Mid-90's (2018)

"Now, Jonah, a lot of people are going to touch on your weight tonight, but not enough to talk about what an asshole you've become."

                                               - Nick Kroll at the Comedy Central Roast of James Franco

Was he ever?

I did research a bit, for the fuck of it, to see if there was any dramatic, underground controversy or any specific, scurrilous statement that showed even a whit of him displaying his potential of being the next Christian Bale. All I found were from uncertain, unsubstantiated forum threads and some random post from BuzzFeed, which...

...yeah, sounds about right. It seems that the paltry, nugatory handful of grievances I found against Jonah Hill was that he's too serious in person, but isn't that his right? After Superbad skyrocketed him to success as the fat, nerd-looking, stoner man-child, branded that image on him, and then plummeted his career when he couldn't keep the schtick vital and fresh any longer (i.e. The Sitter), he had to do something to revive and sustain his career.

So, if it means making OSCAR-NOMINATED FILMS with Brad Pitt and Leonardo DiCaprio and comedic film reboots of television shows to keep his rent steady and his prospects versatile and fruitful, wouldn't that be a better alternative than to just go and make, I don't know, The Sitter Returns? However, if there's any point during Hill's career where he can be found at his most serious, it's in 2018.

Outside of being on Vanity Fair's best dressed list (jeez, talk about being reformed), Hill, in the midst of the 2010s rapidly coming to a close in due time, has decided to bring us back to a time that feels so foreign, yet so identical.

Welcome to the mid-90's!

The film revolves around Stevie (hey!), a lonely 13-year-old boy in an undetermined grade level of school, although it is possible that it just might be middle school. His mother is doting, caring, and loving, but tends to focus more on her own sexual escapades, and his brother is an angry, abusive force of fear and intimidation. At a skateboard shop, he manages to creep his way into a crass, juvenile conversation between four skater boys: Ray, Reuben, Fourth Grade, and Fuckshit (yeah, really!). They take Stevie under their wings, which leads him to a sundry of social shenanigans and a closeness and companionship that he'd been looking for.

The exhilaration I got from watching this movie came from such an aesthetic and emotional sense. Hill's projection of the mid-90's is virtually flawless. I was born in 1996, so my knowledge of mid-90's culture from fresh eyes is not the most reliable, yet I can recall all of this. One ingenious gateway to the period that Hill uses is the soundtrack, which is phenomenally pristine and uniformly necessary. It blends 90s hip-hop, alt-rock, and even current, original pieces by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross. It's such a blast to the past that the songs used aren't exactly fragmented, rather they seem spliced as if it were a Movie Maker compilation video with each song starting immediately after the former has ended.

However, while the feel of nostalgia for the 90's is masterful, I, again, am looking at from the perspective of an outsider. I can recall all of this, because I knew these characters  even in the mid-2000s: the skateboarders that rambled on with their discursive small-talk, virtual stubbornness to distance themselves from that pothead mold, their shallow insults, their empty yet carefree attitudes, and their propensities to lure in a young child to attempt to mirror their displays of destructive adolescence, perpetuating the cycle, yet empowering the child. 

And that child, in whose eyes we see the film through, is Stevie, who is one of my favorite protagonists in any film period, mainly because in a way, I was him. His naivete, his alacrity and giddiness in being involved in discussions with the older kids, his beginning habit of embarrassing himself, his confusion via all the mixed messages his receives; all of that I identified with as a middle-schooler trying to mesh with the sacred, towering high-school students.

Except when it came to sex, he lucked out before I did. Lucky bastard!

This rapport with the older skateboarders and his effervescent determination to stand toe-to-toe with them leads to some moments of quiet power, such as Ray and Stevie saying nothing to each other, as Ray drills wheels on a new skateboard for Stevie in an unofficial initiation and token of growth, or even a rare moment of tenderness between Stevie and his brother, which displays the dichotomy of each one's relationship with their mom and almost offers a mentoring hand, before internally realizing that his credibility as a mentor to Stevie is ludicrous.

There are times where it seems that writer/director Jonah Hill delitescently uses the amalgamation of the redolent ambiance and the borderline plaintive content for further narrative potency. The opening credits showcase a rite of passage of sorts, as Stevie experiences the rush of intruding his brother's bedroom, leading him to right down every 90s hip-hop CD that his brother currently owns. The scene where Stevie and the gang are at a house party seems to showcase a jarring, misguided lifestyle and offset that with hazy, flute music that is a mixture of classy decadence and shrill danger. 

And cinematographer Christopher Blauvelt is there to document all of it. His camera work in this film is intimate and searingly perceptive. When Blauvelt desires to project awe of this period and this environment, he widens his scope, leering and analyzing the world from a distance. When he needs to investigate and navigate the characters, he is so up close and personal, as to almost make the actors emotionally crack.

On the subject, the actors are all pure naturals. Sunny Suljic plays Stevie with a tragic isolation and a quiet observance that is uniquely his own for his character. Katherine Waterson portrays Stevie's mom as almost an innocent bystander with a myriad of skeletons in her closet. She has an innocent, forlorn nature, where it seems that the more she tries to exist as a loving mother, the more she withdraws into her own melancholy. It's an almost understatedly devastating performance. Lucas Hedges stunningly walks the tightrope between disgusting malice and begrudging vulnerability as Stevie's brother and Na-kel Smith, Gio Galicia, Ryder McLaughlin, and Olan Prenatt round out the cast as Ray, Reuben, Fourth Grade, and Fuckshit respectively, all grappling with their bleary, undetermined futures, but masking their angst and insecurities under sharp tongues and drug-induced laughs.

As a writer, Jonah Hill knows how to feel the moment. It's ironic that Harmony Korine makes a cameo in this film, because of all the 90s cinematic influences, he seems to balance the conversational realism of Kids and Gummo (both penned by Korine) with the grimy gut obliteration of movies like Singleton's Boyz n the Hood. Given that last comparison, it's astounding that Jonah Hill has enough profundity and empathy to not take the moral high ground and censure the hip-hop culture. It showcases those who worship the music, but misunderstand the message.

As a director, Hill knows how to project the moment. That's what you see with his actors, his cinematographer, his composers, his sound editors, etc. They don't try to convey or replicate the moment, but they merely let the moment approach the audience, whatever it is. By the ending of the film, the gang is watching Fourth Grade's short film, re-contextualizing and recapping all of their antics, and in a broader sense, the actual film. Then, the credits roll.

But we know, the film hasn't ended. It just stopped. We know there's more of an ending somewhere. There must be a true conclusion to this story. What could it be? The frightening part is that we don't know. And the brilliant part is that we don't know. Sure, a youth-fueled life of hedonistic fun and self-fulfilling minutiae can be refreshing in retrospect and especially in the moment, but how can you evolve if your goals and expectations don't exceed past that? Certainly, you can't, but do these characters ever find their ways for the better?

We don't know, because Jonah Hill's mid-90s isn't about easy answers, life-affirming resolutions, or lapses of plot to provide a temporary moment of crisis or conflict. It's about the search for purpose, loss of innocence, and one boy's attempt to find one man to look up to. And I loved every moment of it.

RATING: Four out of four stars!

First Man (2018)

Thinking back on prior moviegoing experiences, I've been lately reminiscing on 2014's Whiplash and how much of a exhilarating, full-bodied, robust, palpable work of film it was, successfully selling me on the appeal of both Miles Teller and Damien Chazelle. Spectacularly, while neither of them walked away with an Oscar, they seemed to both be affected the most by the reception of Whiplash, in terms of clout and adulation. After Whiplash, they were truly ready for the major leagues.

