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(11/21/19 11:00am)
A brooding foghorn reverberates through the darkness, echoing in the vast blank expanse and chilling to the core. Before any visual is brought on screen, director Robert Eggers imbues “The Lighthouse” (2019) with a sense of resonant gloom that saturates the film an irrevocable dread.
Yet, as the film opens in its claustrophobic 1.19:1 aspect ratio, reminiscent of the works of early filmmaker Fritz Lang, its beauty is found in its grayscale. When making a film in black and white, most filmmakers would ensure separation from background by utilizing high-contrast lighting that places its composition in a combination of deep true-black and bright white, yet Eggers rejects this notion, instead often working within the middle-grounds. The composition is continually muddled, making it hard to discern a sense of place within the surrounding world. Every frame in this film is an oil painting; meticulously crafted in its apparent haphazardness and beautifully lit, swelling from the deepest, richest blacks through the shadowy grays, rarely reaching the unadorned, unadulterated whites. The foggy sea winds are ever-present, cutting through the rocky terrain and clamoring on the shabby wooden slats of the old lighthouse keeper’s cabin, encapsulating the island as a place all its own.
“The Lighthouse” finds wickie Thomas Wake (Willem Dafoe) and his assistant Ephraim Winslow (Robert Pattinson) at the opening of their four-week stay as keepers of a lighthouse off the coast of New England. At first, Ephraim is a man of regulation, refusing to partake in Wake’s alcoholic tendencies, yet as the dredge of manual labor wears on him, and hours turn into days turn into weeks, his threshold begins to near and his quenches his thirst. From his first arrival to the island, Ephraim discovers his limits; he is strictly forbidden from entering the light room of the lighthouse tower, Wake’s logbook is constantly locked in a chest of drawers and his daily actions are rigorously piled on. The island is shrouded in a thick layer of fog that heightens this sense of claustrophobia and mystery. Eggers’ decision to work within the 1.19:1 aspect ratio condenses the film, tightly engrossing the characters within it and his choice to highlight the middle gray tones works to make the troubled waters murky and unclear.
Wake and Winslow do not get along. Wake, is in command as the wickie, and his logbook, in which he records the daily ongoings, is held as gospel. Winslow is given a litany of orders that fills his day with exhausting, arduous tasks, leaving him completely abandoned of energy by the time dinner is set on the table. Wake constantly refers to Winslow as “Dog,” treats him like a mutt and forces him to sweat endlessly over wheelbarrows of coal and cistern cleaning. There is a clear power dynamic within the film: Wake is the overseer and Winslow’s sole job is to carry out the menial tasks required for the lighthouse to function. Yet the mental power dynamic is contested by the physical one: Winslow is much younger and fitter than his limping, feeble boss. As the film progresses, Winslow begins to question Wake’s authority and seeks to challenge it.
While the mystery of the film is tantalizing enough to satisfy viewers, “The Lighthouse” morphs into a psychosomatic, alcohol-fueled horror film that draws in the spirits of yore to haunt the newcomer. Wake warns Winslow of his previous assistant’s inability to cope with the imaginings of his mind, which allegedly caused his eventual death, but Winslow too soon falls prey to the trappings of lunacy. He sees mermaids lying amongst the rocky, seaweed-encrusted cliffs of the island, and is constantly tormented by a relentless sea bird, which Wake decries as possessing the souls of dead seamen. The film becomes unreliable in its information, causing the viewer to question the very basis of their understandings of time and place.
“The Lighthouse” brilliantly encapsulates the isolated hysteria of being entirely alone in the presence of a stranger, and how time and place can be lost when routine becomes ritual becomes mechanical. Walking out of the theater after this film is difficult. I found myself sitting in a daze as the theater employee walked by with his broom, trying to piece together the separation of reality from imaginings. It is, I will contend, nearly impossible to place just how long Wake and Winslow spent on the island. “How long have we been on this rock? Five weeks? Two Days? Where are we? Help me to recollect,” asks Wake of Winslow at the height of their collective derangement, both questioning his grasp on reality and the rapidity of his madness. “The Lighthouse” is a technically masterful work of art that uses the film medium to its utmost potential, warping the audio-visual experience into a crazed mania that deserves far more recognition than it has received. Go see “The Lighthouse,” but be sure to shed any expectations at the door and watch it with fresh eyes, for the joy of the film is in its unraveling.
(11/07/19 11:00am)
“Bojack Horseman” is a show so wholly unlike anything else being made today that it demands immediate viewership. The wacky, zany and often nonsensical show, birthed from the insatiably creative mind of Raphael Bob-Waksber, uses the boundless medium of animation to discuss what is not often discussed honestly: ourselves. The human condition is constantly commented upon, yet somehow this show about an animated horse seems to be the closest to capturing the spirit of life of any show currently airing. The final season of the show has been split into two parts, each containing eight episodes. “Bojack Horseman” season six part II will be released January 2020.
Season six picks up right where it left off, reflecting on Bojack’s (Will Arnett) lowest moment, when the destructiveness of his alcoholism and drug-abuse spilt over to those he held closest. Bojack built his fame in a Full House-esque sitcom called “Horsin’ Around” wherein he played parent to a daughter played by actress Sarah Lynn (Kristen Schaal). As a child actress, Sarah Lynn fell victim to abuse like Bojack turned to a life of drug-abuse. While dealing with his own various self-abuse and drug-abuse problems, Bojack led Sarah Lynn on a wild bender that left her wordlessly passing away in a planetarium. In a show of constant chatter, where it is common to find characters speaking in precisely intricate rhyming sentences, this moment of silence stands apart. Bojack and viewers alike sat in stunned silence at the visual manifestation of his harmful ways, fully internalizing the pain of the moment. Sarah Lynn’s death runs vividly throughout the season, imbuing each and every moment with the weight of this trauma.
