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