Toy Story 4 (2019)

OK, so during my analysis of the newest installment in the Toy Story saga, I decided to grant myself a pardon, which allows me to not discuss the animation. At this point, discussing it is basically rote. Yes, it is bright, colorful, and lush, but we're viewing an entry of a franchise, which has been instrumental in building and sustaining the prestige and integrity of an entire film studio, influential on an entire mode of animation, and intriguing to the masses, young and old, simultaneously creating and tapping into our nostalgias.

And...huh? You're asking if I love Toy Story?

Is that even a question?

The first three entries of the Toy Story series equally rank as my favorite PIXAR film of all time. It may not have the flowering, challenging, philosophical conceits of Inside Out or the aesthetic splendor of Coco, but as three films, it exists as a quintessential human interest package. No other PIXAR film compares to these in terms of continuing, bracing narratives, slick, sly, and sprightly humor, and, above all, captivating characters. With any of these films, you are guaranteed one thing: you are going to care about everyone on the screen. Everything is debatable, but every primary protagonist is crafted with more heart, diligence, and ardor than 95% of characters of most live-action films marketed at adults.

And yes, Toy Story 4 has near pitch-perfect levels of cheer, wit, and warmth. It also has a lot more emotional weight this time around...and even produced in me a bit of emptiness.

Que? Bare with me.

The plot starts with all of the toys being well-adjusted to their new life with Bonnie, the child they were donated to by Andy in the last movie. She's beginning kindergarten and, like any child, is very worried and apprehensive of it. She finds succor and joy in a craft she made, Forky, a spork with googly eyes, pipe cleaner arms, and popsicle-stick feet. What starts as the best efforts from Woody to include him in the group quickly transitions into being intensely alert and watchful for him. Forky sees himself as trash and constantly attempts to fling himself in trashcans, with Woody constantly throwing him out and keeping him with Bonnie.

This hits its unfortunate acme when the gang goes on a road trip with Bonnie and Forky throws himself out the moving RV's window with Woody also escaping to save him. While he bonds with Forky and explains to him that he is a toy that makes Bonnie feel comfortable and jovial, they soon divert from going back to Bonnie to an antique store where Woody hopes to find Bo Peep after being given away years ago. There, she meets Gabby Gabby, a vintage doll with a broken voice box who envies Woody's functioning voice box and she ensnares the pair to steal his voice box and become a toy worth possessing.

This leads to a whole journey with Woody escaping but trying to get back to the antique store, reuniting with Bo Peep and her new sidekick, Officer Giggles, and even Buzz stepping out of the RV to find Woody and ending up meeting two aggressive, violence-happy plush toys at a carnival. All in the name of Forky!

Yeah, if this movie sounds all over the place, it isn't. Emotionally, though, I thought that it initially was.

Everything else was on point to me. The voice actors cozy themselves so seamlessly and euphorically back into their roles that I'm surprised none of them recorded in reclining chairs with cups of coffee swathed in Snuggies. Newly initiated voice actors Christina Hendricks, Keanu Reeves, and fucking Key & Peele (!!!!) all delve into these new characters with child-like anticipation and graciousness. Even Don Rickles is brought back from the dead via archival footage. R.I.P.

This film also might be the funniest of all four entries. Several moments had me screaming in laughter, including one moment that showcases the violent plush toys' propensity to mentally craft and detail incipient acts of violence and a subsequent moment that negates and simplifies their efforts. It also manages to get a few chills in, as well. All I'll say is that if you thought the cymbal-playing monkey from Toy Story 3 was unnerving, then you'll be calling it a day with these Edgar Bergen-era ventriloquist dummies.

Think Dead Silence: The Animated Movie! But without the gore.

While every other aspect was on point, this film definitely jerked me around emotionally. Not that it submerged me in various lagoons of emotional power and plaintiveness to where I came out drenched and dripping with unforgettable sadness and monumental joy, but that it lead me on a trek in revealing its emotional purpose. For a while, I feared that this was the first moment in the Toy Story enterprise that would emotionally and mentally alienate me.