Miles Teller did this... by seemingly squandering and/or under-utilizing his talent in films such as Fantastic Four, War Dogs, and Home of the Brave. His draw was that he was a tangible actor, but he was being pushed for stardom; a bid that wasn't dramatically disastrous, but I never can look at him on screen and feel the same full-blooded enthusiasm I used to feel. Thankfully, in terms of Damien Chazelle, he, then and now, realized that influence could only slimly get him by. What mattered was his content and vision. Sure, La La Land proved that he could almost win an Oscar by making an old-fashioned, evocative, frothy musical film, but could he successfully branch out into a suspenseful, verging-on-being-epic pedigree of film?

Well, he sure as hell makes a valiant attempt, telling the story of the First Man.

That "first man" in question is Neil Armstrong, the first man to walk on the moon. After a mishap as a test pilot and reeling after a personal family tragedy, he decides to apply to Project Gemini, which was trying to beat the Soviet Union in the space race and send us to the moon. The film chronicles the intense planning, rigorous attempts, fantastic close-calls, up until the climactic moon landing, as part of the Apollo program, while detailing all the emotional stresses and losses among the families.

The film's opening shot both showed the film's potential and concerned me, as to what I was afraid the film could've been with uncertain, reticent direction. It establishes the pervasive feeling of isolation and rapid hazard, fraught with some of the most aggressive, unremitting, and assaulting shaky cam I've seen in years and the eyes of Armstrong, seething with malaise and heightened embarrassment. As a test pilot, he bounces his fighter jet off the atmosphere, which gets him grounded.

I was apprehensive, because I thought that the intrigue and human interest of Armstrong would be cherry-picked and boiled down to some insultingly simple, psuedo-inspirational, excessively sentimental narrative. Chazelle clearly does want to modulate the heroism of Armstrong, but he does this not through any mandated story arcs or Hollywood contrivances, but through humanity, which is what carries the film. 

As engaging as his journey of dedication and merely doing his job is, the most touching sequences involving Armstrong are centered around him mourning his young daughter. I loved watching him interacting with her in the beginning, stroking her hair with initial, loving tenderness, but seems to strike a devastating tone of finality and tragic attachment as the film proceeds. In the subsequent funeral scene, Armstrong struggles to keep a stony face at her funeral, but forcibly sobs behind closed doors in a specifically plaintive moment. As well, the most memorable, sobering moment of the moon landing sequence involves Armstrong letting his daughter's bracelet slip out of his hand and into darkness, all portrayed with a potency and gravitas that nearly left me in tears.

For all the talk about it being about the "first man," I would've personally called this "First Men," because while Armstrong seems to be in the middle of this cinematic venn diagram, the film gives equal attention to all the astronauts. It doesn't depict them in broad clichés and while the film bequeaths many of them with melancholic fates, it doesn't write them as melancholic figures. There are many scenes of genuine camaraderie between Armstrong, his fellow astronauts, and their families. The film manages to intertwine NASA lives and personal lives naturally and you become so invested that you can actually name and mourn the men who slowly get picked off, one by one.

However, if you are going to make a movie called First Man, you need a damn good one. And Ryan Gosling? Yeah, he'll do.

Gosling portrays Armstrong as an benevolent Everyman with both an external, unwavering, committed courage and a desperate, internal sensitivity. He has no time to waste, lacks any sort of predisposition for quitting, and feels like he must shut off any emotional weakness to be a hero to his children. I'm not quite sure if Gosling will receive Oscar consideration for this role, but if he does...

...you might to also guide some of that over to Claire Foy, who gives the stand-out performance as Neil's wife. She's cold and harshly quiet, but that's the magnetism and addictive power of her character. Watching the film, she truly is the backbone of the household, because in all actuality, she carries most, if not all, of the burden as a homemaker. She has no position to break down and even if she did, it would have little value. She cries once throughout the film early on and that's it. 

This sort of domestic pluckiness and staunch grit juxtaposes beautifully against Gosling's soft, composed attitude in a scene where Armstrong's wife demands him to explain to his two sons that this mission might be his last. While the scene doesn't pay off as well at it initially establishes, the interplay between the struggle to keep confident and collected on his part and the struggle to preach reality on her part is an explosive, propulsive, captivating moment. In addition, they share a emotionally spare and quiet, yet mentally, analytically complex exchange for the final shot. They don't utter a word, yet every liberating, painful, and gentle thought is shared amongst each other with ferocious purpose.

Chazelle isn't going to wow in the field of special effects, nor should you expect any manufactured thrills, but what Chazelle specializes is in craft. This film shows a departure from a typical music-inspired narrative and yet he still shows a whopping amount of prudent instinct in that field, thanks to our old, Chazelle-film friend, Justin Hurwitz. The orchestral music sounds so gorgeous, yet so distinct and so perfectly timed. Even the regular sound editing manages to be so peculiarly, wonderfully trippy in some areas, such as the first failed mission when the rocket spins out of control and the sound effects used sound something a la Psycho. While the film isn't packaged with gimmicky suspense sequences, there are some genuine thrills along the way and the moon landing sequence manages to bring a vaster, hauntingly desolate scope to outer space that is uniquely its own.

First Man isn't going to be hailed as a new masterpiece and, yeah, sometimes it does get a little too melodramatic for its own good, although ever so briefly. However, I was surprised, relieved, and satisfied that Chazelle can step outside of his comfort zone and imbue the American-as-apple-pie image of this "giant step for man and giant leap for mankind" milestone with enough warmth, wit, and authentic, bracing emotions to activate a extra echelon on veneration for these fine men, including the First Man. This film is not a historical dramatization, but moreso a layered portrayal of a precarious moment in our history.

On that basis, I thankfully enjoyed it.

RATING: Three out of four stars

The Hate U Give (2018)

I think it's inevitable and almost insultingly basic to say that Amandla Stenberg has, long at last, finally been in the film she's truly wanted to star in. Since making her cinematic breakthrough in 2012, portraying the woefully-fated Rue in The Hunger Games, her brand as an actress withered, instead being branded moreso as a pro-black advocate who happens to have Hollywood connections. It seems, however, that Hollywood has both championed and punished her for this fact. She definitely had the black audience on her side, in the wake of Raven-Symone coincidentally losing her black cred around the same time, but not only was she decried by some for, gasp, having the balls to "start shit" with Kylie Jenner, the cinematic roles she was receiving were seen as quite lackluster.

It seems that in these socially woke, BLM times, Hollywood wanted to give her the title of "rising star," but without the actual sustainable power, which led to middling parts in films such as Everything, Everything, Where Hands Touch, and seemingly the most egregious, The Darkest Minds, all of which ironically enough involve Stenberg, a pro-black advocate, portraying characters that fall in love with white people, and two of those examples being based off books. However, when you can't earn that Fault in Our Stars money, nor can you earn that Hunger Games money, you always have the socially conscious outlet to strike a chord. 

Enter The Hate You Give!

The film's star is Amandla Stenberg as Starr, a high-school student surviving with two identities: the non-confrontational, proper Starr at her predominately white prep school and the trap music-loving, slang-spouting Starr in her predominately African-American hometown of Garden Heights. She finds these two cultures being forcibly meshed after a late-night party. Her childhood friend, Khalil, drives her home, but is stopped by police. During the encounter, he is shot and killed in front of Starr. Because Starr was the sole witness, she receives outside pressure to testify against Officer #115 and has to face the unintentional ignorance from her school. Meanwhile, Khalil used to sell drugs for King, who threatens and stalks Starr's family out of fear that Starr's testimonial will only bring attention to King and his illicit business.

