“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.

Michael Moore (Bowling For Columbine, Fahrenheit 9/11) adapts his brash style of documentary filmmaking to a thin, but well-meaning, takedown of American exceptionalism. In Where to Invade Next, the controversial filmmaker goes east, shooting his entire film outside of the United States despite consistently turning his attentions back home. The righteous indignation that’s fueled most of Moore’s work seems replaced by resigned exasperation. More often, he just seems tired of it all. As a result, the humor that once made the documentarian an engaging avatar for liberal outrage lacks its searing edge in Where to Invade Next.

The film sees Moore “invading” European countries—and an African one—to “claim” their policies on behalf of America. Gathering interviews with former government heads, public service workers, and ordinary citizens, Where to Invade Next provides first-hand accounts on the benefits of altruistic policies. He speaks with Italians who get eight weeks of paid vacation, and shows their smiles fade as he explains that Americans are guaranteed none. He takes a tour of French school cafeterias and gawks at the selection of 80 different cheeses in the school chef’s storage. He examines these baffling disparities between The Rest of The World and Us, but does so on a microscopic level that’s unlikely to sway anyone’s mindset. Moore reaffirms leftist ideologies, hardly adding anything to the conversation.

Where to Invade Next reaches for humor that’s simply not there. Moore is a somewhat awkward improvisationalist. His hit to miss rate is close to 50:50, but watching his interviewees awkwardly smile as he stammers through a half-formed punchline grows draining. Reduced to the dad-joke realm of lines like, “You know it’s bad when the French pity you,” Moore lacks the punchy energy to sell his sarcasm. His unfunny cut-aways to a stable of cows or a clip from Talladega Nights slow down the film’s pace. When the documentarian attempts to play the role of pro-American buffoon, you wish he had the concise witticisms of Comedy Central-era Stephen Colbert. Even the clever juxtaposing of anti-terrorism speeches over video of police brutality seems staid and expected from someone like Moore.

The documentarian’s habit of inserting himself into his films inhibits Where to Invade Next’s message from fully resonating. Opening the doc by recounting a make-believe meeting between Moore and the leaders of the American government, joking that he was, “summoned to the Pentagon,” his sophomoric approach feels reductive—a strange tone to set when your film is meant to promote civic engagement. During interviews he prods his guests in obvious ways, repeating his questions with faux bafflement at the responses. It all serves to personalize Moore’s message, but he doesn’t demonstrate the depth of expertise to act as an authority.

Moore likely has knowledge to make a convincing argument, but it—along with almost any statistical data—is not on display in Where to Invade Next. It’s hard to disagree with Moore’s pro-public good sentiments, but his documentary is hardly putting forth the best argument. As if the filmmaker set out to catalog these crazy cool foreign laws he’s heard so much about, Where to Invade Next often lacks the thoroughness to serve as more than an introduction to civic duty.

Originally published on October 3rd, 2015, as part of our New York Film Festival coverage.

The rhythm of the third and final chapter in Miguel Gomes‘ Arabian Nights shifts gears to the point of bewildering (as opposed to enchanting) those who are already done digesting The Desolate One. The Enchanted One is difficult (I’d even go as far as to say impossible) to fully appreciate as a standalone piece, considerably moreso than the two previous volumes. Its parts are divided up in the most irregular of ways. It begins with a prologue, before morphing almost entirely into something like a documentary about bird-trappers in Portugal. Stylistically, Gomes opts for the written word over Scheherazade’s (Crista Alfaiate) voice-over, asking his audience to literally read (a lot), or get lost. Then, suddenly, a Chinese girl (Jing Jing Guo) narrates her life-changing experience as a foreigner in Portugal, while images of people protesting fill the screen. The method in the meandering and meditative madness of Volume 3 is a mystery solved long ago, leaving the final chapter of Gomes’ masterwork somewhat disarmed of direct excitement.

While it’s considerably tougher to engage with the action here, in the bigger picture The Enchanted One is still a vital piece. For one thing, it feels important to spend a bit of intimate time with Alfaiate’s Scheherazade, even if that time ends up being somewhat disappointing. Her doubts over the effects her stories are having on the king, her sense of imprisonment, and her yearning to experience all the wonders of life outside the castle’s walls; all of these bring her character down to earth and, magically, enhance every story she told in The Restless One and The Desolate One. Once she starts roaming Baghdad’s archipelago, some of her encounters are decadent to an off-putting degree, but all it takes is one conversation with her father, the Grand-Vizier (Américo Silva), and we’re immersed again. Perhaps it’s because he reminds her of the importance of stories, and where they come from.

Scheherazade returns to her king, and begins the story about the songs of chaffinches. While it certainly looks labored, the choice of going with title passages over narration to tell this story must’ve really been no choice at all. As beautiful as Alfaiate’s voice is, it would only serve to disrupt the birds’ stirring songs and the bird-trappers’ silence in attending to their beloved passion. For The Enchanted One is at its most entrancing when it follows Chico Chapas (yep, Simao ‘Without Bowels’ from Volume 2) and other bird-trappers in Portugal—unemployed men, lonely men, men hardened by the harshness of life—in their efforts to find, nurture, and teach new songs to the little feathered crooners.

