There’s no better evidence of Denis Villeneuve‘s handle of craft than in Sicario. Directing a tightly paced screenplay by Taylor Sheridan, Villeneuve follows Kate Macer (Emily Blunt), an FBI agent recruited to join a task force headed by government worker Matt (Josh Brolin) and his intense sidekick Alejandro (Benicio del Toro). From the start, Kate realizes she’s out of her depth; Matt and Alejandro lie (a trip to El Paso winds up in Juarez), and they prefer to keep her in the dark about what they’re really doing when it comes to luring a top cartel member out of hiding. And as the mission gets more dangerous (and more vague), Kate realizes she’s thrown herself right into the vicious maw of the War on Drugs.

There are points early on where Sicario feels like watching a masterclass on how to create a truly nerve-wracking thriller. Relying once again on legendary cinematographer Roger Deakins (who lensed Villeneuve’s first mainstream effort Prisoners), Villeneuve keeps things in Kate’s perspective, taking advantage of the southern border’s vast landscapes to clash with the chaotic unknowns Kate finds herself thrust into repeatedly. Blunt is terrific as her character fights between maintaining some sort of control of her situation and pure, pants-shitting terror at what she’s a part of, and del Toro can be downright bone-chilling when he shows his ruthless side in the film’s latter half.

The choice to include a brief subplot involving a Mexican police officer, an attempt by Sheridan to offer a look at the human cost of the drug trade, is less of a relief from the unrelenting tension and more of a distraction than anything. It’s an attempt to broaden the film’s scope, but it fails because there’s no need; by observing the headache-inducing bureaucracy, the little value placed on lives, and the “means justifying the ends” philosophy taken to the utmost extreme, Sicario does plenty in showing off the disastrous state of the drug trade today.

“Hey, this mayor thing…when’s the fun part start?”

In the opening moments of the new HBO miniseries, Show Me A Hero, so much is said without a single word spoken. A man parks in front of a cemetery, panting and hyperventilating before chugging two-thirds of a Maalox (antacid to treat dyspepsia), and ignoring his beeping pager. He leaves the car, pukes out the Maalox, and—in a brilliantly framed shot—walks into the distance while his pager flashes “911.” He sits by a gravestone marked “Wasicsko,” stressed, paranoid, and clearly at the end of his rope. Politics aside, these opening moments ensure one thing: writers David Simon and William F. Zorzi (ex-Baltimore Sun journalists and masterminds behind the greatest TV show of the century thus far, The Wire), director Paul Haggis (Crash, Third Person), and star Oscar Isaac (sizzling like a comet towards the A-list after his unforgettable turn in Inside Llewyn Davis) are going to make Show Me A Hero one of the most talked-about television events of the year through sheer artistic integrity.

That it has a timely political subject at its epicenter guarantees discussion and makes it all the more enticing. It’s the late 1980s, and we’re in Yonkers, New York. Now, depending on how much pre-hand knowledge one starts with—specifically concerning the public housing crisis that forms the molten-hot fulcrum of this story—one will either be affirmed or informed for the first couple of hours. Thanks to Simon and Zorzi’s experience in encyclopedic storytelling structure, the groundwork is laid out and easy enough to follow as long as you pay close attention. Yonkers is divided by the Saw Mill River Parkway; on the East side live the affluent, middle-to-upper class of predominantly white citizens, while the West side is made up of the housing projects populated by the predominantly non-white and poor. After federal judge Leonard Sand (Bob Balaban) issues an order to the City of Yonkers to install 200 units of low-income housing on the East side of the parkway, the middle-class community raise hell for the City’s incumbent mayor Angelo Martinelli (Jim Belushi) and his councilmen and women, among them 27-year-old Democrat Nick Wasicsko (Isaac), Republican Henry Spallone (Alfred Molina), and Council president Vinni Restiano (Winona Ryder). Hell is raised, not because of outward racism or prejudice, as one of the citizens tries to articulate, but because the property of their own houses for which they’ve worked hard to obtain and maintain will fall, while people who don’t make the kind of money they do get a federal free-pass to live in the same neighborhoods.

The first two hours of the show introduce us to the principal characters from both sides of the Parkway, and the personal and political struggles they carry. Martinelli is facing an election year and has grown increasingly unpopular with voters because he refused to appeal Sand’s housing mandate, while Wasicsko becomes convinced he’s got a shot to become the country’s youngest mayor, because he has, crucially, voted for the appeal. Meanwhile, his private life is imbued with an adorable romantic subplot as he courts and wins over a councilman’s new secretary, Nay Noe (Carla Quevedo). In Sand’s chambers, the NAACP are represented by a passionate and cynical Michael Sussman (Jon Bernthal) who pleads with the judge to make good on his promise and force the housing on the city, even if he doesn’t have the council’s approval. While housing expert Oscar Newman (Peter Riegart), who has canvassed the layout of Yonkers, believes the 200 units can and should be spread out over eight or more sites, in order to avoid further contempt and division within the community.

