian of his nephew, Patrick, even though it’s quite obvious he’s not able to handle that level of responsibility.

Through various flashbacks (sometimes it’s difficult to tell the past from present since Affleck doesn’t seem to age) it’s divulged Lee had a wife (Michelle Williams) and three young kids. Lonergan (Margaret, You Can Count on Me) carefully fills in missing parts of the story, one fragment at a time. Manchester by the Sea primarily focuses on the relationship between Lee and Patrick as they try to cope with various tragedies.

Nearly every aspect of Manchester by the Sea is expertly crafted. Lonergan demonstrates tremendous grace in all of the heartbreaking moments, an area where some filmmakers lay it on too thick. The cinematography and editing are terrific and, aside from an oddly placed Matthew Broderick appearance, the performances are as well. There’s a masterful scene late in the film between Affleck and Williams that’s so powerful it may leave you in tears. Manchester by the Sea is a revelation, a story about admitting defeat and dealing with consequences.

Rating:
8.5/10

The saying goes that time heals all wounds, but in A Good Wife time also uncovers new ones. For middle-aged housewife Milena (writer/director Mirjana Karanovic, making her first feature), life is going well. Her eldest daughter is a successful artist, her two younger children are doing great in school, and her husband Vlada (Boris Isakovic) makes sure she lives a comfy life. When Milena cleans around the house one day, she discovers a VHS tape containing footage of her husband committing war crimes during his days as a soldier. A disturbed Milena puts the tape back, telling no one of what she saw, but word starts getting around that the authorities might have already started investigating Vlada, and the threat of his arrest throws Milena’s happy life into turmoil. At the same time, a check-up at the doctor’s leads to the discovery of a large lump in one of her breasts, and despite Milena’s attempts to avoid getting it checked further, it’s clear that her life is about to go through some major changes.

Karanovic, an accomplished Serbian actress who’s been working for over three decades, shows she has plenty of talent behind the camera as well, directing in a subdued manner that places characters and themes at the forefront. The same can’t necessarily be said about her screenplay, which leans on some heavy-handed metaphors and familiar ideas that can’t help but feel stale. Karanovic makes the link between Milena’s tumor and her willful ignorance of the past impossible to miss, and even with the unique angle of the Yugoslav Wars, watching Milena’s growing awareness of her own domestication as more of a self-imposed prison sentence isn’t especially exciting. But the screenplay’s staleness only ends up being a slight bother, as Karanovic’s direction and captivating performance keep things from falling into tedium. A Good Wife has its flaws, but as a directorial debut, it shows enough promise to hope that it won’t be the only time Karanovic takes a seat in the director’s chair.

Somewhere buried in Kelly Reichardt‘s slice-of-life film, Certain Women, there’s a unified message of empowerment and alienation. Getting to this message, however, is an excruciating test of one’s patience. This is mostly by design as Reichardt focuses on aesthetics and mood more than the film’s narrative. The first story follows Laura (Laura Dern), a lawyer representing a client (Jared Harris) who insists he’s entitled to a workers’ comp settlement, despite being told repeatedly that he has no case. The shortest, and least developed, story is the second one, which involves a husband and wife (James Le Gros and Michelle Williams) constructing a remote weekend getaway home for their family. And the final story is about a Native American horse rancher (Lily Gladstone) who falls for a young lawyer (Kristen Stewart) teaching night classes, an innocent attraction that turns into blatant stalking.

The source material for Certain Women came from a collection of short stories and the film’s format reflects this directly. While each segment contains well-developed characters in unique circumstances, Reichardt drops us right into the middle of a story that’s already unfolding. Details of how the characters got where they are, or where they are going next, are excluded, a technique that can be frustrating. Shot gorgeously on 16mm, Certain Women is a studious slow burner that should appease fans of the auteur filmmaker while others may be left scratching their heads.

Rating:
6.5/10

The opening scene of Andrew Neel’s (King Kelly) Goat leaves its audience completely breathless setting the harrowing tone for what’s to follow. Walking back to his car after leaving a frat party early, Brad (Ben Schnetzer) gets approached by a peculiar person asking for a ride. Reluctant at first, he eventually agrees after the stranger insists he’s just going down the road. The situation gets sketchier when the stranger summons another friend to hop in the car as well. Brad reasonably becomes suspicious at this. Then the two strangers admit they didn’t know the guy who threw the party. When they lead him to drive them to a remote field, Brad has no time even to react before the two men beat him to a pulpy mess, take his money, and drive off with his car.