At the end of season five, Bojack checked himself into a rehab clinic for his alcoholism and drug-abuse, and though he finds himself flourishing in the clinic community, after six months of treatment he finds himself fearful of re-entering the world he once knew, where the strength of his will would be the only thing keeping him from returning to his self-destructive ways. Unlike previous seasons, which looked back on the past with reminiscent idealism, season six looks at the present as a manifestation of the past, and uses it to try to reconcile with the enormity of Bojack’s’ prior mistakes.
In many ways, season six follows Bojack on his ascension of the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, first trying to understand the locus of his alcoholism, last trying to make amends with himself and with those around him. With every new episode, viewers are greeted with some earlier rendition of Bojack’s first drink, attempting to find the moment that propelled him in his downward spiral. First, it was after catching his father cheating on his mother with the secretary, then we are told his first drink occurred even earlier, after finding both of his parents passed out after a party, and finally it falling on a later date, when he drinks to cope with the stress of being the face of a popular sitcom. Yet it doesn’t matter which scenario is in fact his first drink, because it is precisely the fact that each drink was precipitated by trauma that is understood to be the problem. Alcohol is often used to treat one’s inner trauma, yet it often results in a myriad of more troubling and destructive situations.
In order to pass step eight of Alcoholics Anonymous, one must make amends to all the persons harmed through the course of alcoholism, and during the course of the season Bojack attempts to seek out all the people in his life who have been affected by his illness. Bojack has always blamed his illness on those around him, using the generous spirits of those who care for him as stilts to keep his head above water, yet now he understands that, in raising himself up, he was also pushing them down. By blaming his alcoholism on others, Bojack continually denied himself change, for substantive change can only come from within. Change is difficult and real change harder still. In seeking out the objects of his abuse, Bojack is constantly greeted by woe and regret. Season six reminds Bojack that the past cannot be rewritten and one simply cannot change what has already happened. He can only beg for forgiveness and hope to retain some of what he once had.
Part I of season six strikes at the epicenter of Bojack’s alcoholism, treating both himself and the viewer through therapy and rehab. “Bojack Horseman” remains one of the few shows that can find its characters delivering a 30 second lyrical rhyming summary one moment and a deeply heartfelt and pathetic monologue the next. There simply isn’t any show quite as outlandish in its methodology, yet it challenges even the best dramas to match is empathetic appeal. “Bojack Horseman” season six finds Bojack struggling for genuineness in his remorse and forgiveness in his friends. Sobering up, both literally and spiritually, is extraordinarily difficult and no show allows its character to fail quite like “Bojack Horseman” does. With part II around the corner, fans of the show, much like the characters within it, sit in a state of gleeful anticipation and sorrowful dread for what the future holds for Bojack and his friends.
(10/31/19 10:00am)
For this week’s issue of Reel Critic, I was asked to pick a scary movie to review. For the sake of providing insight into what I believe to be an extremely underrated film, I decided to review Martin Scorsese’s “Shutter Island” (2010). “Shutter Island” is a psychological thriller of utmost manipulation. In the hands of an able and brilliant filmmaker such as Scorsese, the viewer is ready and willing to forgo any sense of control and hand over their fate. In this film, there isn’t the common sense of fear; no jump-scares that shock your body to the core. Yet somehow “Shutter Island” is the scariest film I’ve seen in quite some time. It preys upon the very origin of fear: lack of control. Scorsese manipulates this, contorts it, and presses so firmly on the vein of fear that one cannot help but grasp their chair with white knuckles for the entirety of its duration.
In post-WWII America, U.S. Marshall Teddy Daniels (Leonardo DiCaprio) and his new partner Chuck (Mark Ruffalo) have been tasked with investigating the mysterious disappearance of a child-murdering mother from Shutter Island, a place that houses the country’s most violent, criminally insane patients. There is only one way to enter and exit the island, the shabby old ferry that transports Teddy and Chuck upon their arrival. Right from the outset, something is amiss. There is an unavoidable feeling that everyone is withholding information.
Before the film even begins, the low reverb of Laeta Kalogridis’s score echoes under the opening credits, conveying a forboding message of dread and ominousness. Teddy and Chuck are unmistakably outsiders. Despite being called in to investigate, it is palpable that they are unwanted. The camera hides behind the inhabitants of the island, peering through the bushes, over tables and looking down from above, making the viewer view the marshalls not as they see themselves, but as they are seen by those around them. Information on the island is sparse and comes only in random dottings.
Upon their immediate arrival, it is clear that Teddy and Chuck have no control. They must surrender their weapons, leaving them defenseless, and are subject to the laws and authorities of the island due to a Massachusetts constitutional subsection. Much like Teddy and his partner, the viewer has forsaken any semblance of control and has placed their fate entirely in the hands of the film, praying that nothing causes them to burst out in sudden momentary panic.
The brilliance of “Shutter Island” lies in its ability to ratchet up the tension, making it ever-present, yet always building. Within 10 minutes of the film’s opening, the hairs on the back of your neck begin to rise, alerting you to an imminent sense of danger. As the film continues, you begin to feel your spine tingle and your legs stiffen, as though you too are trapped in the same way that Teddy is. The island is completely locked off from the rest of the world. Eleven miles of ocean separate it from any other land and there is only one ferry that carries people to-and-fro. An impending storm cuts the phone lines, severing any ties to the main world. Teddy and Chuck are completely alone, and so too is the audience. No one is to be trusted, not even the people we take for granted as our allies. It is best to watch this film on a rainy day, when the rain slaps against your windows and the white bursts of lightning echo the blinding, shocking revelations of the film.
“Shutter Island” is a film based upon the visceral panic inspired by powerlessness. It is a two and a half hour feeling of free-falling, with nothing to hold onto, no grounding truth that provides refuge from the raging storm. The film’s ultimate twist questions any semblance of power the audience thought it had, revealing the hidden demons that lie dormant within each of us, and with it comes even more ambiguity and a final quote that will be argued by film viewers everywhere as to the meaning of its implications. So I’ll leave you with the very same question the film poses: “What would be worse: to live as a monster or die a good man?”
