Who knew there’s so much red tape involved if a nun decides to give up everything to work for the poor? If there’s one thing director William Riead’s new film, The Letters, a biopic on the life of Mother Teresa, does well, it’s showing the bureaucratic web the late Mother had to swim through in order to follow her call from God: to help the poorest of the poor, in a still very much caste-driven India.

Especially as we get further from Mother Teresa’s death, at the age of 87 in 1987, the reason this sort of film works, is through filling in the gaps, letting a legend become a human. But whether it’s the shortage of the source material (Teresa shied away from journalistic coverage, and the film is based on letters she wrote to friends and family) or just the reverence of the filmmakers, there seems to be a certain hollowness to this film that’s ironically all about a woman with a lot of heart.

At least the lead was well cast. Juliet Stevenson does a commendable job with the accent (a Macedonian living and India), as well as portraying the humbleness of her character—it’s not so easy reciting lines like “It’s God’s work, not mine” and coming off as entirely genuine. Indeed the first 35 minutes of the film, which focuses primarily on her attempt to convince both the mother general of the girl’s school where she teaches and the pope in Rome that she should be allowed to give up her vows as a cloistered nun in order to work amongst the poor, is very watchable.

But by the time we actually get onto the streets of Calcutta, The Letters becomes something of a lazy movie, both in writing and acting. The dialogue feels cliché and somehow condensed (like instead of going through the trouble of zeroing in on an evolving relationship, the lines from the Indians repeat the refrain “You want to convert our kids to your Christian god?” or “What are you doing among us, white woman?”). It’s as if years of dialogue are abbreviated into just the main ideas. And thus, we never really feel for any of the relationships she makes on the street.

The one attempt at creating a real relationship takes place in the span of about 10 minutes. An Indian man is among her chief critics, but surprise surprise, in the very next scene when she helps his wife deliver her baby, he falls to his knees in gratitude. There’s never again dialogue between the two characters, but he shows up time for time, like in a scene where she tries to turn a temple into a hospice for the poor. It’s just assumed in black and white that he’s giving his support, that the two are forever allied. The music feels equally forced and lazy, heavy strings coming in whenever she teaches a child to read or helps a dying man, as if there needs to be a scrolling marquee above each scene: “You’re supposed to be feeling moved right now.”

The movie requires a lot of assumptions in lieu of actually developing characters and relationships. It’s as if its expected the viewer will come in already in full admiration of the character, so taking the time to show a character arc, or any intimate scenes, is completely unnecessary. But, of course, it is necessary. One of the film’s biggest missteps is in its structure. We start in the modern-day, where a man of the cloth is making the case for Teresa’s canonization as a saint. He serves as the film’s narrator, and tells us of Teresa’s loneliness as shown in the letters and her crises of faith, and yet none of these themes that would have done wonders to make Teresa seem relatable are acted out in actual scenes. It’s as if the script falls prey to that old writing adage, “show, don’t tell.” There’s a lot of telling.

But where there’s not any telling is in a complete failure to address the criticisms laid against Teresa in more modern times (the lack of medical training of her staff, as well as some questions on how money was being used). These criticisms may not be entirely fair, but ignoring them makes the film feel something like a Hallmark channel movie, meant to make the viewers feel good, even at the risk of over-sensationalizing a topic.

The fact of the matter is conflict creates interest. It gets viewers engaged. It creates stakes. And besides the initial arc with the bureaucratic red tape of getting the Vatican to approve her mission, there just isn’t enough conflict to keep the steam up, especially not for two hours. Every encounter on the streets turns into a mini miracle. Not setbacks there. We only get told about her internal struggles in the most periphery way—surely Stevenson could have handled some harder scenes with the subtle grace the part requires. And we don’t even attempt to address contemporary criticisms. The film doesn’t do a lot more to explain who Teresa is than her Wikipedia page, and for a film about a woman who loved the unloved, that seems like a real missed opportunity.

“There has been an awakening – have you felt it?” Thus begins the all-new teaser for J.J. Abrams‘ Star Wars: The Force Awakens.