According to his older brother Brett (an unexpectedly remarkable Nick Jonas), none of these horrid events would have transpired if Brad belonged to a fraternity, a brotherhood where his back would always be covered. So he decides to pledge. And the rest of Goat focuses on the bro culture machoism of a fraternity during pledge “Hell Week.” The appeal is obvious at first. Neel shows the glamorous side of partying with frat brothers—an endless supply of booze, girls willing to take off their clothes, and a random appearance by James Franco (who helped produce the film and owns the tiny role). But the fun and games end when the hazing begins.

Based on actual events, Goat is a disturbing look at what people will endure in order to feel accepted. The issue with Goat isn’t watching a bunch of bros force booze upon pledges while also urinating on them as they lay unclothed and tied up, it’s that the film doesn’t know when to stop. Over and over again, pledges are asked to complete asinine tasks, most of which cross the line in human shaming. Exploitation film, perhaps—or torture porn, depending on who you ask—by the end the film leaves its audience as battered as the pledges. Love it or hate it, the film leaves a lasting impression.

Rating:
7/10

One of the most buzzed about films during the festival circuit last year was Jeremy Saulnier’s Green Room (we saw it first at Cannes, then TIFF, and now Sundance, its last major festival before a limited release in April). Following up his successful indie thriller Blue Ruin, Saulnier doubles down on just about every aspect: more thrills, more kills, more discomfort, and perhaps most impressive, more narrative. Green Room is a fierce, white-knuckle blood fest that doesn’t stop for air once it gets going.

A struggling punk band appropriately named The Ain’t Rights tour around to any local scene willing to listen, but they haven’t had much luck. Just as they’re about to throw in the towel and head back home, they catch wind of a promising gig, but it comes with a small caveat—the isolated venue is home to a bunch of skinheads. While backstage, the band accidentally witnesses a murder, and from there things spiral out of control. The owner of the venue (a methodical Patrick Stewart) contains the band members in a room while he devises a plan to eliminate them as witnesses, but the band doesn’t give up easy. They come up with their own strategy to make it out alive, and that’s when Green Room transitions from being a thriller to a horror film. The film unfolds like a bloody chess match between both sides, each using any available trick and traps to their advantage.

Green Room is a vivid nightmare that’s impossible to get out of your head. More than just a gruesome blood bath, the film is surprisingly witty and expertly crafted. Saulnier keeps you in suspense until the very end.

Rating:
8/10

Featuring dazzling performances from an all-star cast led by Greta Gerwig, Ethan Hawke, Julianne Moore, and Bill Hader, Rebecca Miller (The Ballad of Jack and Rose, The Private Lives of Pippa Lee) delivers a brilliant genre-bending film that works on many levels. Equal parts whimsical, rom-com, and highbrow, Maggie’s Plan feels like a Woody Allen film.

Greta Gerwig plays Maggie, a free-spirited neurotic character we’ve gotten used to seeing her play over the last few years (Lola Versus, Frances Ha, and Mistress America, to name a few). She decides she’s ready to have a baby, despite her good friend (a wisecracking Bill Hader) begging her to reconsider this idea. Maggie becomes desperate enough that she’s willing to accept a sperm donation from a goofy former classmate for artificial insemination. But her plan changes (as the title suggests) when she meets a handsome novelist John (the always wonderful Ethan Hawke). They begin spending more and more time with each other, and once it’s revealed that he’s going through some marital issues with his wife (Julianne Moore), it’s easy to see where the story is heading. But this is when the film does something interesting. It jumps ahead three years to show Maggie with a kid of her own and now married to John. Gradually, Maggie begins to feel neglected and wonders if she made a mistake marrying John. So, Maggie comes up with a new plan.

One of the best qualities of Maggie’s Plan is that, just when you think you know what’s going to happen next, Miller throws a curveball at the traditional story arc. Maggie’s Plan provides interesting perspectives relationships and love, suggesting that love is messy and that it’s not about who you want to spend the rest of your life with, as much as it’s about figuring out who you can’t spend your life without. The only shortcoming is a drawn out third-act that could be trimmed down by about 15 minutes. But aside from that, the film is an absolute delight.

Rating:
8/10

Known for his quirky sense of humor, director Taika Waititi (What We Do in the Shadows, Eagle vs Shark) adds another film to his growing Sundance portfolio with the light-spirited adventure Hunt for the Wilderpeople. There’s nothing complicated about this zany New Zealand-set comedy, which seems aimed at the same younger demographic who fell in love with Napoleon Dynamite. Though there’s some adult humor sprinkled throughout, it’ll be the young adult audience laughing at every gag while older viewers eventually grow tired of the cheap laughs (especially the repeated fat jokes) and dispensable storyline.