(10/17/19 10:00am)
Puberty is a time of self-discovery; a trial-and-error process that requires constant failure in order to understand oneself. There is no show quite like “Big Mouth.” It is singular in its honest and uninhibited approach to this subject matter. Many shows have tried — some in vain — to capture the essence of the turbulent time that is puberty, when young adults are blossoming ungracefully into adulthood. Yet “Big Mouth” seems unique in its ability to look past the tawdry jokes that come readily to creators of puberty-focused shows and reminds audiences of a time when the world possessed far more questions than answers.
In “Big Mouth” Season 3, show creators expand the already wide scope of the story to discuss questions not only about puberty, but also questions of societal importance.
After an early released episode for Valentine’s Day, “Big Mouth” immediately confronts sexist tendencies through the harsh and unfair implementation of a school dress code. The boys of the school are in an uncontrollable animalistic frenzy, brought on by what they claim is the girls’ loose and revealing clothing. Andrew Glouberman (John Mulaney), one of the show’s foremost pubescent characters, says, “I do feel out of control all the time and I’m going to use that as an excuse for my actions.” This dress-code is soon fought by the girls marching through the school always in what they call a “slut-walk,” yet in doing so they shame a girl for wearing her normal clothing, in contrast to their own provocative outfits. In scenarios like this, the show applies abstract issues in society to everyday interactions, allowing the voices of the characters to speak for the masses. In doing so, “Big Mouth” is able to provide some insight into many of the problems troubling the way in which society treats its members.
This is where the brilliance of “Big Mouth” lies; it is distinct in its capacity to tackle the toughest of modern problems with subtlety, adding notes of comedy throughout to engross its viewers. The topics range from gender misconceptions, helping Jay (played by Middlebury’s own Jason Mantzoukas ’95) discover his sexual identity through song, to the difficult intricacies that surround sexual harassment through the inappropriate relationship between Lola (Nick Kroll) and her theater director Mr. Lizer (Rob Huebel).
With the inconsistent, and sometimes unhelpful, aid of their hormone monsters, “Big Mouth’s” characters fumble on their way towards self-realization. Characters are allowed to make mistakes; they fight, steal kisses, argue, crash cars and hurt each other in trying to discover who they are to be. By walking in the wrong direction they find the right path. Nothing is off the table for “Big Mouth” and because of it, the show finds its honesty in the strangest of circumstances. Andrew is constantly trying to understand and combat his budding sexuality. At times his sexual interest is directed towards his friend Missy (Jenny Slate) or Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson and at other times towards his own cousin; there seems to be no end to the difficulty in finding what truly makes us tick.
“Big Mouth” doesn’t shy away from presenting images of both cartoon male and female genitalia, as the characters strive to understand not only their own bodies, but also themselves in relation to those around them. It aims to be an inclusive show, with main characters including straight, gay, black, white people and a “bisexual cisgendered polyamorous magician.”
“Big Mouth” is, in its essence, a show about identity, of discovering oneself within the tumultuous and hormone-fueled time of burgeoning adolescence. The show reveals that failure is a necessary evil on the path to truth. Its characters fail. They fail to be good friends. They fail to be good children. They fail to be good students. But they do not fail to be good people, because the road to self-discovery requires this failure and they are all the better for it. It is often easy in our maturity to forget just how treacherous the road to this place was, but “Big Mouth” places us right back in our youths and questions the strength of our own self-understanding.
(10/03/19 10:01am)
A factory is microscopically precise. It is focused solely on efficiency and optimization. A factory is a machine, one that utilizes people to turn its gears and flip its switches. Steven Bognar and Julia Reichert’s “American Factory” (2019) is the first installment by Higher Grounds Productions, owned by Michelle and Barack Obama, in its multi-year deal with Netflix. The film centers on a story of the complex dynamics of Chinese-American cooperation and blue-collar America.
Six years after the General Motors plant in Dayton, Ohio was closed, expelling well over 10,000 jobs from the factory, Chinese billionaire Cao Dewang purchased the factory as the first step towards American production of glass under his company Fuyao. Despite an auspicious grand opening, Fuyao America’s existence was soon found to be turbulent and divisive.
Though Fuyao America is located in Ohio, many of its workers, including all of its supervisors, are Chinese, while almost the entirety of the labor-intensive working force is American. To some capacity, the film allows American audiences to garner a Chinese perspective on American culture, life and labor. There emerges a stark contrast between the film’s portrayals of the dedicated, driven and precise Chinese workers and the slovenly, oafish and comfort-driven Americans. This dynamic intensifies during a trip to China to view their highly efficient and profitable factories. The work done by Chinese laborers is elegant and precise, military-like in its relentless attention to detail, yet simultaneously graceful and poised. The rythym of this part of the film falls somewhere between act one of Stanley Kubrick’s “Full Metal Jacket” (1987) and Darren Aronofsky’s “Black Swan” (2010).
Chinese workers in the film work hours upon hours of overtime, forgoing weekends and taking only one or two days off a month, while American workers have become accustomed to eight days off a month. Because of this and other comfort-driven impediments, Fuyao America is distinctly unprofitable, the only Fuyao factory to be so. In the inability of American workers to match the Chinese level of dedication and efficiency, “American Factory” finds its conflict.
While some workers in the Fuyao plant were paid $29 an hour at the former GM plant, many of the workers find themselves making less than half that for Fuyao. However, the workers of Dayton need jobs, so they are bound in some capacity to Fuyao. As their tolerance for shortfalls in safety, comfort and well-being is nearing its threshold, Fuyao America workers begin to rally towards the formation of a union, one that would enable them to recover some of the necessities of a working life. The lives of Fuyao America workers are at the forefront of “American Factory” and provide the film with tangible evidence of the impacts of international corporations on blue-collar American workers.