For the first time in Gomes’ Arabian Nights, Scheherazade breaks from a story and concludes it at a later point. In between, we get a brief, wholly captivating, rendition of Ling’s experience in Portugal. Her voice-over narration (in Mandarin)—as she recounts her experience with falling in love and living with a Countess, told over images of Portuguese demonstrations—is beautiful stuff. The fact that it’s so brief, and that Scheherazade returns to the chaffinches right after it, marries the incantations of the human voice with the musical chirps of the birds in a deeply profound way.

As fitting of an ending to Arabian Nights as it is—with a wondrous cover of Klatuu’s ‘Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft’ to send us off—The Enchanted One is considerably less powerful than the previous two chapters in this unforgettable saga. It would be an interesting experiment to see if its effects would be any different in a single sitting of all three volumes. Viewed as a single entity, though, it’s the least accessible piece of work Miguel Gomes—occupant of interplanetary craft—that he has ever done. In this way, it also feels like the most personal section of Arabian Nights; an impression that’s supported by a final, heartfelt, message from the director himself. As strong a case The Restless One and The Desolate One make as stand-alone films, The Enchanted One embraces all three into one inseparable whole. A whole suffused with a singular poetic imagination, confirming—as all great pieces of film art do—the powerful storytelling medium in cinema.

Originally published on October 2nd, 2015 as part of our coverage for the New York Film Festival.

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.

It takes 20 or so minutes before we see the vibrantly playful title of the first chapter in Miguel Gomes‘ latest project, all bedecked in gold; Arabian Nights: Volume 1, The Restless One. Before it; a prologue interweaves three narrative threads in a hypnotically potent way, gluing the intended audience to the screen. First-person accounts of Portugal’s declining shipbuilding industry, a wasp epidemic, and a film director (Gomes himself) who is plagued by the apparent stupidity of his own idea for his next film. That is, a metaphorical linkage of the infamous “One Thousand And One Nights” fairytale structure to his interpretation of Portugal’s economic crisis. This meta-documentary approach with the prologue is odd and endearing, but it resonates, above all else, because of its raw honesty.

A single shot stands a cut above the rest from this introduction. A wonderfully long wide shot of a large group of people seeing off a ship from Viana’s seaport, as the voice(s)-over swing between shipyard employees and a self-made wasp exterminator. It’s pregnant with a kind of romanticized melancholia that has become one of Gomes’ signature traits, and augurs—before we’re even introduced to Scheherazade (Crista Alfaiate)—how the director might just pull off his “stupid” idea in remarkable fashion. Indeed, from the moment we delve into the first story about ‘The Men With Hard-Ons,’ to the emotional precipice we’re left with by the end of ‘The Swim of the Magnificent,’ Gomes proves The Restless One is everything under the sun, but never, ever, stupid.

Scheherazade’s unique way of avoiding imminent death at the hands of her mad king husband has attracted Gomes to use her method in order to create a work of surreal, humorous, and vigorously compelling cinematic art. For those unaware of the Arabian Nights premise, a quick brief: the beautiful Scheherazade takes it upon herself to stop her Persian king’s violent ways, a man with a reputation for murdering his wives after taking their virginity. Each night, right before he’s about to sentence her to death, his new wife starts telling him a story, only to stop it halfway. The king, unable to bear the thought of not knowing how the story ends, spares her life for another day so that she may finish recounting it the next night. This surrender to the power of storytelling courses through Gomes’ entire filmography, so it’s easy to see why he’s so attracted to Scheherazade’s method.

Getting into too much detail about the first three stories in The Relentless One would be the equivalent of spoiling the twist in a Shyamalan movie, so I’m not doing it. Suffice it to say that, through finespun camera work, unostentatious cinematography by Sayombhu Mukdeeprom (Apichatpong Weerasethakul‘s DP), and Gomes’ screenplay (written with Telmo Churro and Mariana Ricardo), the allegories of Portugal’s unemployment crisis and her government’s negotiations with the European troika are generated with an insoluble type of electric charge. Though not an actor’s showcase by any means, Adriano Luz (who plays the “haggard romantic” Luis in the third story) and Dinarte Branco (who delivers the greatest monologue of the entire chapter as Lopes in the first story) are vital to The Restless One‘s emotional undercurrent. One that’s in constant flux between love for a country and rage at the state it’s in.

Through all the Luis Buñuel-esque hijinks and splashes of sheer brilliance, moments stick out. An intensely languid tracking shot of a man describing his experience as someone “unemployed by circumstance”. A preadolescent love triangle composed in a humorously exaggerated version of Generation Y SMS language. A man remembering the time he got his finger stuck in Biology class—a memory orchestrated by the most effective shot transition in the whole film. Moments of joy, devastation, despair, love, acceptance, and washed-up whales that explosively birth mermaids. You don’t need to see all three volumes to understand that Arabian Nights sees Miguel Gomes at his most ambitious, exposing his artistic soul in the most honest way he knows how. The realism of the film’s prologue is contrasted with the surrealism of everything that comes after it, but both share Gomes’ impulse to lure the viewer in through the power of story, intimate and epic alike.

The second story, ‘The Cockerel And The Fire,’ is decidedly weaker than the others, or at least the first half of it is, which impacts the glorious momentum of The Relentless One. Anticipation for the second volume, The Desolate One, is no less palpable for it. Even more significantly, the emotions evoked by watching how low fantasy embraces socioeconomics in one of the year’s boldest cinematic events, remain none the wiser.