Forky enters the story, perceiving himself as trash and only trash. In this era of heightened awareness and layered dialogues of mental health, I felt that this would be used as the best possible analogy and lesson of self-worth. It would be the most consummate method of doing it, given how much time has passed within the narrative and our social climate. Using an object not typically viewed as a tangible toy, but brings amusement and comfort to a child, but yet it itself only views itself as being confined by standard expectations and can't exceed beyond that, or better yet that it shouldn't, could've come around full-circle as a message on how every individual has worth and provides worth and that you can overcome any dictated confinement.

But while it also is revealed that trash makes Forky comfortable, Woody just kinda uses that as an analogy for how he can be a useful toy and then it's kinda just resolved.

OK, well...maybe it'll tap in on the unfortunate reality that you can alter your environment, alter yourself, and invest as much focus and effort into an end goal and still have it postponed and delayed further. This is in reference to a later scene, which I will not give away. However, that is resolved rapidly, as well. Given the new characters, some of which are hopeful to be with a child and all of them eager to be played with, I feared but was almost ready to gruffly submit to the fact, that this would be another simple conclusion where Woody was in the unequivocal right.

In some ways, I thought of this to be derivative of Toy Story 2, what with the internal dilemma of whether security lies in being in a home, but potentially being forgotten, or if it lies in having an ambiguous, yet spontaneous existence outside of a home, and also with Woody receiving a change to his design, which I will also not spoil. And again, with all the new characters, I thought it was going to be even more derivative and everything would be tied up fancily, tamely, and sycophantically.

And then, the twist happens. And I was stunned, emotionally, but yet still felt puzzled and almost beleaguered logically.

Can you deliver such an existentialist moral about purpose and free will and fulfillment and adequately apply it to toys? Clearly, toys are designed to distract or satiate our selfish needs of entertainment, so how can this possibly translate? Easy. These toys, to us, are not just toys. These toys, to our viewpoint, are sentient. They have alive personalities. They go beyond our selfish needs of entertainment and have actually transfixed us with their own quandaries of existence. 

But even beyond that, can this go beyond the deep-rooted affinity created for these characters and actually be germane in the real world? And even in the context of the movie, what purpose can they possibly have? And in the end, my intense pondering and pensive hypothesizing is what brought me to the revelation that, in a subterranean way, they gave us their most daring moral to date: Life is not comprised solely of easy answers. Any question that can be raised about the ending, in my opinion, can be rebutted with, "Who knows?"

And in a way, I guess you can make a connection to the real world. Think about this. The first three films ended by emphasizing the value of toys on a child and how eager toys are to delivering that fulfillment. I'm sure children saw all of these movies and vowed to cherish their toys more significantly. Well...do you really think that that happened in a zealous, overwhelmingly transformative way? To some of their toys, maybe, but they most likely already had something of a bond with them anyways. To all of their toys, hell no!

Now, those same kids are most likely adults or currently in that ragged process of adulting and are, whether they like it or not, having to take steps that will divorce them from some of the comforts of childhood. What's going to happen? Again, who knows? This film is probably the most humane of the four films because, in one of the most subtle, understated ways, it actually empowers that audience. Instead of teaching them to appreciate the simple, pulchritudinous facets of existence, it challenges them to go on step further: to exist as an individual. Even at the coda of Toy Story 3, your investment was still primarily with the toys and not with Andy. But with Toy Story 4 and how everything shifts drastically, you eventually learn that the most valuable aspect of life is its uncertainty. 

Oh yeah, about that feeling of emptiness? I think that's literally a "me" thing. I think that it is a testament to how I have grown with all of these colorful, spirited, admirable characters that a change of the guard like this is not just the end of an arc, but a veritably heartfelt, almost dispiriting ending. To have such a massive motley of characters and be embracing of them and beguiled of them through four movies over a twenty-four year period and still feel such a poignant, intransigent, addicting connection with them just as years prior justifies and denotes the power of a moment such as at the ending. While Inside Out may have the most powerful moral, Toy Story 4 certainly has the gutsiest. Admittedly, that forlorn sense of emptiness kinda detaches me from it ever so mildly, which is why I don't send it up to the same echelon as the first three, but again, that's a "me" thing.