Based on Barry Crump’s novel Wild Pork and Watercress, Hunt for the Wilderpeople begins by introducing us to a “very bad egg” named Ricky (Julian Dennison), a mischievous overweight foster child who moves in with a family living on a remote farm. While not very thrilled about his new arrangement, Ricky warms up to the caring foster aunt (Rima Te Wiata), and eventually to her grumpy husband (Sam Neill). But when family services threaten to take Ricky out of the foster system, he makes a run for it in the New Zealand wilderness. The only person to find Ricky is his foster uncle. For survival purposes, the two form an unlikely bond and work together to evade the authorities searching for them.

Hunt for the Wilderpeople contains similar New Zealand humor found in hit television show Flight of the Conchords, even borrowing the same “it’s like The Lord of the Rings” punch line and the hilarious Rhys Darby (who steals the entire film in his small role). While most of the humor and wacky shenanigans become tiresome by the end, those looking for some light entertainment will find just that.

Rating:
6/10

Our eyes see bloody chaos as our ears are treated to rapid-fire literary musings in The Lesson, a pedagogic dark fantasy about a teacher driven so mad by his rotten, closed-minded students that he decides the only way to unlock their learning potential is to pin them to their desks—literally, with a big, fat nailgun. Director Ruth Platt juxtaposes torture-porn trappings with heaping helpings of high-minded brain food, a curious pairing that works to great effect. It’s a bloody British parable with wicked, well-written dialogue and a surprising measure of visual sophistication that won’t be for everyone (the squeamish, as well as those in search of simple-minded thrills, will likely choose to skip class partway through) but will be a joy for those willing to test their movie-watching mettle.

Fin (Evan Bendall) has just only turned sixteen, and already his life’s fallen to shambles. His father’s working abroad, his mother’s dead, and his brother, Jake (Tom Cox), who wants nothing more than to kick Fin out of their childhood home so that he and his European girlfriend, Mia (Michaela Prchalova) can have the house to themselves. The poor boy leads a loveless life, the only bright spots being the occasional, sneaky sign of affection from Mia and the minor mayhem he causes around town with his best mate, Joel (Rory Coltart).

The boys are a pair of dickheads, vandalizing private property for kicks and bullying anyone unlucky enough to catch their eye, including their uptight English teacher, Mr. Gale (Robert Hands). They sleep through his lectures, bark at him without a shred of respect and even subject him to physical abuse, sticking chewed up gum in his hair out of sheer boredom, in front of the whole class. On Fin’s 16th birthday, the pair are treated to a hard life lesson when Gale finally snaps, kidnapping them with two swift bops to the head. Fin wakes up in a dusty garage, covered in blood, tied to a desk next to an unconscious Joel as Mr. Gale declares class in session and starts scribbling on a whiteboard. Using torture tools as motivation, he forces lessons of ethics, philosophy and literary greats like William Blake, John Milton and Thomas Hobbes on the bruised and beaten Fin. The boys’ only hope is Mia, who’s taken to the stormy streets in search of her missing housemate.

The scenes outside Gale’s gore-garage feel a bit dull in comparison. Fin’s domestic issues with his brother and his lukewarm romance with Mia lack the soulfulness and fire seen in other indies that tackle similar domestic-dysfunction material. Hands is terrific, making every scene he’s in better than the last as Gale gets nuttier and nuttier and more frightening by the minute. There aren’t any big scares to be found in The Lesson, but the film’s real gift is that it’ll give your mind something to chew on for a few days. The value of education, the tragedy of untapped potential and the intellectual downslide of future generations are just a few of the litany of ideas Platt brings to the table. As fascinating as it is to have all of these interesting concepts and philosophies explored so thoroughly in a genre movie, it can sometimes feel like sensory overload when we’re also meant to stomach watching teenagers get impaled over and over. This is surely by design and meant to put us in Fin’s shoes, but there’s only so much one can take before the brain turns to jelly and the movie starts to lose its grip.