Originally published on September 30th, 2015.

Filmmaker Miguel Gomes‘ sprawling six-and-a-half-hour reaction to The Great Recession of Portugal insists its influenced by events that occurred in Portugal between August 2013 to July 2014. A helpful on-screen text reminds audiences of this near the beginning of each of Arabian Nights‘ three volumes: The Restless One, The Desolate One, and The Enchanted One. Despite that, through three volumes, Arabian Nights travels through time, across the country, and to Baghdad. Text is one of the many ways in which Gomes subverts expectations across his trilogy. “I see a connection between the voiceover in the second part of Tabu and the text [in Arabian Nights],” says the Lisbon-born filmmaker. “As you hear the voiceover, you have a completely different sensation. It’s inventing a wall you don’t see. The text here is the same.”

Gomes’ films connect disparate people and elements across Portugal to create a surreal, spellbinding experience. In an interview with Way Too Indie, the Portuguese filmmaker addresses the concept of adapting the “Arabian Nights” structure without adapting the book, creating the sensation of getting pulled in and out of a film, and why he didn’t want to “hit” his audience three times.

Did your interest in “Arabian Nights” predate your desire to talk about Portuguese austerity?
It came before. I started to read Arabian Nights—I never got to the end, though. Because it’s a huge book, but I’m still reading it [laughs]. I do it regularly since 12 years old I think.

My intention was not to adapt any story from the book but [instead] the sensation I had with the book, which is a different thing. It’s kind of a sensation that you’re almost vertical—living in a labyrinth of stories. This kind of baroque structure amazed me when I started to read the book. So for me, Arabian Nights, is like a bible of fiction. You have all the possibilities of fiction—shifting fiction, inventing fiction within fiction—in this book.

And it’s a way to cover a lot of territory. You address so many people from a variety of backgrounds and occupations.
That moment in Portuguese society was very intense and it continues to be—it’s not over yet. People are still suffering the consequences of this financial, economical crisis but I would say that [the film has] the sensation of being alive in that country, Portugal. My intention was also to gather a certain number of stories that were happening at that moment and try to build tales for Scheherazade to tell to the King. Stories about how it is to be in that country nowadays.

There’s also a lot of dealing with the thought process, coming to terms with where society is—from the filmmaker’s struggle to encompass all these stories to the judge who keeps discovering these new layers of malfeasance. They have to come to terms with these elements.
I think every one of them—they have their connection with Portuguese society. For instance, you were talking about the segment of the judge, it has this more global aspect of now having a copy of the Portuguese society in front of the judge. The judge, who’s job is to put order in the world, cannot. She doesn’t have the tools because the situation got out of order. She cannot tell who’s guilty, not guilty. She cannot do her job as a judge. This of course resonates with an issue that’s so important in Portugal: who’s at fault? Who’s guilty?

People try in a very quick way to put the guilt on someone just to protect themselves. It’s a human, natural tendency to defend yourself but I think things are more complex. This is why I had this impression that it would be important to have as many segments as possible because there is not only one way to watch Portugal today, as there is not only one way of making films. So I thought my Scheherazade would be able to tell very different films, to tell and show things in very different ways.

Volume One begins chaotically with all the different voiceovers and settings but as the film goes along it slows down. I wonder if that pace was built into your stories?
It was built in with the editing. When we were shooting the film, we didn’t even know if what we were shooting would appear [in the finished film]. We didn’t know that there would be three volumes when we were shooting. Only in editing we understood that we could control the mood of each volume. This kind of development [of the changing pace] from The Restless One to The Enchanted One was pretty much built in the editing.
Even though I have the sensation that sometimes you have two speeds at the same time. For instance, for me the judge moves absurdly quickly, if you try to really follow the events and the crimes.

It goes out of control fast.
And the same time you have the sensation that it’s not moving at all because it’s all moving in circles so it’s not going anywhere. It’s like not moving and moving very fast. For instance, in part three, in the Scheherazade section, I also have the feeling that sometimes the film goes very fast—she’s always drinking, or singing, going from one situation to the other.

It’s kind of entrancing the way it bounces from sections of extended dialog, or a speech, and then there’ll be silence or just the natural atmospheric noise. Did you try create that sensation of being pulled out and getting pulled back in?
Mostly I wanted have this kind of roller coaster entry in the film [in Volume One] with lots of more radical changes from moods and filmmaking from one to the other. The second one I wanted to be more horizontal. It had three stories and they are different from the first [volume’s stories] that are more up and down and this is like a line.

The final one, it’s the zen, atmospheric film, it has a different construction. You have lots of entries, like in an encyclopedia, and these entries invent for your two kind of communities: one completely fictional, with such absurd characters [in Baghdad] as Elvis the thief breakdancer, and also a community of the guys with the bird song contest that do as surreal things as the guys from Baghdad. Trying to teach your bird to sing by creating [a birdsong] in a computer—it seems quite Arabian Nights. Not quite delirious fictional. So there’s a clash of these two kind of communities with reality and fantasy working at the same level.

That’s the interesting thing when you blend elements of reality and surreality you can accentuate your message with those elements of absurdity.
This dimension is very important in the book. The realistic absurd kind of thing is very important and I really enjoy that. [The surreal] helps reality become more clear for me. It’s important not to try to mask fiction as if it was reality, which is sometimes a problem I have with some contemporary cinema. They make lots of effort to pretend to be reality. To be life.