There is one thing the film is manage to provoke: thought. This film raises thematic points that are cogent, stimulating, genuine, and even at certain points, fair. Consider the scene that sets the plot in motion of the officer killing Khalil. The situation itself (a white cop murdering a black teenager) is inherently prejudiced and unfairly biased and it's easy to quickly label it as such, solely on a surface level, especially given how the officer pointlessly questions Khalil about selling narcotics and how he treats Starr, barring her from recording on her phone and handcuffing her, despite her not committing any wrongdoing. 

However, when the officer discovers that the "weapon" he was suspicious and paranoid of is a hairbrush, the officer soon becomes even more skittish and regretful, almost expressing a contrite apology. This aspect must mean that the officer isn't a racist, but is merely a victim of circumstance and of hasty, overly-impulsive decision making. He is afraid. However, what is he actually afraid for? Is he afraid because of the terror and senselessness of his personal transgression or because of the soiling of his personal security and image? It's ingeniously never made clear, which (a) brings even more angst and horror to the situation, (b) brings a brief flash of humanity to the officer and (c) further illustrates the argument that the true villain is the crude, capitalist, corporate-fucking judicial system, which forces commoners to suffer and let the higher-ups in position get away because of money, power, and potatoes.

Another enrapturing facet of the film is its portrayal of cultural identity, not particularly through the eyes of Starr, but from her nurse mother and her kingpin-turned-grocer father. Starr's mother is the reason for Starr attending a prep school, due to her not wanting Starr to be beat up, hooked on drugs, or pregnant, and she is hell-bent on moving out of Garden Heights. However, Starr's father admires the spirited, tight-knit community, in spite of the squalor and drug-infested landscapes. Both present legitimate perspectives, which lead to the question of how much of yourself should you sacrifice in order to thrive? Do you stay closer or move farther away from your roots? Does either/or detract from yourself?

The film also makes incisive commentary on white fragility and faux-liberal ignorance. In one scene, the students at Starr's prep school stage a walkout in response to the death of Khalil. However, with the exception of one #BlackLivesMatter sign, none of the students truly accept the gravitas of this horrific situation, neither do they even discuss the event in anything but offhand terms. "It's in response to the horrible thing that happened to that person," Hailey, Starr's prep school friend, perfunctorily explains, "as well as being an excuse to cut class." This escalates throughout the film, bit by bit, with Hailey delivering insensitive and myopic statements in front of Starr, all the while being offended by the mere idea of her being called a "racist." This all erupts in one of the most explosive, powerful moments involving Starr, Hailey, and a hairbrush.

As you may notice, I don't seem to discuss Starr herself very much, but actually, that's part of the brilliance of the film. For a solid portion of the film, the plot revolves around Starr, but doesn't draw a direct lineage with Starr. While Starr is the main character, the majority of the film is everyone else reacting to the circumstances involving Starr, as well as the sheer environment, which portrays a ugly, derelict town with such color, vision, and warm insight. Starr re-focuses and hijacks the plot to put her as the center of attention when the character herself gains her aplomb, self-assured voice, and her true, primal expressions on inequality and systematic apathy.

And what a character she is! While her story arc isn't intrinsically groundbreaking, it is narratively beguiling. She masks her disgust and any sort of incendiary propensities behind a guilt-ridden form of passiveness and a doe-eyed, dolorous gaze until the blazing fire ignited by injustice and blindness can't be concealed any longer, with every now and then donning one of the most sincere, adorable winning smiles ever to be shown on film. And that smile belongs to Stenberg, giving the fundamental performance in the film and of her career. She has the heaviest burden with this role, but she courageously and fiercely pushes through her role, portraying every scene so tragically, so authentically, and so lovably. It would make my entirety of 2019 if she could pick up an Oscar nomination.

However, the rest of the cast pull off incredible work, as well. Russell Hornsby adds an incredible layer of compassion and intrigue to his role as Maverick, Starr's father. Here is a man who grapples with his past, yet is the most persuasive, level-headed, intelligent, commanding voice and presence in the whole movie. Regina Hall gives her most avuncular, enticing performance as the sweet-natured, yet no-nonsense mother of Starr. Algee Smith, for his ten minutes of screen time, portrays Khalil with a sympathetic sneer and a hypnotic, star-making smile. 

Anthony Mackie shows off his menacing, despicable side as King, the drug lord and Common, a.k.a. Mr. Makes My Day Brighter Every Time I See Him Onscreen, almost seems to be marginally subversive of himself as Uncle Carlos. His character is particularly interesting, because who Common is portraying is someone that isn't making proper strides to advance and empower his own community. He loves his family, but when he is confronted about the underbelly of his job, he always concocts up an excuse. One precise moment is when Carlos discusses the frenzied mindset of confronting a black suspect, but when Starr asks about a white suspect, Carlos admits his own implicit bias, but refuses to mend or reverse it, saying to a teary-eyed Starr, "It's a complicated world." It's odd to see Common play such an antithesis of himself, but in a human way. We know these people. We've seen permissive black people like this and it's transfixing how Common both seem to bemoan and excuse his own appalling bias.

Admittedly, however, there is a time or two where the film seems to dangerously veer into the melodramatic side. There's one bit of dialogue said by Starr near the end during a confrontation between her family and King that I felt was over-indulgent and detracted what could've been an effectively, quietly plaintive moment. Some might argue that the final monologue is too cheery and rapidly forcing a resolution, but in my eyes, I think it works. The movie is based on a novel by Angie Thomas, which was targeted to young adults. That ending monologue is attempting to speak to young girls, moreso black girls, but you could argue all young girls; to empower them, to present yourself as one singular person unabashedly, to know your limits, but know that change might mean pushing them.

Honestly, I might've accused it of being too sentimental and pandering to teenagers, as if they are toddlers that need simplification, but not when it's through the mouth of Starr. Like Moana in 2016, Starr is a character that young girls, once again, mostly black girls, can look up to. I can imagine a lot of black girls rocking braids and donning a hoodie like Starr. She has the voice and The Hate U Give has the message. When critics were dubbing Blindspotting as the next Do the Right Thing, I actually think they were referring to this film. 

Think about it. Both films include a disillusioned protagonist that ultimately tries to avoid explosive confrontations, but their own outrage towards injustice leads them to being the primer for chaos. Sure, it may be filtered for teenagers, but the power, fury, and intensity that Spike Lee laid forth back in 1989 can certainly be found from director George Tillman Jr. and late screenwriter Audrey Morris almost thirty years later. The Hate U Give gets all of my love!

And I'm ready for Armond White and any other loud-mouth, anti-SJW detractor to label this as amateurish liberal-spewing propaganda, and how it's offering a narrow-minded perspective of black struggle, and how it's forgoing genuine torment to produce a mindless heroism narrative and how it's victimizing and exploiting black people, while claiming to ally with them, and how...I dunno, Algee Smith's too dreamy of a murder victim, I guess.

Well, to those people, you know how "THUG LIFE" is an acronym for "The Hate You Give Little Infants Fucks Everybody." Well, in this case, I'll claim it to be an acronym for "The Hate You Give Liberals Increasingly Fuels Entertainment."

Yeah, that sounds about right. 

RATING: Four out of four stars!

A Star is Born (2018)

You know, with all the political tomfoolery and social mockery afflicting and embarrassing us as a country, culture, and species, I feel that maybe it might be time to go back to basics every once in a while, when it comes to the movies. These past three years has been a filmmaking renaissance, precisely reflecting and reprimanding our current turmoils, tragedies, and our most pressing social anxieties. However, mindless and flashy entertainment (sometimes, a conglomerate of the two) is still as imperative as ever; the difference between diving into a redolent, rich meal at a four-star restaurant to showcasing your repressed gluttony at a fast-food restaurant. They are two vast fields of pleasure; incongruous, but highly necessary.