If I'm having such a gut reaction and an unnerved, anxious, quasi-paranoid concern for characters as these, then they will always have a friend in me.

But yeah, go again and make Toy Story 5! See what happens, burros!

RATING: Four out of four stars!

Shazam (2019)

You know, existing in a classification of mammals that are prone to rushing, discerning thoughts and gross, ignorant misconceptions makes me realize how valuable a simple slice of humble pie with a cherry of re-evaluation on top can be. With that said, I'd like to offer an apology to director David F. Sandberg, regarding his newest film, Shazam!

You see, The Tick may not have been the first bit of entertainment on television or on cinemas to approach the superhero genre with a more punctuated focus on comedy, but its placement is so key and unique in the 90s television cartoon renaissance and its influence has endured so prevalently that whenever I see a new bit of entertainment, utilizing a comedic bent for the superhero story, I immediately think of it trying to approach the same territory that The Tick paved. And this is coming from someone with only a base knowledge of the show.

But there's more going on here, because this is a DC property. Or, as I call it, "D-See, We're Marvel, Right? We're Marvel, Right? No, Seriously, Are We Marvel Yet?"

Whatever appraisals you wish to hurl at DC and their head brass trying embarrassingly to compete with Marvel, but having very few efforts approach that same level of commercial viability, artistic audacity, and sheer audience invigoration, I think we all observed the marketing for Shazam and had the same thought it mind: Someone really wants to be Deadpool. Of course, this is DC, so it wouldn't dare have our main character drop a F-bomb or, I dunno, sexualize his college-bound, foster sister. PG-13 for the win, y'all!

So, given how these properties are so inescapable and so indispensable, I figured that this had the potential to be a desperate, comedic disaster, affirming DC Films to be a bunch of Marvel stans and adding on another character in the DC Cinematic Universe in the line-up of DC heroes put through the most desultory, lukewarm stories. Well, to David F. Sandberg, not only do I apologize, but I also grovel at your feet.

Time for movie review mode! Shazam!

The movie revolves around Billy Batson, a child placed in a group home after repeatedly running away from foster care. While he's rapt with the pursuit of trying to find his birth mother, whom he was separated from at a very young age, he forms a bond with the foster children, particularly Freddy, a superhero enthusiast. One day, he is summoned by a wizard Shazam. He is the last surviving member of the Council of Seven Wizards, he is growing more frail, and is looking for a body to carry on his powers, someone pure of heart.

Billy is chosen and he soons embodies the powers, as well as the grown adult body, of Shazam the superhero. Everytime he says "Shazam," he can transform back and forth between a young boy and a superhero. With the help of Freddy, he discovers the extent of his powers and becomes a celebrity. However, a hero's only as good as its villian. Enter Thaddeaus Sivana, who was originally summoned by Shazam as a child, but was deemed to be unfit to inherit his powers because he wasn't pure of heart. As an adult, he manages to confront Shazam, steal the Eye of Sin, and vows to take Shazam's powers for himself.

For superhero movies, there is a bit of a template. In the 2000s, the first act was heavily dedicated to the origins of the superhero. In this current decade, we've already become familiar with these characters, so it seems that nowadays, superhero films, particularly in the MCU, set up the conflict and personalities in the first act. It's always particularly noticeable, as it should, because it's a tried-and-true way to delineate and distinguish the narrative. 

With Shazam, I was surprised how differently the first act flowed. It could be attributed to the fact that I didn't pay attention to the marketing all that intently, but I liked how the film connotes the implications and connections to the plot during the first act. I didn't immediately know how everything connected until the end of the first act. For example, Thaddeus' backstory opens the film, but the conflict and the reasons for villianry are saved until about thirty minutes into the film. By this point, we actually have spent more time on Billy's development as a character, as well as his fair plight of finding his mother, an action that presents some significant and effective pathos, specifically in how that plotline wraps up.