In its conclusion, as the factory seemingly repairs some of its self-inflicted damages, “American Factory” reveals an ever-increasing mechanization, one that propels the world into the future while leaving some workers in the past. While walking around the factory floor, supervisors point to different sectors remarking how a new robotic arm will soon replace one, two or even three workers. While new robotic efficiency is great for Fuyao’s profitability, it begs the question of how the world will grapple with the newfound technological revolution.
“American Factory” is a timely film that prompts its audiences to tackle some of the serious constraints of newly invented mechanical efficiency and its relation to us as a society.
As a documentary, “American Factory” is forced to record the past, scrutinizing and studying it for any glimmer of certainty for the future. One thing is for certain: this film will serve to remind us of our uncertain place in the world of rapidly progressing technology.
(09/26/19 10:00am)
The infinite expanse of space cannot compare to the vastness of our internal psyche. Stripping away the foreign reality apparent in sci-fi genre pieces, James Gray’s “Ad Astra” (2019) faces inward, focusing on the interior of the mind rather than the modern, technological exterior of its surroundings. “Ad Astra” is a battleground; an unflinchingly calm exterior braces against its chaotic, uninhibited interior.
“Near Future.” The film opens with this simple phrase, suggesting nothing more than a setting for its plot, yet it serves as a frame for the film’s production design and much of its tonal design. Right from the start, it is clear that “Ad Astra” defies genre norms in its portrayal of the future. The nearly identical cities and landscapes of the film place it within decades of our time. The advancements in technology are natural and purposefully familiar. Travel to the moon has become commercialized, closely resembling the commercial flight of today’s air travel. The International Space Station has been converted to an International Space Antenna (ISA) and its astronauts are more akin to telephone pole technicians than anything else.
In the opening scene, when an explosion along the ISA sends its astronaut technicians into a downward plummet towards Earth’s surface, CGI footage of the futuristic structure is blended together with real shots of skydiving to blend the future with the present. The film’s setting is subdued, retaining its focus on its protagonist Roy McBride (Brad Pitt), for at its essence “Ad Astra” is a deeply introspective character study.
Roy is the son of legendary NASA astronaut Clifford McBride (Tommy Lee Jones). He is a Major in his own right, living under the towering shadow of his father’s pioneering venture to the limits of our solar system in search of life, which resulted in his disappearance. Thirty years later, Roy is called in to make contact with him after a series of electrical surges is linked to his father’s spaceship.
Roy is calm beyond belief, calculated to a point of inscrutable precision, and can compartmentalize in such a way that he is completely walled off from any emotion. Yet there emerge moments of glaring vulnerability, when his chaotic and unrestricted inner world overcomes his stoic façade.
Throughout the film, Roy is required to complete minute psych–evaluations to assure his capacity to fulfill the duties of the mission. Through these updates, the audience is able to hear from Roy directly regarding his mental state. Paired with a thoughtful narration, “Ad Astra” uses Roy’s voice to focus the audience’s attention unwaveringly on its protagonist, drawing them nearer with each heart rate test and daring them to find fault or deceit in Roy’s psychological confessions. The viewer is forced to align their perspective with Roy’s, watching his decision–making with a magnifying glass, scrutinizing his every momentary expression for clues into his psyche. Though he is constantly telling the audience through his voice precisely and poignantly how he feels, it is through his actions that the audience can make their judgments. “The flight recorder will tell the story,” Roy remarks after an inflight conflict leaves him (and the audience) reeling. “History will have to decide,” he continues, acknowledging the audience’s role as juror.
“Ad Astra” is a meticulously crafted character study that reveals the constant struggle between the inner self and the self portrayed to the outside world piece by piece, never divulging too much information at a time. There is a sense of atmospheric ambiguity about the film, one which leads the viewer along a journey of moral unease, a journey of internal dilemmas played out on the galaxy’s amphitheater. “Ad Astra” disorients and unnerves, offering up a timeless quest not into the vast expanse of space, but instead into the unending plane of our own consciousness. It asks deeply evocative questions of moral and ethical importance. In understanding “Ad Astra” and its protagonist Roy, audiences seek to comprehend their own ideological foundations, looking outward towards the stars to find our inner self.
(09/19/19 10:02am)
On a timely journey of self-actualization, Shia LaBeouf and debut actor Zack Gottsagen take audiences through directors Tyler Nilson and Michael Schwartz’s story of finding self amidst personal struggles. “The Peanut Butter Falcon” (2019) is a film of renewal and rediscovery, of rebirth and the uncovering of goodness in an attempt to overcome personal circumstances.
In the movie, Zak (Zack Gottsagen) and Tyler (Shia LaBeouf) are trapped. Teenage Zak is shut in by familial abandonment and a genetic disorder, as well as the physical barriers of a nursing home (intended for his own safety and well being). Zak has big aspirations, though, as he spends his time watching tapes of his favorite wrestler, the SaltWater Redneck (Thomas Haden Church), who advertises his wrestling school located in Aiden, NC. Zak has no greater wish than to attend this school to become a pro-wrestler.
Tyler too is caged in. Unable to live up to his brother’s image of him, Tyler is haunted by memories of his death. Tyler’s brother — Mark — (John Bernthal) lost his crabbing licenses when he died to Duncan (John Hawkes) and Ratboy (Michael Atha). This left Tyler unable to live off the land as he wishes. He retaliates, stealing crabs from Duncan and eventually burning their supply, stripping them of what was originally taken from him. Tyler becomes rebellious, unstable and fiercely independent, spiraling into a life of petty crime and selfish defiance.
The two protagonists meet when Zak escapes the nursing home and finds himself stowed away on the boat of local crabber, Tyler, who is evading the wrath of Duncan and Ratboy after setting fire to their pile of crab pots.