The place of the viewer in these films is someone who is experiencing real life and I don’t like that kind of cinema. I like cinema where there’s lots of artificial elements and it’s up to the viewer to establish a pact with the film because in the artifice of fiction, there’s always certain truths about our real life. But I cannot also renounce the material world, I think it’s important to have this kind of [films].

I think this last volume. For me it’s like you start delirious like Scheherazade. And what happens to Scheherazade is completely mythological, like myths. It becomes much more down to earth because of the sun, because of the rocks in the landscape. We’re entering the world of Scheherazade and then it gets down to Earth.

I think that then the bird trappers, they do the inverse movement. It starts down to the earth and then they start to get this kind of mythological quality. So bringing the myth down to the earth and bringing [reality] to the dimension of the myth was the proposal of this volume. So for me, it’s always like this fantasy and reality and myth – like our practical, everyday lives – should have a place in the films. They are mixed.

Is that how you interpret the world, with that surreal element?
I think there’s always the world outside and the world that exists in our mind, no? I have to use both but I think we have to be aware of something which is if our mental world, or fantasy world, if we use it to hide reality I think it’s not good. We are trying to run away from things so I think for me it’s important to use both but being really careful with the fact that the fantasy cannot disguise reality.

Is there a version of this film that will exist at 6 hours?
Not really because when edited the film and we cut three volumes, we built every film like it’s a complete film. If you’re at the New York Film Festival, they show one every day. Like Scheherazade telling those stories to the kings, she finishes in the morning and then she continues the day after. This is my way to see the film, I think it’s a good one.

This idea of having the three in a row for me is a little like getting hit three times. I think it’s too violent. Every film has already the possibility of changing to defy the viewer. If you don’t have a little bit of a break and you start to see it continue, I don’t know if this can give you congestion or indigestion. It’s too much. If I would have had it one film of six hours I would not do it like this.

How did you arrive at what the ending would be of each volume? Was that also through the editing process?
It was in editing. Every time we shoot a story we didn’t know anything. Where to put it, if even we put it in the film or in the garbage. So it was in the editing that each end [was discovered]. I would say that for me that the most emotional thing is at the end of the finch volume. The Swim of the Magnificents, with all the unemployed people is emotional and thw ghost of Dixie [is emotional, too]. For me it’s very emotional material and so we thought during the editing of each volume that’s how to end it. It was not simple. Sometimes we changed the stories and it was not simple to get this point.

Don’t call his movie jazz. Hazily moving back and forth in time, Miles Ahead takes place during the legendary trumpet player’s self-imposed 5-year hiatus from making music during the 1970s, flashing back to memories of his tumultuous relationship with ex-wife Frances Taylor (Emayatzy Corinealdi). It’s a disjointed, bizarre, and oddly compelling structure that Miles himself may have admired. Don Cheadle—playing Miles, co-writing, and making his feature directorial debut—hones in non-musical moments from Davis’ life in creating this muddled biography, with at least one more gun-toting car chase than expected. As cool as Miles Ahead’s stylistic flairs are—bleeding Miles Davis performances into the middle of a boxing ring and elsewhere—Miles Ahead still falls victim to the stiffness of conventional biopics, hampered by its own ambition.

Cheadle has worked nearly a decade on Miles Ahead, co-writing the script with Steven Baigelman (story credit on last year’s James Brown flick Get On Up) and even turning to IndieGoGo for a final bit of fundraising. More than any other element, Cheadle the actor appears ready for the challenge of capturing the soul of Miles. He convincingly resembles Davis when tapping on his trumpet and donning the garish outfits Miles wore at the time. Sounding like a man in recovery from a weeklong binge, Cheadle’s Davis adopts a scratchy, apathetic tone somewhere between conversational dialog and a man mumbling under his breath. His performance brings the dynamic, unpredictable energy Miles Ahead needs, but the film surrounding him is too sparse to keep pace with his rhythm.

Miles Ahead’s frantic assembly loses sight of the characters in Davis’ radius. Though flashbacks (and flashforwards) transport the film back over a decade, the majority of the “present day” action occurs across two crazy days during Davis’ exile. He’s bothered by the unrelenting knocks at his door from fictional and inexplicably pursuant Rolling Stone writer Dave Brill, played by Ewan McGregor, who alternates between authentic and fake bafflement. Davis asks Brill if he can drive before using the writer as a chauffeur to Columbia Records, where he arrives gun-in-hand to demand a $20,000 payment. One of the executives (played by a mustache-twirling Michael Stuhlbarg) makes sleazy attempts to win over Miles before hatching a plan to steal Davis’ latest recordings—which he literally refers to as, “gold.” The subsequent chain of events involved in the losing, tracking, and re-acquiring of this unreleased recording borders on ridiculous, and would more appropriately belong to a Guy Ritchie heist plot than the Miles Davis story.

These distractions pull the film away from the music. Miles Ahead never plays like a greatest hits record, often turning away from the Kind Of Blue hits in favor of obscure cuts from Miles Davis’ career. Even when songs are heard, they are relegated to the background of scenes in which Davis fruitlessly searches for his new sound. In the beginning, pouring a session tape, Davis stares down his trumpet from across the room and mutters, “Fuck you lookin’ at?” Cheadle attempts to define the obstacles Davis had in returning to recording after taking time off, but in the context of his erratic vision, Davis’ inability to compose is reduced to a subplot.