It’s a short teaser, that debuted in a select few theaters today and iTunes, but true fans will take whatever morsels Abrams gives us. Not much plot was revealed, and the teaser focuses on the tension around the force apparently waking up. The teaser focuses on the tech goodies, a new droid on a rolling ball, stormtroopers preparing for battle, a lightsaber that looks like a sword with a hilt.

We do get a slight glimpse at newcomers John Boyega and Daisy Riddle. They join Adam Driver, Oscar Isaac, Andy Serkis, Domhnall Gleeson, Max von Sydow, and original cast members Harrison Ford, Carrie Fisher, Mark Hamill, Anthony Daniels, and Peter Mayhew.

What fans will undoubtedly be amped most about is some awesome action by the Millenium Falcon. This is the seventh film in the franchise and will take place 30 years after Return of the Jedi.

Star Wars: The Force Awakens will hit theaters December of 2015. One more year guys, one more year.

Leave a comment, tell us your thoughts.

For those familiar with the films of Ingmar Bergman, Liv & Ingmar‘s greatest gift is that it adds a new layer of richness to the Swedish auteur’s legendary oeuvre. The documentary examines the extraordinary 42-year-long relationship with he and his muse, lover, and dear friend Liv Ullman, telling their story through heartfelt interviews with the actress set to carefully plucked footage of the many films they made together. The dramas of their sometimes abusive romance bled into their work constantly, a testament to the inextricable link between their on and off-screen lives.

The story begins on the island where Ullman and Bergman met and shot Persona. Ullman recites beautifully written passages from her autobiography, Changing, recalling how profoundly they inspired each other, leading to a passionate love affair (both were married). She remembers Bergman calling her “his Stradivarius”, a compliment she considers the kindest in her life. Still beautiful in her 70’s, she speaks of Bergman with deep adoration and warmth, despite the fact that their romance eventually soured due to Bergman’s destructive behavior. Even as she walks us through (to the finest detail) how cruel he could be to her, there isn’t an inkling of resentment to be read on her face.

When the two moved in together on Faro Island, Ullman felt suffocated by their painfully quotidian lifestyle; he’d “write his masterpieces” while she meandered around the island, which she describes as “cold” and “dark”. The tension between them spilled over into their productions, with Bergman exacting a covert form of torture on his muse. Ullman recalls him being so upset with her during the filming of a scene from Shame that he forced she and co-star (and most notable Bergman collaborator) Max Von Sydow to wear thin jackets in the freezing cold while he stood over them, bundled up under three layers of coats. Bergman is painted as an angry absentee lover for much of the story, though Ullman’s boundless love for him keeps his image a safe distance from villainy.

Director Dheeraj Akolkar shows clips of Ullman’s various characters in Bergman’s films getting physically and verbally abused as she shares her anecdotes, highlighting the strong connection between life and art. The clips from Persona, The Passion of Anna, and others, are wisely and carefully intercut into the film, all feeling appropriate. Akolkar does almost nothing to delineate the significance and impact of their work on cinema as a whole, which is confusing, as it hinders the universality of the film. The film would have been more approachable to a wider audience with this context.

The film is divided into chapters–“Love”, “Loneliness”, “Rage”, “Pain”, “Longing”, and “Friendship”–matching Ullman’s recollections perfectly while also mirroring Bergman’s literary style. The once combative lovers ultimately learned to become treasured friends, which is how they left each other. In one of several voice-over recitations of personal letters written from Bergman to Ullman (read by Samuel Fröler), he summarizes their complex relationship in a most fascinating and lyrical way: “We have an ability to affect each other. We make each other alive. It doesn’t make a difference if it hurts.”

There’s a lilting, summer breeze quality to the imagery and score that gives off a feeling of acceptance and peace, much like the attitude Ullman exudes. Sentimental, spiritual, and intimate, Liv & Ingmar is a joy, and Ullman’s candor and sweetness is a treat. By examining the beautiful complexities of their relationship, the film gifts us new eyes with which we can see works like Scenes From a Marriage in a new light.