Though Tyler intends to release Zak as soon as they reach land, he allows the young man to trail behind him, under a simple rule: “Don’t slow Tyler down.” The duo aim to escape their pasts, marred by their previous mistakes, and seek to redefine themselves.
Along the way, the pair stumble across Blind Jasper John (Wayne Dehart) when they are greeted by errant shots from his revolver. Jasper John is a god-fearing man, however, and he understands the plight of these weary travelers and aids them on their journey. He provides them with a makeshift raft to speed up their voyage — but not before baptizing them in the river. Jasper John tells the pair of the good and evil within man. “There are sheep and wolves in this world,” he states, “and you two are just sheep who strayed from their flock,” offering a poignant reflection on the inner struggle to separate one’s self from the mistakes and malice of our lowest moments. “Let the wolves of your past be laid to rest,” says Jasper John as he dips their heads into the slow-drifting water, cleansing their skin of the grime of their faults.
The themes of human decency and the contrast of bad deeds versus bad people are central to the film. Zak assumes that because of his Down syndrome and family abandonment issues that he is a bad guy and thus seeks to create a villainous wrestling persona. However, Tyler allows him to see that he is ultimately a good person. Tyler accurately remarks that Zak has a hero’s persona hidden within him, inspiring the Peanut Butter Falcon to be created.
The Peanut Butter Falcon is an inspiring figure, one who allows Zak to be not what he is, but who he wishes to be. In helping Zak find his true self, Tyler also finds himself once again. He is not the selfish rebel who seeks to destroy rather than to build; he is a devoted brother, who cares for Zak in the same way he once cared for his own brother.
The film ends in a beautiful crescendo of past lives haunting and new lives beginning: the Peanut Butter Falcon is fully realized. Zak is able to live to the fullest extent of his personality, unrestricted by his trauma of abandonment or the circumstances of his genetic disorder. And Tyler, who has redeemed himself through his guardianship of Zak, is abruptly forced to pay the debts for his previous wrongdoing. “The Peanut Butter Falcon” is a beautiful tribute to the personal journey we must face in order to better ourselves and move past our previous errors.
(02/14/19 11:00am)
Bo Burnam’s 2018 critical success “Eighth Grade” is a viscerally honest and authentic film about what it means to be a teenager growing up in a society where one’s self esteem is based on likes and comments, on Instagram and Snapchat, on cute photos and carefully crafted appearances. “Eighth Grade” draws on the internet to guide its story and message. Rising through the pop culture masses as a top YouTube and Vine creator, Burnam understands the inner workings of youth culture in today’s society.
In numerous interviews, Burnam has been noted as saying that he went to the internet for his research. He watched young teens talk in front of cameras and discuss their problems, he watched his own videos to recall how the media shaped his growth, and he noted how teens utilize and communicate on social media platforms like Snapchat and Instagram. All of this research, hours spent creating and watching videos on the internet, has allowed Burnam to represent teens in an honest way, creating the story from within the community rather than from the outside looking in.
“Eighth Grade” centers around middle-schooler Kayla Day (Elsie Fisher) as she reaches the end of eighth grade. Kayla is seen as shy, quiet and deeply introverted, often lingering on the outskirts of groups and conversations, listening deeply, but remaining silent. She smiles awkwardly when someone confronts her, and is vastly more comfortable in her room than at school or a party. Throughout the film, Kayla creates YouTube videos offering advice to her viewers, and it is through these videos that Burnam is able to uncover the themes and problems shared by her fellow classmates. By creating videos, Kayla is able to inhabit the persona she wants, rather than the one she has. She discusses major life themes such as growth and personal identity. These videos offer the film a unique mechanism through which Burnam reveals the inner struggles and wishful thoughts with which Kayla is embattled.
Much of the lighting, especially in Kayla’s bedroom, is minimal, using the cold harsh light of Kayla’s iPhone to illuminate her face, revealing the animalistic paranoia of teenagers’ incessant and mindless scrolling of social media. In moments like this, when Kayla is in a fever dream, lost in the sea of feeds and facades, the film’s score surges like a rush of blood to the head. Peripherals begin to fade as the camera pulls closer and closer toward the phone, beckoning Kayla and viewers alike to lose themselves in its expanse. As the score reaches one of its dramatic zeniths, it becomes impossible to see anything but the phone, to hear anything but the music that pulses through the temples.
Then, cutting through the noise and commotion, snapping Kayla out of the trance, is her father (Josh Hamilton) peeking through her bedroom door, engulfed in the warm yellow light of the hallway, bringing her back to reality with a gentle and sincere smile. And just as quickly as it began, the hypnotic nature of the phones lure fades, leaving nothing but the cold, white light of the screen revealing the pained grimace that had defined Kayla’s expression.
Though the film is consistently awkward and often cringey enough to send a shiver up any viewer’s spine, the difficulties are not unlike what teenagers today experience. Every mundane social situation is heightened to its most extreme, creating scenarios in which the audience begins to feel the pressures and paranoia felt by Kayla herself. Social interactions are a show, a performance, and everyone is trying to put on a good act. Kayla is constantly surrounded by a sea of individuals who see her not as she is, but as she presents herself to be. As Kayla states in her YouTube video about putting yourself out there, “people may not know the real you, they only know the you that you put on.” So, in the face of all of this acting and falsity, it is the few individuals who are honest with Kayla, who see her as she truly is, that stand out against the white noise that is millennial society.
This film pushes us to surround ourselves with people that we can be honest with, people we can be ourselves around. In a time where likes and retweets provide us with numerical values of our online self-worth, “Eighth Grade” challenges us to change, not for others, but strictly for ourselves. Self-worth is not something that can be given to us, it is something we have to give ourselves. Change and growth are necessary, but are still frightening and require courage and strength. Kayla says, accurately so, that “you can’t be brave without being scared.” “Eighth Grade” is a candid work of art that issues a necessary statement to the world: though we are more connected than ever, a disconnect far greater has arisen between ourselves and the people we strive to be.