And what more of a classic, timeless, and overall enlightening cinematic tradition that the grand ol' movie musical! And one that is a remake, having formerly been fronted by both Judy Garland and Barbara Streisand. Such grandiosity, some rushing emotions, such soaring voices of power, theatricality, and beauty!

What sweeping pleasures to be had from… A Star Is Born… directed by Bradley Cooper, and which tells the tale of an alcoholic wash-up and a disillusioned aspiring artist.

Shit. *sighs* Here we go, I guess.

This film stars director/producer/writer Bradley Cooper as Jackson, a rock musician who has developed a habit of indulging in alcohol and painkillers. After a show, he decides to take a detour and ends up in a drag bar, where he meets Ally, played by the glorious Gaga in her film debut, a regular performer at said gay bar, but has never found the self-esteem and the confidence to continue pursuing a career in music. "It sounds great," they all say, "but your nose is too big and you won't be successful."

Jackson discovers that she can not only belt a note, but has a knack for songwriting. Through intense persistence, he manages to get Ally to come to a gig of his and perform. The video of the performance goes viral and a power couple commences through Jackson and Ally. However, will Jackson's self-destructive behaviors catch up with him? Can Ally go solo and maintain her artistic integrity? Holy shit, is that Dave Chapelle in a dramatic role? Wait, is that the Diceman?

I don't want to portray this film as a dirge of an experience, but this tale has been tried-and-true. While Cooper deftly continues the tradition to preserving the narrative foundation, but transmuting the external and emotional components, it's still a tale that begins inspiring and then delves into tragically unfair, no matter which version and/or soundtrack you reference. However, Cooper fortunately retains one other aspect that bolsters the integrity of this Star is Born legacy: power. In any other hands, this material could've been handled in too treacly of a tone and, at times, it borders that dangerous pit, but his daring, go-for-broke, yet tender direction keeps the films as raw and gritty as Cooper's singing voice, eerily reminiscent of Kris Kristofferson himself.

One discovery I made while watching this film and thinking about Bradley Cooper's best works is that Cooper truly values meaningful connections. In The Hangover, Cooper had a tremendous camaraderie with his friends, in the midst of all the debauchery, frenzied chaos, and stolen Mike Tyson tigers. American Sniper showed a man with a deep, personal connection to his profession. American Hustle delineated his connection with his own perceived morality and he showcase a connection between two damaged souls, yet temperamentally opposite, in Silver Linings Playbook, my favorite Cooper role to date.

I can only conclude that this, anything Rocket the Raccoon-related notwithstanding, is the reason why films like Aloha, Burn, and Joy were all financial and critical duds is because Cooper failed to spark any sort of tangible connection in his performances, or at least that's why Cooper was seen as unremarkable, at best. However, allow Cooper to explore meaningful connections and what an engrossing, tumultuous, lovely love story you receive between Jackson and Ally and all the nuances that Cooper portrays the love story with. One of the most sensually intense and riveting moments in early on when Ally self-deprecates herself for her big nose. Jackson asks to touch it and the camera zooms in on the moment, lingering with more vigor and raw attraction than the sex scenes, which are shot tersely and sparingly, just long enough to where you confirm the emotional bullseye between these two beings. It's not about leering, it's about loving.

Also, I guess it’s fitting that A Star is Born is a story that has been about revelations and comebacks, because when it comes to Cooper's performance…

Damn!

Welcome back, Bradley! I don't know where the hell you've been, but you came home and that's all that matters. And you can bet your ass that I'll be rooting for you to get that Best Actor nomination. Also, Academy of Arts and Sciences, if I may put in a request, don't forget about Gaga either because…

DAMN!

Lady Gaga (I was going to use her real name to give her more credibility in the acting realm, but fuck it, Gaga suits me well) is quite simply a revelation. I saw her in an interview where she stated that she hates herself without makeup, because that isn't really her. I can only assume that she had to extract feelings from herself of insecurity, of inadequacy, and of crippling, desperate fears of losing control over her image and style. Whatever the case may be, she shows it in a truly naked performance, in more ways than one. Her vulnerability and naivete coupled with her quick-wittedness and her emerging courage is something to behold, augmented by those glorious Gaga eyes, so glowing with pathos, intensity, and a raw, striking aggression that she could stand toe-to-toe with Judy Garland.

It's almost comical how it took Mariah Carey subsequent bit parts and twenty-second cameos to make an impact, yet Lady Gaga hits it out of the park in one try, all the while reminding us that her musical abilities have not fallen to the wayside. Speaking of which, the music is mostly strong, but again, I do say mostly. While all of Bradley Cooper's self-written, self-performed songs all click with me, Gaga seems to let some of her leaden, syrupy pop sensibilities creep in, which lead to songs intentionally awful ("Is That Alright?") to ones that are rather flavorless ("Look What I Found") to ones too maudlin, too strained, too pretentious, and overrated ("I'll Never Love Again").

Regardless, this is an emotional gut punch of a musical in the same vein it's always been. It's rather subversive in that sense: manipulating our content, rigorously hopeful expectations of musicals, in order to transport us to a journey that both musical fans and non-musical fans will most likely be caught off-guard by. Throughout the film, I tried to find a definitive, binding connection between Ally and Jackson that links them as personalities. What do they share? The tragic answer is that they are well-intentioned, spirited, passionate individuals that try to abscond each other's circumstances. Jackson tries to expose Ally to stardom, only for her to lose her artistic credibility and her hope in romance. Ally tries to lift Jackson through his struggles, which only makes for him seeping deeper into his angst and his vices, to the point where his hope in himself can no longer be recovered. It doesn't make for a consistently uplifting experience, but it makes for an authentic one.

Also, Lady Gaga, if you choose to explore more with nudity, I… I will not complain at all.

RATING: Three out of four stars

Blindspotting (2018)

To be honest, I was initially terrified when I saw the promotional spots for Blindspotting.

First off, it's a Lionsgate film, which, right off the bat, should make you at least mildly weary going into their projects. I can only describe Lionsgate as Miramax, if they had a branch of their film productions run by a bunch of beer-chugging, imbecilic, thick-headed frat boys. I mean, with every Precious, we also get a Disaster Movie or another god-for-fucking-saken Madea piece of dreck. And from my first impressions of the trailer, it seemed like some shallow, melodramatic, ungainly effort to get a piece of the socially-conscious pie by utilizing the police brutality element merely as some sort of shocking viscera, intending as some sort of an afterthought to carry an entire film.

And then I saw all the reviews comparing it to Do the Right Thing...and I got even more terrified. I mean, this film? What could there possibly be to it that Spike Lee could possibly be trembling in his boots, bringing in around-the-clock security to make it certain that his crown remains untouched. Well, while Spike Lee unequivocally had a cinematic visage and hyper-energy that made his film more intriguing, what writers Rafael Casal and Daveed Diggs, as well as director Carlos Lopez Estrada, bring to Blindspotting is an anxious, raw, unflinching spirit that brings out searing emotions.

Is it better than Do the Right Thing? Unfair to compare the two at this moment in time, in my opinion. Did it effect me more than Do the Right Thing? Holy shit, did it ever.

The film revolves around Collin, played by Daveed Diggs. He is a convicted felon due to a horrific bar fight, which ended in a guy getting severely burned. After serving two months, he is released on a one-year probation, which requires him to live in a halfway house, obey an 11:00 p.m. curfew, obtain and sustain employment, and avoid any sort of criminal activity. However, there's one mild obstacle that may threaten his freedom: his best friend, Miles, played by Rafael Casal. 