As the political soup brews on both local and federal levels, we get glimpses into some of the lives on the west side of the Parkway. There’s 47-year-old Norma (LaTanya Richardson Jackson) whose eyesight is deteriorating by the minute due to diabetes. We follow Carmen (Ilfenesh Hadera) and her three children as they struggle in New York and are forced to move back to the Dominican Republic. And we’re introduced to Doreen (Natalie Paul) who lives in the suburbs but visits the projects where she meets, falls in love, and moves in with a well-meaning, asthmatic, drug-dealer Skip (J. Mallory McCree). Keeping with the non-political level, in Part II we become acquainted with a couple of East Yonkers citizens, Mary (Catherine Keener) and Buddy Dorman (Brian Altman). When Nick becomes mayor-elect, and the housing appeal is denied, it forces Nick and his council to comply with Sand’s mandate or face hefty fines and contempt of court, while Mary joins the growing ranks of the angry rabble who refuse to give in to the idea of low-income housing in their community.

This first third of Show Me A Hero beckons you to immediately re-watch both parts depending on how well versed you are in political jargon, just to make sure all the appeals, elections, NAACP grievances, and court decisions make sense. Then again, people tuning into a new HBO miniseries from David Simon and William Zarzi should expect nothing less then to have their attentive faculties massaged to full capacity. All credit goes to Simon and Zarzi’s expert writing, which displays an incredible economy in character and story development. In two hours, we get the sense of an entire community and all its various shades, from slums to council meetings. Haggis’ direction, and some masterful editing from Jo Francis and Kate Sanford, delicately weave together all the pieces of the puzzle, allowing the virtuoso performances to shine through and keep eyes glued to the screen. Literally all of the players, spearheaded by Isaac all the way down to the secretary who comically refuses Wasicsko access to the copy machine, excel in their roles. As outlined in the opening minutes, Show Me A Hero is an intricate, controlled, and smoothly seismic piece of television. And we’re just talking about the first two hours here.

This kind of subject matter and story doesn’t just invite political discussion, it incites it. Based on Lisa Belkin’s nonfiction book of the same name, Show Me A Hero (the title, FYI, is taken from the F. Scott Fitzgerald quote, “Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy,” so wherever this is heading, it won’t be pretty) makes little qualms about which side its own. Molina’s Spallone chews on his toothpick with the menace of a Bond villain, the angry white mob of East Yonkers spew anti-Semitic slurs about Sand and Sussman, and the tenderization of the West-side characters is more mechanical than braising. Norma’s eyesight, for example, gets stretched to the point of heavy-handed manipulation: she can’t see the button she marked on her intercom to buzz herself in, and instead of trying any other apartment, she frets and tugs at our heart strings. On the other hand, there is a sense of level-headed balance. Spallone’s “I watched the Bronx die” argument has its roots in historical accuracy (depending on who you talk to), and the first proper sequence we see on the West side involves a drug-deal; the foremost concern for the East side of Yonkers. While most of the white citizens’ objections drown in a cacophonous sea of introverted racism, one can’t help but sympathize with someone like Mary Dorman (played with surgical subtlety by Keener), who is genuinely worried about how her way of life will be impacted by this change. The show makes a point to separate her from the rest of the bigots, and Part II’s conclusion—an unlikely phone conversation—foreshadows the kind of evolution both Mary and Nick are about to go through.

That it’s a liberal-minded show is obvious, and the creators have every right to slant whichever way they feel is just. Many critics, who are much more in-tune with American politics than I am, have already noted the relevance of its themes and subjects on today’s geopolitical landscape in the U.S., with on-going racism and corrupt political systems dominating news headlines. Depending on where one’s personal standing is on the issue of low-income housing, Show Me A Hero is either going to enrage or enlighten, but there are a couple of key things to keep in mind, regardless. Firstly, all of this actually happened, and history blinds personal opinion, or at least, it should. Secondly, knowing that this show comes from the creators of The Wire should silence the skeptics and remind them that all sides of the issue will be handled accordingly. Thirdly, the core issue of disolving segregation is one that everyone should be able to firmly stand behind, regardless of their political leanings. And finally, especially for those neutral on politics, this is television operating at its artistic zenith. Simon and Zarzi make a city’s housing crisis more compelling than one could possibly imagine, punctuating their story with wit (the lookout’s “5-0 on you, Skip” is classic Wire humor) and artistic intelligence (the minute-long background phone ring that concludes Part I is nothing if not genius).

While I’m never one for transparent political endorsement, regardless of whether it’s left or right-leaning, Show Me A Hero has more than enough in its history, characterizations, and bravura storytelling to make me wish that it’s next Sunday already.

RATING: 8.5/10

A particularly crafty young-adult tear-jerker, Me and Earl and the Dying Girl packs an emotional punch, but hits us with a looping left hook as opposed to its contemporaries’ straight jabs on the nose. Director Alfonso Gomez-Rejon and screenwriter Jesse Andrews (who adapted from his own novel) go to great lengths to assure us that this won’t be your typical teen drama. They’re setting a booby trap: while most of Me and Earl sidesteps convention, its endgame is familiar, designed to make you reach for the tissues and hug your loved ones a little tighter. I wouldn’t say I fell for the trap completely (for better or for worse, my eyes stayed dry throughout), but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t moved.