Cheadle reaches for a lot of disparate concepts with his long-in-development Miles Davis biopic. He looks to articulate the impact of his music while focusing on the prolific musician’s least productive period. Cheadle tries to make a film about the essence of Miles’ work but offers an intentionally limited perspective on the man. Miles Ahead remains entirely watchable, yet the ways in which the film falls short of its target are frustratingly apparent throughout. When Cheadle trots out as Davis with #SocialMusic emblazoned on his vest during the film’s finale, it’s one final oblique maneuver that seems as confused as the rest of this incomplete portrait. Despite a tremendous performance at its center, Miles Ahead gets lost in its attempt to embody Davis’ artistic spirit.

With sleek packaging that would make the late Apple CEO proud, Steve Jobs is a biopic told in three extended scenes, over the course of three separate product launches. Alternately taking place in 1983, 1988 and 1998, the newest film from director Danny Boyle (Trainspotting, Slumdog Millionaire) begins in chaos with arguments bleeding into one another. An audience of eager techies waits outside the 1983 Apple Keynote while Jobs (Michael Fassbender) stands center stage demanding that the Mac on display say, “Hello.” He orders Mac developer Andy Hertzfeld (Michael Stuhlbarg) to fix this problem while Joanna Hoffman (Kate Winslet) pulls him backstage to handle other issues; he meets with Apple co-founder Steve Wozniak (Seth Rogen) as his estranged wife (Katherine Waterston) and daughter (played by Makenzie Moss, Ripley Sobo, and Perla Haney-Jardine during different time periods) wait for him in a dressing room; he balances all these tasks, never doing just one thing at a time.

Credit the breakneck pace to writer Aaron Sorkin (The Social Network, Moneyball), whose wordy diatribes have been both the subject of praise (The West Wing) and scorn (Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip). Few writers are as capable of making intelligent people sound smart, and here he’s once again demonstrated that ability. In Steve Jobs, Sorkin’s script sends the actors careening into one another. Their piercing verbal takedowns and cleverly dismissive retorts provide a staccato rhythm that remains humorous and enthralling for the duration of the movie. Steve Jobs cares about ego, and characters who demand or want credit for their contributions. “I’m tired of being Ringo when I know I was John,” Woz yells at his friend and collaborator. The script spends as much time building its characters up as it does tearing them down.

Imposing this 3-part structure requires Sorkin to reach for several storylines simultaneously. It’s a structural conceit that asks the audience to overlook that sense of “the gang’s all back together” each time its central characters are reintroduced for later scenes. Steve Jobs is more of an impressionistic portrayal of the tech innovator than all-encompassing biopic, but this assembly is far more entertaining than what the conventional treatment allows (looking at you, Jobs).

New chapters begin with an exposition dump through montage and dialog. The script maintains a high energy, which allows the actors’ emotive line delivery to cover up the expositional nature of some of their interactions. It gets messy during a section in the middle of the film, when editor Elliot Graham (21, Milk) jumps from flashbacks to the height of an argument between Jobs and his former boss, John Sculley (Jeff Daniels). More often, the film is electric, smoothly transitioning between its exciting moments.

Fassbender commands attention on-screen as Jobs. His magnetism transcends Sorkin’s depiction of Steve Jobs as an unrelenting asshole (who relents a bit too much by the end). He embodies the character’s unchecked sense of superiority through his disaffected saunter and casually spoken insults, delivering a well-timed, “Fuck you,” as if it were completely innocuous. It’s one of the actor’s most fascinating roles to date, elevated by the A-class ensemble around Fassbender. In particular, Kate Winslet nails Joanna Hoffman’s subtle Polish accent while serving as a sounding board and frequent scene partner to Fassbender’s Jobs.

Director Danny Boyle blends the dynamism of the script and the actors’ performances with his mastery for technical flairs. Shooting each time period in its own format—16mm for 1983, 35mm for 1988, and digitally for 1998—Boyle implies the technological progress through these periods. The filmmaker matches Sorkin’s rapid-fire dialog by condensing as much visual information into each frame as it will allow. He laces his scenes with the shortest of cutaways to a crowd stomping their feet in anticipation of Jobs’ latest unveiling or a brief glimpse of Jobs and Woz back in the garage.

The overwhelming display of craft makes Steve Jobs among the most stimulating biographical films in recent years. Any liberties Sorkin takes in adapting the famous Walter Isaacson biography of Steve Jobs serves to accentuate the underlying conflicts in Jobs’ life. Its gripping first few moments ultimately prove to be the film’s best ones, as the momentum gradually slows by act three; however, Steve Jobs is nonetheless a highly entertaining look at an icon and the ways in which his hard-headed determination affected those in his radius. Lead by one of the year’s best performances, Steve Jobs is constantly compelling perspective on the shortcomings of a man who achieved greatness.

Weaving a young Irish immigrant’s story into a heartfelt, romantic drama, Brooklyn exudes an entire diary’s worth of emotion with a light-handed touch. Based on Colm Toibin’s 1950s-set novel of the same name, Brooklyn follows Eilis Lacey (Saoirse Ronan) as she leaves her home in Ireland for a new life in America, torn between where she’s comfortable and where she finds opportunity. She arrives as a timid but amenable girl, unsure of what to say or simply too afraid to say it. Director John Crowley (Boy A, Closed Circuit) portrays a world in which the people around Eilis are consistently decent. In Brooklyn, the biggest obstacles facing new immigrants are loneliness and having been displaced.