(12/06/18 10:55am)
From the visionary mind of Zach Galifianakis, FX brings season 3 of “Baskets” to the small screen. In a show where nothing is out of the question, season 3 brings surprising depth and complexity, searching past the facade of clown makeup and rodeo shenanigans to provide a stunningly vulnerable commentary on the dynamics of a family.
“Baskets” stars Galifianakis as twin brothers Dale and Chip, the former a failed businessman and the latter a French trained clown. Along with their mother Christine (Louie Anderson), the Baskets family purchased the Bakersfield rodeo where Chip has worked as a rodeo clown. Throughout the season, the family strives to bring something new to the rust- and mud-covered exterior of the rodeo whilst simultaneously coping with the difficulties of running a family business.
From the moment we are brought into this world as a member of a family, we sign an unspoken contract that regardless of what happens, what mistakes we make, we will love our family and be loved by them — unconditionally. “Baskets” pushes this contract to its absolute limits. Every time Christine adds charges to the company credit card without the awareness of her financial supervisor, Dale, or every time Chip fails to be the employee that his mother and brother wish, this contract is tested.
The rodeo is, from its outset, a doomed business. It barely survived when knowledgeable people were at its helm, but now, with Christine and the rest of the Baskets trio steering the ship, it is almost inevitable that there will be choppy seas ahead. Despite everything that happens, every poor financial decision that sends a sharp pain to Dale’s back, the family remains, because in the end all we have is family.
Family, however, is not limited to those related to us; family is the collection of individuals we surround ourselves with, the people with whom we share our time. The Baskets family grows with each person Chip, Dale or Christine chooses to spend their time with. Chip’s best friend Martha (Martha Kelly), a Costco telephone operator, plays an integral role in the family’s business, constantly being swept away from her office to join Chip on one escapade or another. Christine’s boyfriend Ken (Alex Morris), the Carpet King of Denver, is struggling to fill both the role of loving Christine while also being the father figure that Dale and Chip have lost.
Along with her sons, Christine struggles with splitting her time between being the CEO of a rodeo, an activity she must do, and playing cards with her friends, an activity she wants to do. With each member of the family, we are tasked with reconciling our needs with the needs of those around us. After holding a funeral for his clown persona Renoir because of its insensitivity towards French culture, Chip is forced to create a new persona to portray. However, his attempts to create this character are constantly thwarted by some aspect of the rodeo requiring his direct attention.
The addition of each new family member creates an ever-growing strain on the Baskets to be everyone and to be everywhere. They need to be simultaneously a CEO and game night friend, a financial advisor and a brother, a performer and a son. It is, quite literally, impossible to be all these things at once, so each individual must decide how to allocate their time to suit not only their needs, but the needs of everyone around them. No matter what decision they make, no matter how they spend their time, someone will be disappointed.
It is from these reactions that we discover who our family truly is, because our true family forgives. For example, when Dale yells his way out of the New Year’s Eve party with his family, his mother hugs him upon his return. However, when Christine is forced to spend her nights working behind the desk of the rodeo, her friends replace her in her group and talk behind her back. These reactions, these defining moments, tell us who is in our family, who loves us unconditionally and who is in the relationship for themselves.
“Baskets” may seem to be a simple comedy, one of many on television today, but after the final fade to black of its conclusion, we cannot help but thank the show for providing us with such profound wisdom, for providing us with the essential nature of life. “Baskets” is a show full of wit and humor, of pratfalls and silliness, but at its essence it is a show full of heart and emotion. Its unique subtlety reveals the true nature of a family, and offers its viewers with unparalleled insights into the inner workings of love and life. It is only through watching someone else act as a family that we can truly understand our own.
(10/25/18 10:00am)
Much like space travel itself, Damien Chazelle’s new film “First Man” (2018) is a venture into the unknown and an exploration of what is possible. Moving away from his previous films surrounding music, “Whiplash” (2014) and “La La Land” (2016), “First Man” is Chazelle’s first step towards a new genre of film, though it still holds true to the director’s roots of sound artistry. Although it is a film about space, and Neil Armstrong’s journey in particular, this film is primarily an experiment in pushing the limits of sound design; it comprises an experience that immerses its viewers through Justin Hurwitz’s carefully and meticulously crafted score, a symphony of beautifully contrasting swells and silences.
“First Man” follows astronaut Neil Armstrong (Ryan Gosling) through his hard-fought and embattled journey to be the first person to step foot on the moon. Everyone knows the end result, the famous words, but not everyone understands the work, the dedication, the long days and even longer nights that went into that walk on the moon. This film encapsulates that dedication and immerses the audience in such a way that they can, in some capacity, understand just how monumental an undertaking walking on the moon was. Now, looking back, we see it as a triumph of human will and a mark of success for American ideals. Before the moon walk, however, this grand achievement in human history was seen as a dangerous mission with seemingly little payoff.
For most space programs, especially those leading up to the Apollo mission in question, failure occurs far more often than success. “First Man” challenges its audience to view these astronauts as people, not simply as machines churning out mathematical answers.
During these moments in the film, after plans go awry, the score surges and the audience is forced to grapple with the repercussions of these monumental mistakes. Alarms shriek out into the theater, piercing the silence and forcing the viewers into attentiveness. The noises are jarring and unanticipated, causing the audience, with pounding hearts, to feel just as fearful as the astronauts. With every new flashing light and buzzing siren, the tension ratchets up, one notch at a time, until it simply ends with no warning into a serene yet unsettling silence. As the deafening silences cascade into gentle arrangements, the audience finds themselves alongside Armstrong, scrutinizing the screen for all of its incredible depth and detail.