The film won the two biggest prizes at Sundance earlier this year, and I’ve got to believe part of its success at the festival lies in the “Me” of the film’s title. The main character, Greg (Thomas Mann), is walking catnip for film geeks. He’s a witty, socially faceless high-schooler who, on his spare time, makes DIY spoofs of Criterion Collection classics with his best bud, Earl (R.J. Cyler). (Their sizable oeuvre includes gems like The Rad Shoes, Eyes Wide Butt and La Gelee.)

The drama stems from Greg and Earl’s schoolmate Rachel (Olivia Cooke), the terminal teen from the title who’s been diagnosed with leukemia. Greg’s mom (Connie Britton, who played one of the greatest TV moms ever on Friday Night Lights), upon hearing of the girl’s condition, terrorizes him into the ridiculously awkward situation of befriending Rachel out of the blue. At the foot of Rachel’s staircase, Greg comes clean. “I’m actually here because my mom is making me,” he says with a shrug. “Just let me hang out with you for one day. I can tell my mom we hung out and then we can be out of each others’ lives. Deal?”

In that moment they do make a deal, but not the one Greg so awkwardly outlined. By Greg being so forthcoming and honest about his naggy-mom situation, he earns her trust. He says probably the only thing that would have compelled Rachel to invite him into her room, and from there they make an unspoken pact to never bullshit each other. The film revolves around their friendship, which is predicated on this “no-bullshit” pact, and when it’s broken, their friendship consequently breaks down.

The film’s quick-witted dialogue is mostly funny, though the smartass-ness can feel a little overbearing. Greg narrates, breaking the story up with wry road markers like “Day One of Doomed Friendship,” addressing us directly, a device that sets up most of the film’s frank subversions of YA clichés. In the first of many scenes involving Rachel and Greg hanging out in her elaborately hand-decorated bedroom, they make a real connection and lock eyes. Via narration and a quick visual flourish, Greg promises that this is a strictly platonic story, free of nervous sexual tension (between he and Rachel, at least). This is a smart move by Gomez-Rejon and Andrews, as it dispels any anticipation the audience may have of Greg and Rachel getting together. Without this little aside, the resulting “Are they gonna kiss?” thoughts of teen romance would have been a major distraction from the story, which is about something else entirely.

Top-to-bottom, the performers enrich the material, making moments and characterizations work when, on paper, they’re pretty sketchy. Earl, for example, falls into black-teen stereotype a little too much, but Cyler’s measured, steady-handed approach to acting give Earl gravitas and maturity that makes him a perfect counter-weight to Greg’s skittish self-defeatism and neurosis. Mann slouches and mumbles just like me and all my nerdy friends did in high school (I mean that as a compliment), and his performance is only outdone by Cooke’s. With every muscle in her face relaxed, she can convey a wide range of emotions, from fear, to frustration, to sadness, to forgiveness. When Greg’s social ineptness gets out of control, she just sits there like a sage, blank-faced, though through her eyes we know exactly what she’s thinking.

The adult characterizations aren’t appealing, though the actors embodying them are welcome presences all. Greg’s dad is played by Nick Offerman, and though he and Britton have little chemistry, his fleeting nudges of encouragement to his son feel sincere and warm. The most archetypal role is given to Jon Bernthal, who plays Greg and Earl’s favorite, tatted-up teacher (he’s Mr. Turner from Boy Meets World). Molly Shannon plays Rachel’s mom, whose not-so-subtle sexual advances on Greg drove me closer to tears than the film’s tragic elements. When she is called upon to hit dramatic beats, though, she overachieves.

The movie’s visuals are its strength; the camerawork and editing is dynamic, thoughtful and patient. Gomez-Rejon and DP Chung-hoon Chung use a lot of wide-angle shots and panning and flashy maneuvers that recall Wes Anderson and Martin Scorsese for sure, though I think Gomez-Rejon’s style is less polished and more spontaneous (the camera moves feel very choreographed, yet unpredictable). There’s a wonderful sense of movement and color to the visuals, though the filmmakers have enough discipline to know when to slow things down. A long, static, uninterrupted shot near the end of the film sees Greg and Rachel having a very heavy, very uncomfortable conversation, and the camera is almost cowering in the corner of the room. The actors will go 15-20 seconds without saying a word, and the tension in there is so thick that there’s no way the camera could ever wade through it or dare to budge. The film also harbors one of the best montages I’ve seen in a long time, one which cleverly illustrates the many emotional ups and downs of Greg and Rachel’s summertime meet-ups.

The Fault In Our Stars is a movie with a similar outer shell to Me and Earl, but with way more hanky-panky. That movie is about kids always saying the exact right thing or the exact wrong thing all the time, the filmmakers and actors banging on the drums of romance and tragedy as hard as they can the whole way through. Me and Earl feels much more frazzled and uncomfortable and authentic, frankly, taking a more low-key approach that’s a little easier to digest than full-on melodrama. What’s captured here so well is the solipsism and confusion of being an adolescent who’s forced to deal with death before you’re ready to, an aspect of life so many films have trouble representing on-screen. Gomez-Rejon and his three young leads have so much promise it’s scary.