After arriving in America, Eilis struggles to discover her sense of belonging. Stuck in a boarding house for Irish women run by Mrs. Kehoe (a wonderfully snappy Julie Walters), Eilis unhappily toils away at a department store, silently crying when she opens letters from home. It isn’t until she meets Tony (Emory Cohen), a handsome and soft-spoken Italian plumber, that Eilis starts to smile. His courtship of her is palpably sweet. As she finally opens up with him, talking up a storm through their first dinner together, Eilis’ restrained glee is contagious.

Nick Hornby (An Education, Wild) peppers the film with eloquently poignant lines of dialog. When Eilis first meets with the Irish priest (Jim Broadbent) that sponsored her voyage across the Atlantic, he tells her that homesickness is like any other malady and that it can linger for a while before getting passed onto someone else. The understated manner in which the script allows Brooklyn’s characters to articulate their hopes and fears creates earnestly powerful moments. There’s only one short romantic speech in the film and damned if it isn’t a more genuine expression of love than anything to have come from a Nicholas Sparks adaptation.

In a role perfectly suited to the emerging 21-year-old Irish star, Saoirse Ronan captivates in the part of Eilis. She conveys the anxiety of unfamiliar situations, as well as the joy of developing a real connection to others. Her growth from deferential girl into self-assured woman is a gradual process, enlivened through the subtlety of her acting. It’s an outstanding performance, rich with sentiment and sweetness. Emory Cohen’s charismatic presence is a treat, too, providing an affable quality in support of Ronan’s more serious demeanor. His sincerity as Tony is appealing without becoming preposterous. Even Domhall Gleeson, whose role as a potential new suitor in the story should elicit scorn, proves to be delightful.

The section in where Eilis gets forced into returning to Ireland adds complications to a film largely missing them. She returns as a radiant figure, her bright, American clothes distinguishing her from the crowd. Often, Crowley positions Eilis as a splash of color within a muted frame. As Eilis wavers on her fate, Brooklyn refuses to show its hand. It’s easy to imagine different audiences leaning towards separate conclusions from this love triangle, but its ending is a fitting, beautiful final note.

There’s nothing revolutionary about the love story depicted in Brooklyn; however, the restraint it shows with its dramatic tension makes the film a pleasant, tender drama. In fleshing out Eilis as a woman with a full life who aspires to more than just marriage, she becomes an endearing protagonist in a genre that often lacks those. Brooklyn is a gorgeous illustration of an immigrant’s experience in the mid-20th century, complimented by the touching romance at its core.

Not every spectacular promise reaps the richest rewards. In Romanian filmmaker’s Corneliu Porumboiu’s bone-dry comedy The Treasure, the mild-mannered Costi (Toma Cuzin) can’t resist the allure of hidden treasure after a neighbor claims that there’s a fortune buried in his grandparents’ garden. Lacking the money to fund an excursion by himself, the neighbor—Adrian (Adrian Purcarescu)—enlists Costi to hire a professional metal detector and drive to the countryside in search of lost riches with the agreement of splitting their findings. This is hardly as glamorous or scintillating as it might seem, the opposite of the valiant Robin Hood fables Costi tells his son at night. Porumboiu’s version of treasure hunting avoids grandeur in favor of a lot of talking, and the tranquility of an older man gingerly pacing across lawns with his run-down metal detector.

Reaching the titular treasure involves tedium and process. As Costi, Adrian, and Cornel (Corneliu Cozmel)—the man with the detector—watch hours tick away while making vague progress, rifts begin to occur between them. Unsure of how deep to dig their holes as well as whether they’ll ever find anything, the group’s politeness starts to fade. The Treasure keeps the both characters and the viewer waiting patiently. Porumboiu adopts a stillness that treats each new development like a surprise. Any moment could lead to a discovery, but it could also lead nowhere.

Puncturing the tension with the metal detector’s alien bloops or a well-timed pithy comment, The Treasure wavers between amusing and listless. The wry interplay becomes the focus above its stripped down plot. Most of the fun is in observing how Costi and Adrian handle the changing circumstances. Costi and Adrian get so wrapped up in the possibility of untold fortunes that anything less would ultimately feel like a let down. The experience of watching The Treasure follows suit, delivering an unremarkable but still enjoyable expedition.

An impressionistic profile with a high barrier to entry, Don’t Blink: Robert Frank is a documentary for those familiar with the photographer made by someone familiar with the man. Editor and documentarian Laura Israel had worked along Frank for years, archiving his work, before becoming compelled to profile her occasional boss. The documentary imparts the feeling of time spent in Frank’s presence. Israel films him from the backseat of a car as they pull over for conversations with passersby—be they Frank’s friends or just a random man dressed as the Statue of Liberty. Alternating between brief interviews with the contentious subject of the documentary and glimpses into the archives of Robert Frank’s work, Laura Israel’s Don’t Blink: Robert Frank is a frustratingly sparse profile of an enigmatic artist.