Armstrong is a character marked by silence. Early in the movie, Chazelle establishes the death of Armstrong’s daughter Karen as a pivotal moment in his life. Throughout his daughter’s battle with cancer, Armstrong took meticulous notes, searching within the confines of the white notebook pages for answers to no avail. So, in the similar, seemingly impossible mission of landing on the moon, Armstrong will not allow himself to fail — not a second time. Such unyielding determination permeates every moment of the astronaut’s life. He simply cannot bear to fail, and when he does, he gets back up, just as energized as before.
For example, during the interview process for NASA, recruits partake in a series of trials and tasks in order to prove their ability to handle the difficulties of space. One of the most difficult tasks for astronauts is the 3-axis machine that spins astronauts in every direction imaginable, succumbing them to the G forces experienced in space. When Armstrong, the first recruit to use the machine, falls unconscious after his run, he does not simply leave the seat and lose the battle of will against the machine. He stays in the machine and demands a second go, a second chance to prove his tenacity.
Not only does Gosling’s stellar performance bring the character to life, it also adds a layer of depth. Armstrong was an astronaut, but also a father, who day in and day out had to leave his children at home with his wife and risk his life for the sake of the mission. Every morning he kisses his wife goodbye knowing full well that he may never return.
In the early morning hours, just as the sun is beginning to rise, Armstrong says goodbye to his wife and his two sons and embarks on the greatest exploration into the unknown the world has ever achieved.
The life of an astronaut is one of dedication and courage. Chazelle has crafted a film that achieves a raw and vulnerable understanding of the life of an astronaut, and it is precisely through his mastery of sound design that he does so. Hurwitz’s score is crucial to the success of this film and won’t soon be forgotten. Switching at will between the extremes of chaos and silence, the score at times instills courage, and fear at others. It makes the world of the film seem inhabited and robust, rather than one-dimensional and ungrounded. Whether it is a bombastic sea of noise or a tranquil melody that delights, “First Man” has a score that is sure to make any audience marvel.
(10/11/18 9:56am)
Two neighbors watch and review the Mr. Rogers documentary.
(10/11/18 9:55am)
This weekend, the Middlebury campus was graced by the iconic combination of Fred Rogers and François Clemmons, a duo that educated an entire generation of children. The Hirschfield International Film Series brought Academy Award winning director Morgan Neville’s Fred Rogers biopic, “Won’t You Be My Neighbor” to Middlebury, along with a special Q&A with former actor and Middlebury teacher François Clemmons. In this documentary, Neville pairs together first hand anecdotes from those closest to Rogers with behind the scenes footage of “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood,” the television show that helped Rogers become a household name.
Throughout his career, Fred Rogers spread messages of love, compassion and understanding to America’s children. He fought for what he believed in withsong rather than violence In one instance, which the film touches upon, Rogers goes before the U.S. Senate to testify on behalf of public broadcasting, in order to secure the $20 million that President Richard Nixon sought to reallocate. In what seemed a losing battle, Rogers simply sat in front of the microphone and spoke the words of one of his songs on control and anger. After he was finished, Senator John Pastore defied expectation and said, “I think it’s wonderful. Looks like you just earned the $20 million.” This was the power of Rogers that often went overlooked. He inhabited a soft-spoken courage that allowed him to turn a low-budget children’s program into a national phenomenon that taught children how to handle the complex emotions of life.
It is no accident that “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood” stayed on air for 33 years and aired over 900 episodes. Rogers’ genius came from his remarkable and revolutionary understanding of children. Being an overweight child in his adolescence, Rogers was no stranger to bullying and strove to provide children with the much needed support and compassion that he lacked during his early years. Through the combination of his kind smile and the array of puppets he portrayed, Rogers was able to strike at the heart of his audience, tacking problems as simple as being angry, to as complex and difficult as the assassination of Bobby Kennedy. Children’s emotions are just as complex as those of adults; they just need someone like Mister Rogers to tell them that it is normal to feel the way they do and that there are ways to deal with their issues. The film encapsulates these ideals perfectly, capturing the true genius of Rogers and allowing the audience to understand fully how revolutionary a thinker he was.
In my opinion this film is one of the best of the year. It is a must-see for those who tuned into “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood” as a child as well as for those who didn’t. This film allows the audience to step inside the world Rogers created, a world birthed from a combination of Rogers’ mind and reality. This film encapsulates the emotional capacity of Rogers and reaches its hand out from the screen and touches its audience’s heart. Everyone can appreciate this film, and I think that it should be mandatory viewing. As Rogers remarks, everyone needs to hear that they are special, that they are perfect just for existing and don’t ever need to change. Some may think that this created an entitled generation, but that is just a misuse of Rogers’ philosophy. To truly understand this film is to love yourself and your neighbor, equally.
After the film was over, François Clemmons got up from his seat in the theater and walked onto the stage, opening the forum for questions from the audience. What resonated throughout his speaking was the fact that Rogers completely embodied the kind generous spirit that characterized his show. Clemmons spoke of how, even though Rogers would begin each episode by changing into the iconic sweater and lacing up his sneakers, he never had to change to become ‘Mister Rogers’ — he acted as he lived. Rogers became the paternal figure Clemmons had lacked in his life and never failed to be there for him. When Clemmons was sick, Roger would show up at his door. When Clemmons would sing, Rogers would sit in the front row to listen. This unending, unconditional love permeated Rogers’ life and also helped Clemmons become who he is today.
Though Rogers died in 2003, his kind spirit and generous soul can never be stopped. During his time at Middlebury, Clemmons sought to create a community in the vision of Rogers. At Thanksgiving, Clemmons would not only host a dinner for the students who couldn’t return home, he would host a dinner on Friday,Saturday and Sunday, and when it was time to leave, he would ensure that each student left with a bag full of leftovers. After the tragedy of September 11, Clemmons found himself standing on Battell Beach, singing. Clemmons had lived in New York for over 25 years, and the events had shaken him to his core. Though he started singing alone, Clemmons soon found himself surrounded by his fellow Middlebury community members, all singing and partaking in mourning. This is the kind of community that Rogers and Clemmons want, a community that shares in happiness and sorrow. A community built on the pillars of fellowship and kindness.