He is a full-on "wigger," complete with grills and a revolver he recently bought from a third-rate Uber driver. His hot temper and hasty attitude threaten to, at times, get Collin in precarious situations, despite them having veritable, mutual love for each other. Additionally, while driving home after a shift at a moving company, he witnesses a cop, played by Ethan Embry, killing an unarmed black man. This event leaves him traumatized and angered, leading to an internal conflict of trying to follow the straight path and wanting to get justice for his people.

Diggs and Casal themselves stated that they wanted to create a love letter to their hometown, Oakland, the location of the film, stating that they believed that Oakland had been unfairly misrepresented in film. In a rare moment in cinema history, it actually feels fitting that a music video director, the aforementioned Carlos Estrada, was given the task of representing Oakland completely, for better or worse. For the record, it was most likely going to be Estrada that was chosen, seeing how he had directed music videos for clipping, Daveed Diggs' hip-hop group, but either way, his gritty mise-en-scene does reflect hip-hop music videos, but in this film, it gives Oakland its own soul that it can properly relay to the audience, some of whom may or may not have grown up there (* cough cough*). 

He has a real daring vision with his visuals, including a nightmare involving Miles as a rapping prosecutor and a delusion in which Collin is confronted with a cemetery, each gravestone shadowed by a black man standing in front of it. The camerawork by Robby Baumgartner also adds to the harsh ambiance, with the lightness being only as bright as the tough, rugged nature of Oakland allows and the darkness swathing in itself, adding an additional level of uncertainty and menace, as well as the tight close-ups that appear more frequently in the final third and pierce gruesomely into these characters' intense, edgy cores. In addition, the soundtrack of this film is 100% Oakland certified, embracing the nostalgia feel of the 90's Bay Area sound with such sheer allegiance and observance that it was jarring and mildly unwelcoming when a modern-sounding song appeared on the closing credits. I'm yours forever, Fantastic Negrito.

This film clearly wants to say something. What it says, I'll get to later, but what's remarkable about Diggs and Casal's writing is that instead of composing caricatures or personifications of salient points that will undoubtedly be used by the overzealous, oblivious social justice warrior, they instead opt for creating characters and personalities. Collin just might be one of my favorite protagonists in all of cinema. He physically personifies a gangster, a smooth-talking criminal, yet his actually character is an unmitigated subversion of that. He constantly is looking to evade trouble, but yet his primary battle seems not to conform to his probation conditions or to keep himself clear of any shenanigans, but instead to abscond all his inner-paranoias and stay level-headed through his trying times. He's an unlikely yet more-than-applicable straight man.

Miles, on the other hand, is as loose of a cannon as you could expect to come across. The brilliance, however, is that he isn't written as flippantly trying to act black or some surface-level scoundrel. He just has an unbridled energy and has accustomed himself to his surroundings. He's immature and bold, which leads to some big laughs, particularly in a black beauty parlor scene where Miles attempts to peddle hair products, yet he does value his family, particularly his black wife, Ashley, and his son. He's never portrayed as trying to overcompensate or a perpetrator of cultural appropriation. He's portrayed as someone who pushes his limits far often than not, thus making his character not a villain, but an imperfect human, particularly in a scene where he almost puts his son in danger.

It's actually quite surprising how the community seems to have no qualms about Miles' demeanor and racial posturing for the majority of the film. I mean, given the successes of Post Malone and Iggy Azalea, it's been shown that sometimes it takes the black masses a little longer to catch on when someone's blatant, presumptuously donning their sacred culture as a costume. However, the dynamic between Collin and Miles does play into a consistent theme during the film: bias. Again, the themes in this film are actually sparsely told, but I noticed an indication of commentary on implicit bias once during each of the acts.

In the first third, it happens during a scene, more specifically in an offhand remark, when Collin is accused of behaving rudely at his job when, in all actuality, it was Miles, but of course, Collin is black and looks the part. In the second third, Collin's ex-girlfriend, Val, discusses with him about how easy Miles got off during the night of the barfight, seeing how Miles participated in the fight, along with Collin. In the final third, everything comes to a head as Miles is finally called out on acting overly ghetto, which not only leads to a fight, but also result in an argument between Collin and Miles, in which both characters receive ugly epiphanies about their own situations.

Miles is forced to confront the truth that no matter how much black validation he has accrued, the sole reason that he has been able to act how he has acted was because of his lighter pigment. Collin is plunged even further into his pursuit for justice, which climaxes during the film's most harrowing, gut-wrenching emotional crescendo; a consummate hip-hop fueled moment of social potency, a desperately rattled stream-of-consciousness presentation, a tortured point-of-interest, and such agonizing, relatable verities that my eyes welled up with tears. It is seriously one of the greatest movie scenes in all of cinema. It assaults you with the verisimilitude of the scenario, but enraptures you with the meaning. To me, it's where the film truly ends, with those last five minutes being only a breather for the film before the end credits.

It helps that Daveed Diggs has flexed his acting muscles to a much greater extent than Hamilton could even hope to have claimed. Diggs has an off-kilter everyman vibe, to where he is collected as a person, yet lets his shattered, skittering vulnerability rush right out of him, both emotionally separating himself in the context of Oakland and emotionally revealing himself as a lost human. The way he struggles with freestyles during the majority of the movie, yet lets it all pour out when it matters is just an unforgettable, brutally poignant acting job. 

However, all the other actors shine as well. Ethan Embry as Officer Molina is minimally powerful, giving off that pathetic, woeful, puppy-dog look that conjures up images of Darren Wilson. It instinctively sets me off, but is technically remarkable due to his power. Janina Gavankar portrays Val, Collin's ex-girlfriend, with a complex, morbid allure, while another Hamilton alumni, Jasmine Cephas Jones, portrays Miles' wife, Ashley, as a plucky, soulful, down-to-earth woman, who possess a loving, sweet soul underneath those ghetto braids. Rafael Casal, also straight from Hamilton (jeez, I haven't seen the word, Hamilton, this much since the Tony Awards), employs a twisted gusto and unrelenting bravura as Miles. His presentation is almost Broadway-esque, but here, he's in a whole different realm; a realm that gives him some stellar comedic moments and some penetrating dramatic moments.

The titular "blindspotting" stems from a conversation between Collin and Val near the end of the movie. In order to familiarize herself with the concept of Rubin vase, that classic optical illusion where you either see a vase or two faces, she calls it "blindspotting," because it's what happens when something is present and you don't notice it, but you do eventually. I knew that I could apply this concept to Miles (his blindspotting moment being his grappling with his white privilege). I struggled in applying this concept to Collin, as his mere probation conditions could be his, seeing how he so desperately tries to manage his life that he can barely remember to be home at 11.

Then, I realized, it didn't matter, because this movie was blindspotting me in more ways than one. Throughout my initial reactions to the trailer, all of these narrative elements were present, but not in the trailer. They were in my blind spot and I had to actually look to discover it. Also, in these liberal-charged days of filmmaking, this film put the social commentary in its blind spot, forcing us not to sift through a treasure trove of racial complexities, but to submit to an emotional experience; not to think, but to feel.

And boy, did I! And when I did, I thought long and hard about it after it was over. Don't let the film simmer in your blind spot. See it as soon as you can!

RATING: Three-and-three-quarters stars out of four

Eighth Grade (2018)

One recurring element of modern filmmaking I've heard being described as a constant aversion is the lack of crafty, stimulating, alluring opening credits. I personally believe that, as long as there is a balance between plainly straightforward and jaw-droppingly stunning opening credits, I'm not particularly bothered. However, I feel that the balance isn't as strong or sturdy as it should be, so I can't say that I don't notice it and yeah, it would be nice for filmmakers to implement more vision and artistry in the opening credits, like a poppy, vibrant opening musical number in a Broadway play.