Robert Frank is an uncooperative interviewee, openly dismissive of Israel’s attempts to get him to reflect on his career. In some cases—as in addressing the untimely deaths of both of his children—this reserved nature makes sense. In others—such as when Israel positions Frank in front of footage from his Rolling Stones documentary that almost never was, Cocksucker Blues—Frank expresses his distaste for artists that explain their choices, which forces Israel to cut the interview short. Some insights are elicited from the photographer’s printmaker Sid Kaplan, articulating Frank’s meticulousness when he recounts the photographer’s demand of 24-second exposures instead of 22-seconds.

Frank’s impenetrable disposition makes it hard to get invested in his “sick, sad view of America,” particularly when approaching the documentary with limited knowledge of him or his work. Laura Israel’s debut feature is decidedly not an entry-level look into the man’s career, capturing the abrasive, dismissive personality of her subject. Don’t Blink: Robert Frank is a brash profile of an artist who would rather stay a mystery.

Todd Haynes’ gorgeous new film Carol is a delicate, romantic examination of queer identity in the 1950s. Based on the Patricia Highsmith’s novel “The Price of Salt”, about a virginal shop girl named Therese (Rooney Mara) who falls for the titular Carol (Cate Blanchett), this understated lesbian romance is an often joyous look at a blossoming relationship that transcends all obstacles of its era. Articulating that imperceptible pull of deep affection, Carol is wonderfully acted by its two leads. Mara and Blanchett develop an instant, intriguing chemistry that breaths life into their reserved initial exchanges. The immaculately crafted love story demonstrates the power of genuine connection, regardless of gender.

Haynes and his actors are able to express more with a lingering hand on a shoulder than most romances achieve in an entire film. Opening with a nervous dinner between Therese and Carol, the pair of women communicate an extensive mutual history without the benefit of the context that will later be added. Blanchett brings a dignified elegance to her fiery character, with a controlled outward demeanor Carol tries her hardest to maintain. To paraphrase a line from Carol’s jilted husband Harge (an excellent, but one-note Kyle Chandler), she’s always the most commanding presence in the room.

Her stoicism gives way when in the presence of her younger counterpart. It’s the radiant Rooney Mara who shines brightest in Carol, in spite of her character’s passive tendencies. The reserved manner in which Mara carries herself—burdened by the men and job that take her presence for granted – slowly gives way to reveal a girl simply unsure of herself. To Therese, Carol is more than someone to love, but someone whose self-assuredness is something to which she aspires (during their first get together, Therese admits she, “barely know[s] what to order for lunch”). To Carol, Therese is an alluring presence that needs to be coaxed out of her shell. Each actor seems charmed by the other’s quirks. It’s only in Carol’s presence that Therese learns to stick up for her own desires.

Carol shares thematic and temporal similarities to another Haynes film, 2002’s Far From Heaven, with the notable difference between being how retrospectively coy Far From Heaven seems by comparison. While Far From Heaven treats its homosexual elements as a reveal, Carol gives the gay relationship center stage throughout. No characters go so far as to use the L-word, G-word or H-word, but they are unrepentant about their “immoral” feelings. Therese and Carol have a harmonious bond. Even with Haynes’ history in making gay-centric movies (Poison, Velvet Goldmine), Carol feels like a step towards normalcy.

Carol could have simply been a story about a relationship falling victim to a bygone age. Instead, Haynes constructs a testament to love’s ability to endure. It’s a beautiful story only partly due to its unfettered handling of the lesbian relationship, but for the precision with which it portrays their romance. There’s a certain stiffness typically associated with Period Pieces—where costumes and era appropriate dialog gets in the way of character. That is never the case with Todd Haynes’ newest film, which uses time period as set dressing for a humanistic drama. The production details are flawless and immersive, but Haynes’ camera draws attention to his actors’ faces and their mindsets.

The culmination of Therese and Carol’s romance comes naturally. Haynes teases out the process until it seems as if the two are simply meant to get together, and that first blissful moment they share is exciting and moving. The film’s careful finale is Carol at its most tender, ending on a touchingly delightful note in sync with the rest of the film. It’s hope from the past to give us hope for our future.

The whimsy nature of Michel Gondry (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Be Kind Rewind) meets the adolescent exploration of the coming-of-age genre in Microbe & Gasoline. Following two young friends that build a house on wheels in order to take a road trip across France, Gondry surprisingly downplays the potentially fantastical elements of this premise. Sure, the filmmaker indulges in a backward dream sequence and a homemade house on wheels, but even the execution of those components is decidedly restrained in comparison to Gondry’s previous effort, his arts and craftsterpiece Mood Indigo. His latest film is an enchanting, youthful romp with a truly laissez-faire attitude towards growing up.

Daniel (Ange Dargent in his feature debut), nicknamed “Microbe” by his classmates for his diminutive size (though he points out he’s not the shortest kid in school), is a social outcast frustrated by being overlooked or mistaken for a girl. He avoids the other boys in school, preferring to sketch portraits of a girl he speaks to but won’t pursue. Daniel finds kinship with the arrival of Théo (Théophile Baquet), a new boy whose souped-up bicycle and engine-repair hobby earns him the name “Gasoline” (as well as snide comments about his diesel smell). When the pair grows tired of their school and their moms, Microbe & Gasoline hatch a plan to build a portable shelter to transport themselves around the countryside for the summer. Should it be a car? Should it have a shack? Why not both?

