The Brutalist: Nadirs of the Lost Architect

Jeremy BeckReviews
Adrien Brody in The Brutalist

The American dream gets flipped upside-down in The Brutalist, Brady Corbet’s soaring, scathing portrait of post-war greed. Yet while it may be a troubling tale of moral decline, it opens with its hero going up, up, up, climbing toward the prospect of salvation. His name is László, and we first see him in the steerage of a ship docking at Ellis Island, his pallid skin and crooked nose long shielded from the light of day. As his mind recites a letter from his absent wife, he begins to ascend along with countless other sweaty hopefuls, the camera swooping and twisting like he’s navigating a labyrinth. When he finally bursts onto the deck, his face breaks into an ecstatic grin, the sunlight beaming down on him, the score’s trumpets booming in triumph. Never mind that our first view of Lady Liberty comes at an inverted angle, as though she’s about to plunge her torch—and its elusive promise of prosperity—into the harbor.

This knockout introduction instantly signals The Brutalist’s monumental ambition, both thematic and aesthetic. Much has been made of the film’s length (over three-and-a-half hours, including a 15-minute intermission), but its running time is just one of its many extravagances. Corbet, eschewing subtlety in favor of sheer grandeur, has delivered a truly maximalist production, a work of sweeping scope, vigorous style, and provocative rhetoric. The movie is, to borrow the tagline from Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, an epic of epic epicness. Read More

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Oscars 2024: Nominations and Analysis

Jeremy BeckOscars
Margaret Qualley in The Substance

This year’s Oscar nominations were pretty good, except for the ones that were terrible. Or maybe it’s the other way around. As is always the case, it’s hard for me to get too fired up about the Academy’s selections, even if I inevitably feel a twinge of disappointment when one of my favorite films gets ignored (fare thee well, Challengers) or a rush of euphoria when another gets recognized (Coralie Fargeat, allez!). That’s how this is supposed to work: The snubs omissions go hand in hand with the surprises, resulting in an overall slate that’s flawed, messy, and interesting.

So while acknowledging that the Oscars remain perfectly imperfect, let’s run through the nominees in each of the 14 feature categories that I previously predicted (quite poorly, in some cases), along with some quickie analysis of where things currently stand: Read More

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Oscars 2024: Nomination Predictions

Jeremy BeckOscars
A scene from Emilia Perez

The Oscars are good because they’re bad. If the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences exclusively bestowed trophies on the best movies, actors, and artisans, they would instantly become irrelevant—because nobody would have anything to complain about. It is the job of this institution to be wrong, to frustrate and antagonize, to create grist for the online mill of campaigning and caterwauling. What other ceremony could inspire such crazed rhetoric, like people clamoring that Emma Stone’s win last year for Poor Things was illegitimate because it came at the expense of Lily Gladstone for Killers of the Flower Moon? The internet feeds on outrage, and the Oscars foment fury with annual, reliable precision.

They also, as it happens, tend to nominate pretty good movies. My own ballots rarely overlap with those of the Academy, but that’s less a function of incompetence than excess; there are simply too many good options for everyone to agree on the same subset of five (or, in the case of Best Picture, 10). The Oscars don’t matter in the same way that MVP awards in sports don’t matter—the token recognition doesn’t change the underlying performance—but they nevertheless shine a light on pictures which mainstream audiences might otherwise ignore. For that reason alone, they’re worth paying attention to, if not obsessing over. Read More

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Better Man: Diary of a Chimpy Kid

Jeremy BeckReviews
A scene from Better Man

The story of an artist’s rise and fall and rise again, Better Man is in many ways a thoroughly typical picture. Like most musical biopics, it conforms to a three-act structure, dutifully following its hero’s rags-to-riches trajectory while interspersing boisterous performances of the songs that made them famous. Like most musical biopics, it juxtaposes euphoric highs (the thrill of nailing an audition, the joy of climbing the charts) with crippling lows (drug abuse, daddy issues). And like most musical biopics, it aims to provide a three-dimensional portrait of its subject while still ultimately lionizing them. In fact, Better Man is like most musical biopics in virtually every way. Except one.

I generally try to go into movies as cold as possible, but I’m wondering how a truly oblivious ticket-buyer might feel upon randomly selecting a screening of Better Man, settling in for the opening voiceover (in which its protagonist declares that he’s been called “narcissistic” and “punchable”), and then watching as the camera focuses on… a monkey. Not an actual monkey—a computer-generated chimpanzee who otherwise walks, talks, and behaves like a human, to the point where nobody remarks on his biological dissimilarity. Even the kids in Paddington acknowledge that they live with a bear. All of the characters here are either extraordinarily tolerant or exceedingly near-sighted. Read More

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Babygirl: Breaking the Crass Ceiling

Jeremy BeckReviews
Harris Dickinson and Nicole Kidman in Babygirl

Screw delayed gratification: Babygirl opens with the sound of a woman moaning in apparent pleasure before its vanity card even appears. (I get it, I like A24 movies too.) Then its first frame shows her enthusiastically riding her husband before they collapse onto the sheets and embrace, whispering sweet nothings, having been mutually satisfied… or at least that’s what he thinks. As her partner falls asleep, the woman discreetly slinks into the adjoining room, fires up her laptop, and masturbates to pornography, muffling her own gasps to avoid waking anyone. The implication is obvious: Whatever she’s getting in bed ain’t cutting it. She needs more.

That sense of need—of pure, bottomless craving—is what animates Babygirl, Halina Reijn’s strange, messy, intriguing new psychodrama. It’s a movie about the paralyzing quality of desire—how coveting something forbidden can upend even the most carefully cultivated lives. The body may want what it wants, but the brain knows that our wants can get us into trouble. Read More

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