It also doesn't leave the other children out to dry. All of the adoptive children are written appeallingly and distinctly. Eugene, portrayed by Ian Chen, manages to deliver a few spirited quips. Mary, portrayed by Grace Fulton, is not the overly-bossy eldest, but rather a vivacious, yet insecure and wistful young girl preparing for college and her character is handled with a precise tenderness. Darla, played by Faithe Herman, balances unbridled innocence and ebullient awareness, while never treading into overly-spunky grounds. Even the adoptive parents are portrayed so straightforwardly gentle and cheery, but in such a grounded manner that you can't help but like them.

Freddy, however, portrayed by Jack Dylan Grazer is not just the stand-out of the foster children, but possibly of this whole film. Maybe I was impressed by Grazer's unrelentingly hermetic comic timing, which he didn't get to utilitze too much of in It, another strong film he was in. Or maybe I just adored his character portrayal from screenwriter Henry Gayden. On one hand, Freddy's the token nerd character. On the other hand, he's the token smartass kid. The way Gayden amalgamates the two archetypes into one lively, smart-alecky, sharp character is at both times subversive of archetypes and subservient to what we expect both character types to be.

Of course, such a spirited lead character and his older self deserve spirited actors to portray them. Disney Channel actor Asher Angel is the perfect unassuming hero as Billy, portraying him with such ease and earnestness. Zachary Levi makes a welcome return to Hollywood as a leading man in probably the unlikeliest of roles. It speaks to how much a good sport Levi is to be able to dilute his masculinity, whilst maintaining his feeble everyman sensibilities, all in the name of getting a laugh, yet still spritzing charisma off the screen.

Oh, and getting a laugh? This film gets quite a bunch. In fact, the comedy is where the film truly excels, above all. I laughed so many times throughout the film that it wasn't even worth noting all the specific lines and gags. The film is definitely a modern film and it definitely wants to achieve what Deadpool did, but the movie it actually resembles more is Big, right down to a three-second homage to the piano floor bit. In fact, the alchemy between Freddy and Billy and the feel of the school scenes are reminiscent of an 80's John Hughes film. It's kind of refreshing every now and then to see a comedy that isn't gleeful in its tastelessness, but moreso gleeful in its...glee.

On the visual level, DC actually is up to par with Marvel for this movie because the imagery and CGI is alive, colorful, and spirited, shot with some surprisingly welcoming slo-mo cinematography and 3D-esque close-ups, and filmed in sumptuous, gloriously gothic set pieces. The Rock of Eternity is beautifully realized with as much richness, resonance, and mood as the Batcave, maybe even more.

I guess if I had to quibble, I'd say that the final battle went on a little too long. I'd also say that sometimes I thought the story veered breathtakingly close into absurdity. I conceal everything that need be, but despite that the Seven Deadly Sins are portrayed the same in its original comic, I personally found the whole aspect of "releasing the Seven Deadly Sins" pretty simplistic and ludicrous. Plus, the last shot is cringe-inducingly lame and irritatingly meta. However I say "veer," because during the rare occasions that made me roll my eyes, it compensated me and immediately got back on track with enough humor, splendor, and soul to win me back.

And that's what distinguishes an adored DC film from a DC film to be admonished: soul. It doesn't matter that you got to see your pedantic, fanboy wet dream put on the big screen (i.e. Batman v. Superman). It didn't matter how many villians you got together (i.e. Suicide Squad). It didn't natter how many heroes you got together (i.e. Justice Squad). Those movies were seen as turgid tranquilizers of cinema. This movie will be viewed as having portrayed Shazam's soul and having brought soul back to DC Films.

So you see kids, in the end, the black wizard's magic lived on...through a white person.

*cues Childish Gambino*

This is America!

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

Five Feet Apart (2019)

Foreword: Q: Stephen, what's your excuse for your absence this time?