Rating:
7/10

Chad Hartigan returns to Sundance with Morris From America after earning the Best of NEXT Audience Award back in 2013 for his exceptional film, This Is Martin Bonner. With his newest film, it feels like he’s aiming for that audience award once more, only this time in a more deliberate way. While This Is Martin Bonner was a slow-moving, somber film about a man attempting to re-connect with his daughter, this film is the exact opposite—a rapidly paced and showy film of a child attempting to connect with his father. It’s a total crowd pleaser, hitting all the notes in such a precise way that it feels too safe and overly familiar with other recent Sundance titles (Dope, Me and Earl and the Dying Girl and Brooklyn, for examples). Hartigan’s latest never feels like a waste of time, it just doesn’t bring much originality to the table to reach beyond its middling qualities.

Morris (Markees Christmas) is a 13-year-old American who lives in Germany with his single-father Curtis (Craig Robinson, in his best role to date). Morris is understandably shy and apprehensive about making friends given the fact he speaks very little German. It also doesn’t help that he sticks out in his all-white school, where fellow classmates call him Kobe, because he’s black and American and therefore should be an all-star basketball player. There’s more racial generalization brought up in the film, like when a joint is discovered in the classroom, and (sure enough) Morris is the first and only person accused.

His luck changes when a cute classmate befriends him, perhaps for the fact that she sympathizes with him given she also comes from a single-parent household. But the fling doesn’t last long. The message behind Morris from America comes in a pivotal heart-to-heart conversation when Curtis tells Morris that love makes you do stupid things sometimes. In this scene, Hartigan and cinematographer Sean McElwee show off their talents with an impressive tracking shot in a moving vehicle while Robinson delivers an emotional story about Morris’ mother.

Morris from America is a light-hearted and charming coming-of-age film that isn’t necessarily bad, but the film doesn’t stand out from a crowd of similarly told stories. For each moment worthy of praise, there’s also a fault that follows.

Morris from America (Sundance Review) Rating:
6.5/10

An inventive satire about the ever-narrowing relationship between artist and audience, Director’s Cut has a lot of interesting ideas bouncing around inside its twisted, experimental narrative, though on a fundamental level, the movie simply isn’t that compelling. Penn Jillette plays Herbert Blount, a stalker psychopath who donates a ton of money to a crowdfunded horror movie, his reward being on-set access and permission to shoot behind-the-scenes footage. Not content in his role as financier, Blount hatches a plan to take over the movie by replacing the director, stealing the footage, and kidnapping lead actress Missi Pyle to shoot additional scenes. We learn all of this via a director’s commentary provided by Blount over his new version of the hijacked movie, a unique storytelling approach that’s amusing until the schtick grows old about halfway through.

At first, it’s incredibly intriguing to watch the opening credits of the fake movie while listening to Jillette in character as Blount, using his shoddy After Effects skills to cross out director Adam Rifkin’s name and scribble in his own as he drops nuggets of sophomoric moviemaking knowledge in an attempt to give us a peek “behind the scenes.” As a character, Blount is a moderately entertaining take on the entitled fanboy, an heightened representation of the dangers and mild absurity of crowdfunding. Blount’s creepy obsession with Pyle provides most of the movie’s humor, with him trying to pass stalker footage of the actress both out in public and in her hotel room off as new scenes for the movie they “collaborated” on. Jillette’s voice is one of the most recognizable out there, which is a good thing in that it always holds your attention, but a bad thing in that it’s hard to associate what we hear with Blount and not Jillette, the lovable entertainer we’ve associated that voice with for decades.

As the story unfolds and the gimmick loses its luster, Director’s Cut reveals itself to be a sort of bland abduction movie that doesn’t offer any real chills or thrills. It isn’t very disturbing, suspenseful, frightening or even funny. Playing themselves alongside Pyle are Gilbert Gottfried, Nestor Carbonell, Hayes MacArthur, Harry Hamlin and Jillette’s old friend and cohort, Teller. The horror movie they’re “acting” in is generic by design, so all of the interesting stuff is saved for the leads. The movie arguably exists in the found-footage category but doesn’t capture the real-world horror that sub-genre was designed to elicit, mostly due to the fact that the dialogue is a bit too theatrical.

The folks at Red Letter Media created a character called Mr. Plinkett a few years ago who does video reviews of movies while giving us glimpses into his twisted personal life, in which he kidnaps women and murders women and sells homemade pizza rolls via snail mail. It’s a similar concept but works better than Rifkin and Jillette’s movie because it delivers the goods, providing serious film critique underneath all the craziness. Director’s Cut doesn’t offer the raw, fundamental genre joys one would expect from such a wacky project. The idea to make a crowdfunded movie about a demented crowd-funder is fun, but this movie isn’t.