However, the way the straightforward presentation of opening credits is utilized in Eighth Grade is actually one of the most potent, subterraneously ballsy, and narratively fitting usages of this unadorned method for an opening that I've ever seen. Those cold, white credits with the bland, lifeless font perfectly mirrors the ruthlessly on-the-nose nature of this epoch of adolescence. Their simple fade-ins and fade-outs seem to resemble the feelings of helplessness and uselessness that some teenagers of this age do tend to feel, particularly our protagonist, Kayla. And when that title card drops with that customary "thud," it definitely captures the existential horror that seems to envelop during this period of one's youth.

This. Is. Eight Grade!

The film revolves around the aforementioned Kayla, an eight-grader who is getting ready to graduate. She's a shy, quiet type, adorned with acne, enraptured by her phone and ostensibly is aspiring to be a YouTube star, constantly posting videos of advice. However, her quiet, self-effacing temperament is a mild bone of contention with her, as it leads her to earn the superlative of "Most Quiet." Ignited by this, she sets off to build her confidence and find herself, along with maybe earning her crush, Adrien, who had been voted "Best Eyes."

I've always been an acolyte of Bo Burnham and his weird, satirical, skewering brand of comedy, going back to his Rehab Center for Fictional Characters bit. I knew he was skilled as a musician, but I never knew he was such a musical technician. He actually doesn't play a note of the score, rather instead leaving that to British electro-composer, Anna Meredith, but this film showed me that his knack for music goes beyond knowing how to play an instrument. It extends mentally and emotionally, having a sixth sense for the placement of music.

In this film, the score treats each scene as a new experience for its lead character and assists in the narrative progression. When Kayla is at a pool party, the score couples the initial rush/external enjoyment with the internal horror brought upon by Kayla's self-image. A specific ingenious move on the part of both Meredith as a composer and Burnham as a director comes during the dinner table scene, which is the first time in the film that we see the interaction between Kayla and her father. Initially, Kayla is locked into her phone, blaring music, which we hear with all the volume, intensity, and vigor that Kayla certainly must feel, too. During the conversation, Kayla has to alternate between being alone at her phone and having to begrudgingly converse with her father. 

After her final plea with her father to be on her phone, her father relents, but at that point on, we don't get to hear the music anymore, thus Burnham gets to convey the feeling of having such a vibrant, up-to-the-minute, whizzing buzz of a safe space her phone provides, yet opposing that with the actual reality of what Kayla is doing: shutting herself off and submitting to a fantasy. As well, for the initial spurt of music we are allowed to hear, Meredith shows us how much ass she kicks as a musician, not just in this scene, but in every other scene. Hell, she is the composer and she definitely shows us how she got the job.

Burnham really shines as a writer/director. He is a comedian and he utilizes some vulgar, immature, and low-brow sensibilities, but it leads to some big laughs, including Kayla trying to find the right moment to practice fellatio. Hell, it makes sense that some of the humor is immature. The film is called Eighth Grade, which is, like, the height of immaturity and crass talk. What surprised me about Burnham's writing is how he forsook, or at least heavily downplayed, satire, in place for warmth. It would've been so easy to make Kayla some petty, basic, catty little twat that was supposed to represent the worst tendencies of teenagers, offering some unfair, highfalutin nihilism. It would've been easy to make the father into some clueless clot, representing the worst tendencies of parents raising teenagers.

What Burnham does here is actually depict an actual, genuine, relatable character, not one to be decried or mocked, but to sympathize with. She's awkward and insecure in real life and uses her YouTube platform to feign a more down-to-earth, captivating version of herself. The videos she makes are all pseudo-profound, superficial, and utilize a lot of "um"s, "like"s, and "whatever"s, but they sincerely mean something to her because it's what she's feeling. She doesn't have the finesse or growth to properly and eloquently communicate what she's feeling, but she has the emotional experience.

Additionally, the dad in this film is not the type of dad that is completely disconnected via the dreaded generational gap and is trying to hip, but rather he is merely trying to connect with his daughter. That mere motive has some deep, underlying pathos to it, but yet the extremity of their weird relationship creates some incredulous laughs. However, it comes all to a head during a fireplace scene between him and Kayla, which is the most heartwarming moment of the film, daring to tug at the heartstrings and demolishes both of these characters' personal barriers. The fact that Burnham could generate such emotional investment and relatability without any sort of obvious, self-impressed cynicism is quite remarkable.

It also helps that Burnham has brought in two fine actors to assist us in appreciating our time with these characters. Elsie Fisher, who you may recognize as Agnes from the  first two Despicable Me films, doesn't try to deliver some spunky, rowdy performance to forcibly distance herself from her childish roles. Instead, she opts to play a teenager by, *gasp*, being a teenager. It's as elementary yet lovable a performance you could hope for, with that nervous half-smile being the closest thing to a gimmick. Acting veteran Josh Hamilton is warm, approachable, and flexible as Elsie's father, desperately trying to find the sweet spot of investing himself in his daughter's life, whilst also giving her her space. Also, Jake Ryan as Gabe, a friend of Kayla's, is a riot. I will say no more of the matter.

You know, it's funny. When I attended the screening of this film, there actually were some pre-teen girls in the audience. I almost questioned why a film like this would honestly peak their interest, as opposed to questioning why they were at a R-rated film, because, let's face it, we all know the answers. I mean, sure it's called Eighth Grade, but this seems like a film that would appeal more to those looking back on the angst of it all, rather than the current victims of that same angst. Given how much the film showcases the mental escapes of teenagers, I figured they were glued into theirs and this did a flyby over them.

But nope, I was wrong. And I'm glad, because all the pre-teens/teenagers who gave this film a legitimate chance would've been paired with the perfect icon for teenage humility and confusion: Kayla. What's refreshing is that the film doesn't particularly offer a resolution, but moreso a step in the right direction. Why? Because, in the end, that's what growing up is: making steps in the right direction. She'll face much harsher vicissitudes, but she'll have experiences to fall back on that will guide her on how to handle them, at least sometimes. I've read reviews that are clamoring to see more of Kayla's life after eighth grade.

One of those reviews will be mine. As Buzz Lightyear would say, "To ninth grade and beyond!"

RATING: An enthusiastic three stars
 

Sorry to Bother You (2018)

Ah, the return of changed plans has now commenced.

Sometimes, you start out preparing and convincing yourself that you're gonna give a specific blockbuster about dinosaurs a chance, after being intrigued and curious from the advertising (seriously, who wouldn't want to see Chris Pratt try to out-run a dust storm). Then, all of a sudden, a trailer for, quote, "the most original comedy in years" pops up on your news feed and...

Sorry, you prehistoric aberrations. I must proceed to another bold comedy about race in America. Sorry to bother you.

And by that, I mean not sorry.

The film revolves around Cassius, a gentleman down on his luck, living in his uncle's garage with his artist girlfriend. Determined to find a job, he equips himself with a custom-made trophy and employee-of-the-month plaque, along with a fake-ass resume, and goes it for a job interview for a telemarketing company, Rearview. In spite of this, he receives the job and at first, he struggles.

That is until our newly-proclaimed Black Messiah, Danny Glover, shows up and instructs Cassius the way to flourish: by using your white voice. Utilizing this idea, Cassius rises to the top as a power caller, working alongside the cream of the crop of the company. Meanwhile, Squeeze, a fellow employee is at the forefront of a protest against Rearview to push for better pay, which puts him and Cassius at odds with each other. It gets worse when Cassius realizes that Rearview may be marketing something that is far beyond wholesome or helpful.