                 

                 A: Life's a bitch. Next!

OK, I sure didn't except to almost owe someone an apology.

When I first saw the advertisements for Five Feet Apart, I expected it to be another Fault In Our Stars clone; a movie trying to capitalize on the emotional platform that that movie provided, but without the grace and genuineness that inculcated Fault In Our Stars into the zeitgeist. If bombs such as Midnight Sun and Everything, Everything are any indication, then Fault In Our Stars might just be the Love Story of our generation.

Above all, I anticipated that I would be categorizing it as a Just Die Already Movie. Yes, in the same vein Roger Ebert provided humorous sobriquets to narrative types and tropes, I decided to partake in the same practice. When I use the term, "Just Die Already Movie," you probably have evoked memories or ideas of movies involving either a love interest or overall main character succumbing to a tragic illness. And while that is the overall outline, the impetus that sparks a Just Die Already Movie is when a movie is so manipulative, so laborious, and has so little regard for the reality of the illness and more of a regard for bludgeoning the easiest of emotions out of the audience.

Two examples of Just Die Already Movies are 2011's A Little Bit of Heaven, with its smug, haughty, lackadaisical, and treacly approach to the topic of love while diagnosed with cancer, and 1982's Six Weeks, which used a sick child as a lifeless, obsequious figurine for the screenplay to navigate itself through an empty, virtually non-existent story, slathering itself in egregious cliches and shameless bathos.

Quick message for the filmmakers of both those movies and to all others that may potentially make this mistake: being offensive and boring is a lethal combination. So, for Five Feet Apart, I felt that the only distinction would be the disease at hand, cystic fibrosis, and nothing else. Surprisingly, however, the film turns out to be a meditative look into the disease, a portrayal of the delicacy of the condition and how it affects the people afflicted with it and their relationships with others, and a tender, subtle love story between two individuals trying to live before it's their time to die. I'll say it. It won me over...

...almost.

The movie revolves around Stella. She has cystic fibrosis and spends her days in the hospital, awaiting the possibility that she may receive a lung transplant. All the while, she posts vlogs online about her condition and her day-to-day life coping with it and interacting with the nurses, including her most dear nurse friend, Barbara, as well as her friend and fellow patient, Poe. One day, she meets Will, a patient also stricken by cystic fibrosis. While Stella is adamant and obsessive with her daily regiment and making sure she takes her medications, Will seems to be oddly passive of any danger and doesn't prioritize his medical self-care. This leads to a barter between the two: Stella will advise and counsel him on his daily regiment, if she lets Will, an artist, draw her. Their bond becomes thicker, which leads to them beginning a courtship, all done five feet apart from each other. Will they grow closer or further?

First and foremost, I must begin by clarifying and revealing what I'm sure people are anxious to hear. This film, for the most part (we'll get to that later), doesn't trivialize cystic fibrosis. In fact, I was surprised that first-time director Justin Baldoni and up-and-coming screenwriters Mikki Daughtry and Tobias Iaconis had the decency to showcase actual details about how cystic fibrosis affects these patients, as far as their routines go. It shows the medications, it shows the scars, it shows the infections and it does this not to sensationalize, but to relay the point that the illness at hand isn't just coughing, brave faces, and nose tubes. There is a death scene in the film, but in a subversive turn, the film (spoilers!) doesn't kill off either of the two leads. This is practically an anomaly in movies of this type, but it is a inspired surprise and a heartbreaking bit of realism. Death isn't timed for a sentimental conclusion. It's unexpected, sudden, and achingly sad. 

The film does have some funny moments, but they never feel contrived or divorced from the film's emotional intent. The comedy is humorous, but is excruciating and elegiac in nature. It's not levity-for-levity's sake, but rather it is adding to the film's impact and investment. Also, props should be given to the cinematography by Frank G. DeMarco. At its nature, the film is brilliantly shot because the location is the hospital. With the exception of one other place during the end, the film takes place solely at this hospital, which adds to the melancholic feeling of entrapment and desperation that all of these characters are feeling in some way. 