Director’s Cut Slamdance Review Rating:
5/10

German filmmaker Nicolette Krebitz’s Wild features such an outlandish premise—a lonely depraved woman becomes attracted to a wolf—that it’s nearly impossible to not be curious about it.

Working as a glorified secretary for a demanding boss, Ania (played by an up-and-coming Lilith Stangenberg) is searching for something to disrupt her boring, mundane life. On her way to work one morning, she stumbles upon a wolf staring straight at her. Strange, considering their metropolitan location. A wave of excitement comes over Ania’s face, in high contrast to her usual lethargy. Over time, she is unable to shake the image of the wolf from her mind and not long after this encounter she begins to show signs of wolf-like behavior. She howls at the moon from her apartment balcony and cleans herself by licking her hand. For reasons never fully explained, Ania decides to capture the mysterious wolf.

Wild revolves entirely around its ambiguity. The most intriguing questions of the film are brought up after its first half: Why is this woman going through such great lengths for a random wolf? What will she do if she does manage to capture it? Is she slowly turning into a wolf herself? Where Wild stops being intriguing is when the film stalls from relying too much on all its mystery. Krebitz injects some subplots involving estranged family members and a creepy boss that all end up being so unimportant to the story in the end one wonders why they existed in the first place.

There’s some notable qualities found within Wild, such as the intense performance by Stangenberg and some cool naturalistic cinematography, but they aren’t enough to overcome the dour-ness of everything else. It’s a shame a film with such a fascinating and disturbing subject ends up quite tame and dull. Wild touches on the significance of living out one’s natural instincts, but arriving at this flimsy conclusion is anything but natural, and by all means unexciting.

Wild Sundance Review Rating:
5.5/10

Following in the footsteps of Alex Ross Perry’s comedies and 2014 SXSW winner Fort Tilden (whose co-lead Clare McNulty shows up here in a small role), Robert Putka’s MAD deals almost exclusively with watching selfish, heinous people behave in selfish, heinous ways, with Putka setting his sights on a dysfunctional family and their bipolar mother. Mel (Maryann Plunkett) suffers a breakdown after her husband leaves her, winding up in the hospital when she’s found uncontrollably sobbing by her neighbours. Mel’s daughters Connie (Jennifer Lafleur), a successful corporate worker with a husband and two kids, and Casey (Eilis Cahill), unemployed and trying to figure out her life, convince her to commit herself to a psych ward in order to rehabilitate herself, a choice fueled more by selfishness than a sincere desire to help their mom.

Of course, being a family with its fair share of relationship issues, every interaction ends up devolving into a brutal war of words between mother and daughter(s). Putka, who also wrote the screenplay, knows how to write some great passive-aggressive barbs (when a dejected Mel tells Connie that her daughters hate her, Connie calmly responds with “Casey doesn’t hate you”), and his game cast do a great job making their arguments crackle until the acid-tongued screenplay gets the better of everyone. For the most part, Putka’s tonal balance between sweet and bitter works (largely because of Plunkett’s performance), but the constant repetition of Connie or other characters lashing out at one another takes its toll, eventually making scenes feel like Putka trying to constantly one-up his own insults. That makes MAD work against itself when it tries to humanize its three leads, resulting in a rocky ending when the film goes for an emotionally satisfying payoff. Fans of extremely caustic humour should get their fill with MAD, and while Putka’s attempt to find a middle ground between the sincere and cynical doesn’t entirely work (a hard task for anyone to accomplish, let alone a first feature), he shows enough wit to make MAD’s ambitions worthwhile.

Winner of the Un Certain Regard prize at Cannes this year, Grímur Hákonarson’s Rams starts out as a strange comedy about sheep farming before gradually turning into a heartwarming tale of two estranged brothers attempting to make peace with their past. Despite living right next to each other for 40 years, brothers Gummi (Sigurdur Sigurjonsson) and Kiddi (Theodor Juliusson) barely interact. But that changes when a devastating degenerative disease infects sheep across the community, forcing the brothers to work together to protect their beloved sheep.

Set in a remote Icelandic farming valley featuring picturesque landscapes, Rams combines isolated visuals with a moody musical score to create a haunting, contemplative atmosphere. Doom lurks around every corner in this film, but Hákonarson manages to insert enough tender moments to balance the otherwise melancholy vibe. Watching the farmers kill off their stock in order to eradicate the disease is heartbreaking, but with tragedy comes hospitality. The situation is an opportune time for the brothers to reconcile their differences to save their flock and salvage their relationship. While it’s not overwhelmingly clear why these two brothers haven’t gotten along over all these years, Hákonarson figures it’s less important than watching them set aside their conflicts.