I prefer to call this less a film and more of a poppy, stunning bag of tricks clasped in the furious, scintillating hands of rapper/director/writer/maybe-still-a-Marxist Boots Riley. Watching the trailer for this, I was expecting to be predominantly a satire, but Riley manages to incorporate all sorts of comedy in this film, ranging from the absurdist comedy found in scenes such as Cassius' girlfriend's art exhibit performance, to the dark comedy such as the "N*gga Shit" scene (it happens), to the slapstick comedy found in the clips of a in-universe television series, "I Got the Shit Kicked Out of Me," to just standard witty interplay between our characters. And all of them manages to inject this film with such a surreal energy and a savage spirit.

Yes, satire does pervade throughout the film, but the bemusing brilliance of Riley is that satire is more of a counterpart in the film, not the particular goal. He has such an acute sensibility as a writer and such a gargantuan, limitless, field of view as a director that he has the cojones to interject little spurts of social commentary and biting satire sporadically and it's never rushed. It even goes beyond the whole "white voice" conceit, which actually isn't used as much as you would assume.

Consider a scene where Cassius is led out against an angry mob and a soda can is thrown at him. It becomes a viral video, to the point where it becomes a Halloween costume. It could be seen as commenting on how overboard and overzealous we can be when we attempt to viralise politics or it can be seen as satirizing how simple we are as consumers and how we virtually need current issues to be, or be introduced by, some sort of distraction that catches us off guard. And this is all ignoring the fact that it could also be a indirect, unique method to comment on blackface.

How about the fact that Cassius' boss when he becomes a power caller is also African-American and is also contractually bound to speak with a white voice? His name? It's always bleeped out, never being mentioned once throughout the entire film. The film never seems to express an immense distaste of black people whom are perceived to be "selling out," so in this case, it could be seen as an inauspicious yet genuine part of life where sometimes, certain things need to be compromised at certain times, or it could also be seen as what it is: censorship, a blatant, flabbergasted disapproval of an African-American's name, which statistically shown, is a very real problem in this country.

Or how about WorryFree, which...I'll just let you watch the film and figure that out for yourself.

And watch, specifically watch, the film you should, because while the film is invigorating in its potential discourse, it is absolutely masterful in its visuals. I can only fucking hope that Riley and cinematographer Doug Emmett will be recurring collaborators, because every close-up, every pan-out shot, every pan-in shot, every little visual trick employed couldn't have been this fulsome and this stimulating, unless it was under the direction of two synthesized minds who can read and feel each other completely. Speaking of which, I'm also clamoring for Riley to do more musical work with Tune-Yards, because what they have done here is craft a score that flirts with normalcy and convention and then flips it on its head a few times, resulting in an amazing soundtrack.

Riley has also managed to gather together the most universally B-list, yet pitch-perfect group of actors for his film. Tessa Thompson makes for perfectly amiable eye candy as Detroit, Cassius' girlfriend, yet circumvents being just a boring pretty woman by possessing a bold, steadfast demeanor and even an inordinately looney edge, if her art exhibit performance is any indication. Lakeith Stanfield graduates from being that perpetual, obligatory, black film supporting actor and moves on to a lead role as Cassius. And boy, does he not squander it, perfectly muting and controlling his performance, as to only play an Everyman, thus making every comedic quip funnier and every dramatic moment more relatable. We also get vocal cameos from Rosario Dawson, Patton Oswalt, and David Cross, the last two portraying the white voices of Mr. Bleep and Cassius, respectively. It's a very potent move and moment that these two white actors allow themselves to portray these self-kidding yet complexly relevant roles.

What an alive, vivid, driving film this is. To me, this film does to comedy what Get Out did to horror. In fact, I think this film is better than Get Out. While Get Out had the entertainment value covered, Sorry to Bother You has more of a vision. It's not merely another cinematic racial allegory, but a film made by people who love the cinema. What was ostensibly a film seemingly made to comment on racial perspectives and disparities reveals itself to be about the dirge of economics, the almost adorable fallacies of human life, and an ordinary man trying to make a better life for himself.

This Boots was made for filmmaking. And that's what he should do...along with continuing to be a dope musical artist.

RATING: Three-and-a-half stars out of four

The Incredibles 2 (2018)

Ah, I sure do love a reunion!

But do you know what I love even more? A reunion, in which you are happy and anticipating to see every living soul there, everyone has retained their spirit, but have improved on themselves since you last saw them, every lull or activity is immaculately timed and manages to be invigorating whatever it is, everybody has a splendid time, leaves with a grin on their faces, and you accept that whether or not it occurs again on a later date, you were immensely satiated for the time being.

I know. Sounds like wishful thinking, but tonight, PIXAR reunited me with my annual PIXAR short film; this time, being Bao, a bizarre, avant-gardely humorous, and heartwarming story about the disconnect and reconnection of a mother and son.

And then came the Parr family reunion. It was...

Quite incredible, to say the least. Everything I expected, everything I craved, and then some.

The film picks up exactly and perfectly where the first film ended. The Underminer is causing chaos in the city and while the Incredibles spring into action, it isn't a complete success, with the Underminer robbing a bank and some substantial damage caused to the city. Authorities' apprehensions for superheroes soon spring again and the family, shamed and homeless, are forced to stay at a motel. 

However, they are soon approached by a gentleman named Winston Deaver, owner of Devtech. He idolized the heroes as a child and now as an adult, he plans to get superheroes back on the public's side. Elastigirl is named to be the at the vanguard of this movement, as she's off on a mission to protect the city from the Screenslaver, while Bob, a.k.a. Mr. Incredible, takes over duties as a parent. However, things being complicated when the Screenslaver has a vastly different identity than expected, as well as Jack Jack developing his superpower.

Oh, did I say one? I meant seventeen.

When this film was finalized and it was made official, I had very low expectations, but in a reasonable, excited way. I expected it to (a) show me the Parr family after the events of the first film and (b) do something new and interesting with them. As much as I enjoyed the first film, I'm not the fiercest fanatic of that film, so as long as it followed and obeyed my expectations, it was due for a rave review from me.

What's remarkable about this film is that the film continues the legacy of the first film via one aspect: spirit. This film rarely and sparingly utilizes callbacks or references to the first film, but by merely capturing such an exact tonal replica of the first film, it manages to be more evocative of the first film, rather than nudging the audience every ten minutes. It balances the action, comedy, heart, and conflict practically identically to the first film. During the action and chase scenes, there are still arguments about who's going to watch the baby. Before FroZone leaves for a mission, he can't escape being nagged at by Honey.

How this film stands alone, however, is through another aspect: progression. We already developed the characters and powers. It is now time to let everything be taken full advantage of. The story is more than just a simple mission-to-fight-a-villain story. It uses the impetus of the villain and the idiosyncrasies and flaws of its characters to reveal commentary about the media, television, entitled contentment, and even about parents playing equal roles in raising their children. 

Also, what Coco did for racial tolerance, The Incredibles 2 is continuing for feminism. The film's basic premise is that Elastigirl is the hero that's not only the choice because of wisdom, but also because she's the most marketable, the boldest face for this advocacy. In 2018, this couldn't have been any more of a perfect time to release a sequel that takes the approach of having a female front-and-center. There's even a little nuanced moment where Evelyn, the sister of Winston, talks about being an inventor and how adroit and advanced she is at it and Helen subtly gives her an impressed look. The girl-power themes strike not just an audacious note, but a gracious note, as in lead, support, and pay it forward. It goes further when Mr. Incredible struggles with the idea of not being in the forefront of this pro-superhero movement, despite being genuinely excited and supportive of her, connoting and articulating the belief that in order for women to move forward in our society, it may require men, the gender possessing the higher quantities of power and clout, may need to be humbled once in a while.