Microbe & Gasoline is less concerned with the consequences of the boys’ actions than it is with their routes to self-discovery. As the young teens leave behind their families, the film does as well. The policemen whom Daniel and Théo worry will disapprove of their unlicensed vehicle instead want a selfie with their jalopy RV. They undertake this journey with only minor complications. Rather than condescend to its protagonists, the story embodies the boys’ budding desire for independence and treats each moment with the level of significance it has to the film’s characters. Gondry demonstrates real affection for his naively inquisitive pair, and their funny, genuine but juvenile heart-to-hearts.

Despite its eccentricities, Microbe & Gasoline can’t help but feel overly familiar at times. Like too many of these unconfident adolescent stories, Daniel’s insecurities are largely alleviated by a slight makeover and a pep talk about a girl. His mopiness isn’t as engaging as Théo’s defiant goofiness. Among somewhat recent young male-skewing escapist semi-fantasy, 2013’s The Kings of Summer more effectively conveys the annoyance of being caught between childhood and maturity. What allows both of these movies to succeed is the specificity in the characterization of its leads. In Microbe & Gasoline, Daniel and Théo are distinct, charming young men that behave like actual teenagers.

Gondry’s work can feel devoid of cynicism. The only cynical characters in his latest movie are the stifling adults who aim to get in Daniel and Théo’s way. This might be too precious for some audiences, but their exuberant adventure is often fun enough to merit the idealism. The very French Microbe & Gasoline entertainingly captures the adolescent yearning for independence from an adult regimented world.

Bill Genovese has spent over 50 years haunted by his sister’s murder. When Kitty Genovese was killed in 1964, her case became widely known when The New York Times reported that 38 neighbors had witnessed the attack and not done anything to intervene. This seemingly impossible negligence is the first of many preconceived notions regarding Bill’s sister’s death that begins to crumble under closer questioning in the documentary The Witness. With an unrelenting determination to figure out exactly who his late sister was and the true circumstances of her murder, Bill embarks on a several year journey with documentarian James Solomon to track down the witnesses of Kitty’s life and death.

The Witness benefits greatly from the true events that it depicts providing several layers of intrigue. At the start, Bill looks to poke holes in the initial New York Times article by speaking with any witness he can track down through the public record. In the process, he discovers failures on the part of the police, as well as new aspects to his sister’s life he had never known. Even Bill Genovese himself is fascinating as a subject, a Vietnam War veteran who lost both of his legs, now often refusing help from those around him. Continually, the documentary delves into tangential chapters devoted to the living family of witnesses or Kitty’s work as a barmaid. Its scattered focus can become frustrating as The Witness leaves its audiences with several loose threads to ponder over—in a situation not entirely different from Bill’s.

While the documentary occasionally suffers from its indistinct presentation, the succession of stunning details keeps the case compelling. Bill’s personal need for closure drives him past the point where almost anyone would give up, yet he confront uncomfortable situations with courageousness. The Witness’ cathartic ending is an appropriately melancholic note for a film so fixated on gruesome material, but finding satisfaction from this documentary relies on how highly you value closure.

Thomas Bidegain, the screenwriter of well-renowned French films A Prophet, Rust and Bone and this year’s Palme D’Or winner Dheepan, makes his directorial debut with Les Cowboys, which might be the first “French western” I’ve heard of. In what might be a cheeky acknowledgment of his appropriation of the Western, Bidegain opens his film at a country-western festival in France. Alain (Francois Damiens) and his family attend, with Alain having a ball as he sings “Tennessee Waltz” for the crowd and dances with his 16-year-old daughter Kelly (Iliana Zabeth). But when it’s time to leave Kelly is nowhere to be found, and after several days of searching a letter written by Kelly comes in the mail saying she’s run off with her Muslim boyfriend Ahmed. Kelly tells her family not to look for her, but Alain never stops searching, taking his son Kid (Finnegan Oldfield) with him throughout Europe as he spends years trying to track down Kelly.

It’s surprising that Bidegain’s screenplay turns out to be the weakest link in Les Cowboys given his writing background. While he’s undeniably inspired by Hollywood classics like The Searchers, it’s like he’s confused a basic and lacking approach with a classical one. Alain is a one-note character, more or less repeating himself throughout (find a lead, aggressively interrogate people about his daughter, freak out, get another lead, wash rinse repeat). Damiens does a fine job as Alain, but his intimidating presence vanishes as the monotony of his character sinks in. And then Bidegain, possibly aware of his own story going nowhere, suddenly changes things up by switching the focus to Kid in the second half as he heads off alone to Afghanistan. It would be a nice change of pace and setting if Oldfield didn’t have the charisma of a wooden block, mostly keeping his face expressionless and his mouth shut while travelling with an American he encounters on his trip (John C. Reilly in a wasted cameo). At least the scenery looks quite nice, thanks to cinematographer Arnaud Portier.

But if Bidegain wants viewers to join in on his film’s long, plodding journey, he has to make his characters worth following. Alain and Kid are too underdeveloped and stale to bother caring about, and even though Les Cowboys shouldn’t really be about the mystery surrounding Kelly, her whereabouts become the most involving element of the film. Putting aside Bidegain’s other problems—like his awkward attempt to shoehorn 9/11 into the narrative—Les Cowboys never gets out of the gate because, as a character-based drama, it fails to provide a single character worth investing in.