Society of the Snow: The Hunger Shames

A scene from Society of the Snow

The movies love an impossibly true story—and if you aren’t familiar with the ultimate fate of the passengers of Uruguayan Air Force flight 571, you should probably stop reading now. If you are acquainted with this chilling saga of disaster, despair, and endurance—in which the survivors of a plane crash spent 72 days marooned in the Andes before being rescued—it might be because you’ve seen Alive, the 1993 feature directed by Frank Marshall. That decidedly American production, which was distributed by Disney, starred Ethan Hawke and Josh Hamilton as two of many white dudes cast as Uruguayan rugby players. Now, in a reclamation of sorts, comes Society of the Snow, a more culturally accurate recreation of the 1972 ordeal suffered by the Old Christians rugby team and other unfortunate travelers.

In a way, this operates as an inversion for J.A. Bayona, the Spanish filmmaker whose diverse credits include Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom and The Orphanage (his first and best), and who previously revisited real-world tragedy and triumph with The Impossible. That movie, inspired by the plight of a Spanish woman during the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami, made the controversial decision to tell its story primarily through the lens of three white UK actors. Here, Bayona seems to have inoculated himself against any accusations regarding representation; the men who play the ill-fated athletes all hail from Uruguay or Argentina, and none of them possesses a recognizable name that could be leveraged for marketing purposes. Their relative anonymity is in keeping with the picture overall—both for the heartfelt homage it pays to its real-life counterparts, and for the struggle it exhibits when attempting to turn torchbearers of agony into distinct characters. Read More

Middlebrow Christmas: The Color Purple and The Boys in the Boat

Fantasia Barrino in The Color Purple; Callum Turner in The Boys in the Boat

In critical circles, the term “middlebrow” is wielded as a pejorative, alongside “prestige fare” and “Oscar bait.” The idea is that these types of films—often period pieces, featuring inspirational stories that are based on either historical events or popular novels—are tasteful to the point of decorousness, flattering Academy voters for their refinement without taking real risks as works of cinema. As someone who spent his formative years greedily devouring as many Oscar winners as possible, I maintain a steadfast appreciation for the middlebrow picture; I like The Cider House Rules, I love A Beautiful Mind, and I think Kate Winslet was terrific in both Revolutionary Road and The Reader. That a movie attempts to appeal to a broad adult audience doesn’t automatically nullify its pleasures, especially when it’s well-made and well-acted (and sure, gorgeous period costumes can’t hurt).

Christmas tends to be an ideal time for the release of a middlebrow movie, given that the holiday affords extended families the opportunity to spend two-plus hours in a climate-controlled environment without offending any sensibilities. In recent years, sterling examples of this vintage include Little Women, Mary Queen of Scots, and other period pieces that didn’t star Saoirse Ronan (e.g., Fences). Quality prestige pictures, all! Still, just as I reject the notion that middlebrow flicks are inherently inferior, I also acknowledge that they aren’t intrinsically superior; they still need to work on the levels of storytelling and aesthetics. Along with the Michael Mann biopic Ferrari (which I previously reviewed here), this Christmas brought the arrival of two films that seemed like easy wins for prestige-hungry audiences. But despite their differences in tone and scope, they share a sense of failure—both to inspire and, more crucially, to entertain. Read More

Anyone But You: A Plague on Both Your Spouses

Glen Powell and Sydney Sweeney in Anyone But You

They say mature movies are supposed to challenge audiences, so here’s a test for you: Can you accept the contrivances of Anyone But You as frivolous eccentricities rather than shopworn clichés? If so, then you’re likely to enjoy it. Stripped of its tortured machinery, it functions as a sweet and playful romantic comedy starring two indecently attractive people who—in another universe where box-office success hinges more on actorly charisma than intellectual property—might have the potential to age into movie stars. I did my best to meet it on its terms. But some terms are harder to accept than others.