On a technical level, this both simmers in the same field, yet surpasses the original, as well. The animation has the same buoyancy and juvenile ecstasy of the original, yet it is so much more ambitious and multifarious in style, drawing influences of neo-noir, action film-style visuals, and even architecture in Palm Springs. This leads to some of the most gorgeous, captivating imagery I've seen from the Parrs' rental house, to seeing those familiar, innocent, wide blue eyes on the Parrs, to a mere scene of a moon-lit pool, as Helen and Bob have a discussion. 

This also makes way for some of the most rousing, full-bodied, visually astounding action sequences I've seen in an animated film, including one of the propulsive, white-knuckle monorail sequences in all of cinema. Also, the reverent joy to see the reprise of these characters' lives can clearly be empathized with via the voice actors because returning actors Craig T. Nelson, Holly Hunter, Sarah Powell, and Samuel "Mr. Motherfucker" Jackson adjust themselves squarely and comfortably back into their roles. Bob Odenkirk brings a looney fervor to the role of Winston and Catherine Keener, fresh out of Get Out, slithers and simmers in a Sharon Stone-esque emulation through the role of Evelyn, Winston's sister. On the subject of returns, it wouldn't be a badass PIXAR film without Michael Giacchino composing the score, providing a musical score with thematic continuity and singular ingenuity, all the while never depriving us of the grandiose notes we expect to hear from The Incredibles.

If I had to pick my favorite PIXAR film, I would give a three-way tie to the Toy Story films. If I had to determine the most meaningful PIXAR film, I'd easily chalk it up to Inside Out. If I had to select the most gorgeous PIXAR film, I'd say Coco. However, if I had to pick the most entertaining PIXAR film, I'd say The Incredibles 2. I feel that, internally, deep down, I knew what to expect when the Disney logo preceding the film was cloaked in the superhero motifs and bleeding, beautiful reds we've grown accustomed to from The Incredibles. That frilly, disconnected, narratively distant moment of build-up sums up the entire film: embracing current progression, while attuned with that old spirit. For a film of such high stakes, this is one of the easiest, instantly entertaining, effortlessly appealing films of the year. It feels less like a laborious effort to engage and more like a round-table read, where everyone is happy to be there. By simply having everyone back and enjoying themselves, it managed to both achieve its basic requirements and exceed them.

Also, there's a line in the film where agent Rick Dicker states, "Politicians don't like people who do good just because it's right." I think I'll just leave this here for y'all.

RATING: Four out of four stars!

Hereditary (2018)

You know, I stated previously that my main quibble with modern horror films is that, while the expression and feeling of fear is complex, multifarious, and unlimited, the template for these films are anything but. I've also previously provided much acclaim for those that go the extra mile and attempt to match that natural, veritable level of complexity and layered intensity. And that'll be the case with Hereditary. The film both outwardly and obliquely expresses the fear of loss, the fear of failing as a parent, and the fear of perpetuating a negative family legacy. All of this coming from a supernatural horror film.

A24, please don't show any signs of slowing down.

Hereditary opens with a family comprised of husband/father Steve, wife/mother Annie, who works as a miniaturist artist, son Peter, and daughter Charlie. Their grandmother, Ellen, has recently passed away and the family, particularly Annie, is struggling to cope with the loss. The family is put into further turmoil when Charlie dies in a car accident caused by Peter. She soon afterwards meets a lady named Joan, who lost her son and grandson. Joan convinces Annie to communicate with her deceased daughter via a séance. However, this soon produces dire consequences. Will the family be able to recover? And how much did Grandma Ellen know?

With such a distinct, original studio such as A24, it doesn't surprise me that the film has such a unique style of cinematography, thanks to cinematographer Pawel Porgozelski. She has a unique way of framing that is wide, afar, and observant. It focuses on the scene, but gives everything proper space, as if it's letting the mood of the moment be the star. It uses close-ups, but sagaciously and sparingly. When they are used, they are used to probe in on the character's feelings. There are even instances where the camera focuses on the niceties and details of the house, thus personifying the house in a way.

Sonically, the film manages to stand out. While the dialogue is not muted by any means, sound editor Alfred DeGrand amplifies several emotional or minute sounds. Crying, breathing, a clicking tongue, the tinkering of a fork; all are accentuated and given as equal an importance and strength as the actual dialogue. And when we aren't being treated to the brilliant, atmospheric sound design, we get to witness one of the most awe-inspiring, unorthodox horror scores I've ever heard, composed by Colin Stetson. It sounds synth-driven, yet he primarily used vocals and manipulated clarinets to produce a motley of sounds. I haven't been invigorated and transfixed by a horror score to this degree since Herrmann's score for Psycho.

There are a lot of keen narrative moves from director/writer Ari Aster. When I first saw the advertisements, I thought that it would be a subversive, original twist on scary-child horror films, such as Orphan or The Exorcist. However, Charlie's decapitation within the first half-hour struck down that expectation. What's surprising is that the real core of the film is Annie and her slow, neurotic, emotional breakdown, first driven by grief, then by guilt, and finally by obsession.

The film is actually separated into two parts. The first half is a plaintive, meditative study on grief. The second half...is the consistently scary shit. Sometimes, you hear critics throw around superlatives, such as "non-stop," which are really rhetorical and superficial, at best. However, believe me when I say that the second half is nothing but non-stop scares.  The film manages to go beyond jump scares and actually utilizes some rather macabre, visceral methods in order to scare. And given how one adult male left the audience for two minutes at one point, I think it was effective. The fact that I can talk about indelible scares from the moribund, atrophying genre of the supernatural horror film, the genre that's still showing the rotten traces of Paranormal Activity and The Conjuring, is astounding, but nevertheless, exemplary. And it all culminates to one of the most artfully bizarre, perverse endings I've seen in quite some time.

The performances are all captivating. Milly Shapiro goes from buoyant, vibrant, shrewd Matilda from Matilda: The Musical to portraying a cold, detached, troubled Charlie in this film. With the paltry screen time she's given, she manages to make an impact and leave you invested 'til her bloody end. Former Naked Brother Alex Wolff portrays Peter as a typical pot-smoking teenager that, emotionally, is rather weak and nakedly vulnerable. He manages to make us feel his angst and malaise without his excessive crying being overkill. Gabriel Byrne as the husband primarily stays in his lane as the straight man to all of the chaos, but he himself gets a few effective moments as he begins to feel the effects of the madness. Ann Dowd is deceptively beguiling as the frighteningly genial friend, Joan.

However, the stand-out, expectedly, is Toni Collette as Annie, looking like Julianne Moore bereft of any rest. Right off the bat, she enters the film drained and exhausted, but fervently and valorously attempting to stay warm. By the end, she's raving mad, desperately trying to get the love back from her family, as well as regain her sanity. The fact that her character is revealed to be a sleepwalker and a miniaturist artist on a time clock to meet her deadline for an art exhibition add to her insecurities and paranoia and seem to merely prod at and exacerbate her mental descent. It's horrifying yet tragically hypnotic to watch, on the level of Jack Torrance from The Shining.

"Spellbinding" is the word I would use to describe this film. Watching this film and how it deftly and effectively balanced genuine emotion and genuine horror made me wonder if this is the wave of the future; if filmmakers and filmgoers, as well, have the same plight of wanting to feel more than just horror. I mean, this generation does seem to be the one giving the most credence and evidence that just because something looks good doesn't mean it is. Given all these demands for change, I don't know if horror films like these are a secondary demand for change or a caution that things are changing. Either way, it looks like these up-and-coming horror filmmakers have inherited some good techniques.

Good work, A24. See you at Oscar time!

RATING: Three-and-a-half stars out of four