It’s impossible to overlook the striking cinematography found in Rams. Even with a simplistic, and sometimes slow-moving storyline, the film remains engaging due to its strong visuals and absurd comedy. Icelandic filmmakers have recently found their own quirky niche, producing oddball narratives containing depressing dark humor set against gorgeous rural backdrops. Rams would make a great double feature with last year’s Icelandic head-scratcher (which also involved animals) Of Horses and Men.

Rams Sundance Review Rating:
7/10

We plunge into the second volume of Miguel Gomes‘ Arabian Nights without the introductory support of prologues. Only the familiar yellow titles remind us that what we’re about to see is not an adaptation, but an inspiration. Told through fictionalized accounts of actual events that occurred in Portugal between 2013 and 2014, events which left many citizens even more impoverished than before. As soon as The Desolate One ended, only a few fully formed thoughts rose out of the rubble left of my mind. Namely, I silently thanked the director for dividing Arabian Nights into three volumes, for it would be highly detrimental to the overall experience if the audience were tasked with watching all six hours in one sitting.

Partitioned into individual stories—some with multiple narrative tangents of their own—the cinematic wealth of information in Arabian Nights is best digested in fragmented doses. The Desolate One, with its three vastly varied reflections of soul-squeezing desolation, might turn out to be the most emblematic of this richness. A point which—unless I find Volume 3 to be some otherworldly masterpiece—no doubt played a part in selecting this particular volume as Portugal’s Oscar entry for Best Foreign Language Film. For even the most emotionally barren tale here, about a reclusive villager of ill-repute on the run from local authorities, is draped in pensive mystery and fried in sun-dried humor. Simao (Chico Chapas) is a son of a bitch, and part of a population of people who are rarely represented on screen. Throughout his story, Gomes constantly pits our perceptions of him and his actions (often bizarre but harmless) with legendary rumors of evil and violence about him, including the reason why the authorities are hounding him. It’s a story of evil full of curiosities, imbued in the kind of lonesomeness found under the surface of so many Westerns.

The second story, with a Judge (Luísa Cruz, pulling off the most memorable performance in Arabian Nights so far) presiding over a case that gets ridiculously out of hand is, in all respects, an intense masterpiece of imagination. Arabian Nights hits the peak of its seductive powers in ‘The Tears of the Judge’ from the increasingly bizarre buildup of crimes and passive-aggressive blame-avoidance and Sayombhu Mukdeeprom’s purplish tinctures cinematography which adds to the phantasmagoria in the air. This chapter is the epicenter of the entire piece. The Portuguese court system gets a fantastical make-over in this story; a smorgasbord of cultures, traditions, time periods, and social classes. It’s bonkers magic realism with an endless lifespan, peppered with mercurial humor, and momentous beyond words.

The third and final tale in The Desolate One immediately recalls Gomes’ beautiful Tabu, thanks to the familiar faces of Isabel Muñoz Cardoso and Teresa Madruga. Centered around a block of apartments, ‘The Owners of Dixie’ is in the lonely spirit of Simao’s story, yet it borrows heavily from the imaginative streak from in the previous chapter. A woman finds a mysterious dog which uncannily resembles her old one, and gives it to her friends in an effort to add some joy into their depressing lives. The dog goes from owner to owner, and is the adorable witness to a perceptible sense of nostalgia and dilapidated human spirit, held delicately together by that strange little thing called love.

My mind turned to rubble by the end because it completely succumbed to the film’s undeniable charms. The Desolate One continues where The Restless One left off, building a bridge from literature to cinema. And in more ways than one, this chapter of Scheherazade’s storytelling edges closer to the cinematic end of that bridge. As an art form that envelops all others unto itself. It’s similar to a piece of classical music; here’s the midsection that’s more abstract, more contemplative, and slower in sinking in, but only because it’s slightly more profound in execution and style than what came before. With its mesmeric mixture of genres and moods, a superb screenplay and inspirational camera work and composition (naked Brazilian ladies sunbathing on the rooftop, in one jaw-dropping shot), The Desolate One may just be the most haunting movement of Gomes’ glorious, deeply melancholic, symphony. The Enchanted One is the next and final volume, but it’s already clear that we’re in the midst of the director’s magnum opus.

Originally published on October 1st, 2015 as part of our coverage for the New York Film Festival.