It takes all of five minutes, before the opening credits even roll, for Anyone But You to announce that it will operate according to the cruel whims of rom-com illogic. The alphabetically adjacent pair of Bea and Ben (played by Sydney Sweeney and Glen Powell, respectively) meet cute at a coffee shop, and following some bathroom shenanigans in which Bea struggles with a hand dryer, they spend a magical day and night together before falling asleep in each other’s arms. It’s true love! Yet for reasons known only to the screenwriters (Ilana Wolpert and Will Gluck, the latter of whom also directs), Bea sneaks out the following morning; she instantly realizes her mistake, but upon her return she overhears a wounded Ben assassinating her character to a friend. As a result of this symmetrical misunderstanding, these would-be lovers become less star-crossed than simply and irrevocably cross. Read More

Ferrari: Race for Impact

Adam Driver in Ferrari

Is Michael Mann secretly a conventional filmmaker? The auteur is renowned for his bracing sense of style—the sleek digital photography, the dreamy music, the propulsive momentum—but he often wields his technique in the service of familiar, fact-based narratives. There’s nothing wrong with this; Ali is a solid sports movie, while the underrated Public Enemies bristles with an electricity that belies its stature as a docudrama. Now comes Ferrari, a serviceable picture that can’t help feeling disappointingly ordinary, lacking Ali’s personal depth and Public Enemies’ invigorating… well, drive.

To the movie’s credit, it unfolds over a narrow period of time, disdaining the swollen hagiography that afflicts so many biopics. The brunt of its action takes place in 1957, when Enzo Ferrari (Adam Driver) is facing a reckoning in both his personal and professional lives. On the home front, his already-strained marriage with his wife, Laura (Penélope Cruz)—still grieving the death of their son, who suffered from muscular dystrophy—is at risk of collapse, given that he’s struggling to continually conceal the existence of the boy he fathered during World War II with his mistress, Lina Lardi (Shailene Woodley). And in his business, he’s receiving reports of unprofitability and a corresponding erosion of the Ferrari brand—a diminution he hopes to reverse by winning the Mille Miglia, a race that (in case your grasp of Italian is even worse than mine) runs 1,000 stressful miles and carves through the country’s public roadways. Read More

Poor Things: Pride of Frankenstein

Emma Stone and Mark Ruffalo in Poor Things

Poor Things opens at a stately manor in Victorian London, where chickens bark, pigs quack, and legless horses draw steam-powered carriages. These hybridized bastardizations are the work of Dr. Godwin Baxter (Willem Dafoe), a brilliant surgeon with scars on his face and curiosity in his heart. When he isn’t tutoring pompous medical students or belching out his farts through a contraption that turns gas into floating spheres, God (as he prefers to be called) toils in his vast private laboratory, concocting unholy experiments in his ongoing quest to investigate and bend the laws of nature. God wields his scalpel with such rigorous dispassion—a blend of mighty intelligence and clinical precision—that you might be tempted to perceive him as a proxy for Yorgos Lanthimos, the movie’s director and cinema’s preeminent scholar of human oddity. But that reading disserves Poor Things, which finds Lanthimos applying his craft with generosity as well as exactitude. God’s creations are perverse; Lanthimos has manufactured a miracle.

In doing so, he has sacrificed none of his talent for arresting imagery (not to mention caustic comedy). From its very first shot—that of a pregnant woman in a blue dress on a bridge, flinging herself to the icy waters below—Poor Things routinely marries the ghastly and the gorgeous. The production design, by Shona Heath and James Price, concocts environments of terrible wonder, like the airborne trams that slice through a smoggy metropolis or the yellow Escheresque staircase that crumbles in midair. (Even the black-and-white title cards that divide the picture into discrete chapters ripple with dazzling eccentricity.) The costumes, by Holly Waddington, are a resplendent array of gowns and bodices, despite every male character wanting to tear them to shreds. And the cinematographer Robbie Ryan, who also shot Lanthimos’ The Favourite, features bursts of bold color yet repeatedly contorts the frame into his singular fisheye style; at times he even shrinks the canvas to a small circle, as though we’re squinting through a peephole at all of the movie’s beautiful grotesqueries. Read More