The film remarked on Rogers’s fondness of silence, and, as Rogers would do in every one of his speeches, allowed its interviewees as well as the audience to sit in pure silence for a full minute. Thus we sat, in a crowded room on a Saturday evening, surrounded by our parents and our brothers and our sisters. Mr. Rogers asked us to remember those whom we have loved and this who have loved us. As I sat there next to my mother, I couldn’t help but shed a tear, reminiscing on the people I had to leave behind on my journey to Middlebury, the people who showed me unconditional support and affection throughout my life, the people who guided me and protected me. This film has the power to do that, the power to make you remember what is essential in life, or more specifically who is essential in life.
(09/27/18 9:58am)
NETFLIX
On the short list of television shows that can make me laugh and cry within the same episode, “Bojack Horseman” sits at the top. Raphael Bob-Waksber’s animated series “BoJack Horseman” (2018) returns this fall for its fifth season on Netflix, and it picks up right where it left off — a show full of depression, drinking and a host of pop culture references that test even the savviest viewers.
In the ’90s, BoJack Horseman (a lanky, bay-colored horse voiced by Will Arnett) was the lead actor on the wildly successful, Full House-esque TV show “Horsin’ Around.” Now, nearly 30 years later, he has spiraled into a state of depression, turning to drugs and alcohol as substitutes for the admiration he’s lost. Unbeknownst to him, BoJack’s agent, Princess Carolyn (a pragmatic Persian mouse voiced by Amy Sedaris) signs him up in an upcoming detective drama called “Philbert” in an attempt to revive his career.
Much to his chagrin, BoJack finds an ever-growing list of parallels between himself and the titular character he plays: Philbert is a lonely, depressed alcoholic who strives to find any connection with the people around him. Even the set of the show strongly resembles his own home, though when pressed about it, director Flip McVicker (Remi Malek) remarks that he has never seen BoJack’s house, and that the set is “designed to reflect Detective Philbert: despair, loneliness, precariously perched on the hill of his own isolation.”
Contrasting BoJack is his friend and fellow “Hollywoo” actor Mr. Peanutbutter (Paul F. Tompkins), a constantly smiling ray of sunshine who never seems to be affected by much. This season, however, Mr. Peanutbutter must face his toughest battle yet: a divorce with Diane Nguyen (Alison Brie). The season centers around relationships — each character within the show faces their own individual problem with someone close to them. Mr. Peanutbutter deals with the end of his short-lived marriage, BoJack deals with a rocky relationship with his “Philbert” co-star Gina Cazador (Stephanie Beatriz), Todd Chavez (Aaron Paul) grapples with both his newly discovered asexual identity and his first asexual relationship with Yolanda (Natalie Morales), and Princess Carolyn struggles to adopt the baby she so desperately desires. The show, however, is not limited in its scope. Not only does it dive deeply into the lives of its characters, but it greatly parallels the real world and the problems in it.
“BoJack Horseman” refutes the claim that it is anything less than extraordinary by tackling some of the biggest problems facing today’s society with a refreshing perspective. In a show centered around an animated horse actor, enveloped in a world containing a mixture of real people and talking animals, “BoJack Horseman” remains surprisingly grounded. It focuses its many diverse plots on reality, creating a contradiction between the fantastical images it presents and the reality-based narratives it tells, allowing the show’s creators to make bold statements under the guise of simple animated comedy.
As a show about the entertainment industry, “BoJack Horseman” offers its voice on the #MeToo discussion. Throughout the filming of “Philbert,” BoJack and Gina struggle with the gratuitous objectification of women in the show and battle to find a middle ground between character-driven vulnerability and superfluous nudity. In one of the season’s final episodes, on a particularly rough bender where BoJack dissociates between the actions of the character he portrays and those of himself, he harms Gina, creating a viral workplace harassment video that sends “Hollywoo” into a crazed panic. BoJack is forced to reconcile with the damage he’s done while Gina tries to work past the incident, refusing to be defined by the actions of her co-star.
While season four spends much of its on-screen time focusing on the steep descent and tortured relationships of BoJack’s family, season five turns its spotlight onto a broader spectrum of ideas and topics instead. It even mocks the surge of new startup companies by creating one of its own, “WhatTimeIsItNow.com,” a company that does nothing but tell its visitors the time. This seemingly simple humor sets “BoJack Horseman” apart from its peers. On the surface, it presents itself as a show about everything and nothing, that is to say a show that relies on its hilarious, and often ridiculous, animation to keep its viewers’ attention. However, its audience is heavily rewarded for its viewership, with each new episode compounding its past emotional appeal, creating a deeper, richer experience. As the story grows and the complex web of relationships expands, the characters find themselves in increasingly treacherous situations. With each emotional blow, the audience finds itself welling up alongside the characters, wishing that it all could have happened differently. It is in times like this, with the audience standing alongside the characters in a state of vulnerability, that the show reveals its true colors. The show allows itself to be vulnerable and open to the audience. It is in times like this that “BoJack Horseman” becomes an astonishingly real portrayal of the human experience.
In its essence, “BoJack Horseman” is an incredibly intelligent show about the entertainment industry, touching on all aspects of it, from the difficulties associated with being in the public eye, to staying up to date with an ever-evolving millennial audience, to the growing issues surrounding sexual misconduct. With a deeply introspective and depressed character at its core, “BoJack Horseman” is one of the most cleverly written shows on television and remains one of the truly profound works of art in the modern streaming era. It cuts right through the commotion and strikes the hearts of its audience with direct, poignant moments of vulnerability and naked humanity. The show’s latest season builds on its past episodes to create a truly remarkable case study on the essence of the human experience.