Additionally, however, DeMarco manages to add some poetic, poignant visual touches, like when Stella is in surgery to have a new tube put in and she's transported into a colorful painting that she has on her wall. Even better is when Stella and Poe see each other after a front and the camera cuts back and forth between them, but shot far away, further adding to the aesthetic and thematic crucialness pertaining to the characters being at least six feet apart from each other.

Admittedly, most of the film relies on the charisma of the actors, because, let's face it, these characters themselves aren't original. Stella is the sweet, down-to-earth girl, torn apart by a tragedy in her life, who learns to let her guard down and not live a life of excessive planning and restrictions. Will is the detached, quasi-rebel, whose pursuit of love teaches him to value life and gives him a purpose. The film even shoehorns in the gay best friend and the sassy, warm-hearted black nurse. While Kimberly Herbert Gregory is an appealing actress and is perfectly avuncular as Barbara, the black nurse in question, the film merely ensnares her to be solely a cliche. 

However, Moises Arias, better known as Rico from Hannah Montana, continues his streak of effective adult roles, playing Poe. He's frail and sullen, but still manages to hook you to his character with this trademark smile and his joyous warmth. Will's brazen defiance actually translates out to be an extreme embrace and fear of uncertainty, thanks to Cole Sprouse's winning performance (two Disney Channel stars in a film about cystic fibrosis). Up-and-comer Haley Lu Richardson may have just hit breakout status playing Stella, giving a heart and a personality to her frenzied, manic behavior. Her genuine anguish makes it all the more heart-wrenching and convincing. The dichotomy between Sprouse and Richardson is to be expected, but the actors themselves have wonderful chemistry, all the while remaining five feet apart, one foot less than recommended, in order to take something back that the disease stole from them. All of these actors take these archetypes and flesh them out into relatable individuals.

I cared about these characters. I was invested with them. I laughed with them. I was worried for their safety. Throughout the film, I was surprised that, through a barefaced but observant handling of cystic fibrosis and through amiable characters, the film overcame the obstacle of being a Just Die Already Movie. I even suspended my disbelief that hospital security really seems to suck, because half of the actions that the characters do would never be allowed. I was with it...and then it lost me.

It seems that, during the last twenty minutes, the aforementioned screenwriters were worried that they would lose that teen crowd, so they decided to morph into the exact movie I was afraid it was going to be. All of the cliches stormed in like a football team, each as shopworn and mawkish as the next. The writers copped out and opted for an emotional simplicity that would appease fourth-graders. It rushes narrative aspects, while droning on emotional ones. I couldn't believe how rapidly and unconvincingly one crisis was solved. Without giving it away, it boils down to "I don't wanna do it!" "Do it!" "OK."

It actually was at this point when I realized that one problem the movie had was its editing. The film could've used about twenty minutes cut from it, because the emotional moments near the conclusion are so plodding and so padded out. Any glimpse of an emotionally serviceable moment is immediately undercut by something so wishy-washy. The editing is flawed beforehand, too. While the scene where Will and Stella look at each other's scars is certainly a powerful moment, I feel that the movie expected it to be a cultural landmark to behold time and time again, because they hold on it a bit longer than needed. And the way they reiterated the narration from the beginning to recontextualize it in the most obvious of ways was so manipulative that, at that point, I tapped out mentally. At that point, cystic fibrosis transmuted into a game of hot potato, being passed around for each emotional arc it needed to reach. I may have extolled the movie for maturely and naturally handling death, but at that point, after the sluggish, drawn-out final act, I almost felt cheated that the main characters stayed alive. At least, there would've been an emotional pay-off on some level.

But how do you rate a movie like this?

Well, I have a personal principle that an ending can only drop a film one star from my perceived rating at the time. However, there's more to my reaction of this film. A while back, when I reviewed My Little Pony: The Movie and I discussed how there's at least 50% of the film I find enjoyable, I concluded that I was amused, but not entertained. Distracted, caught off-guard, yes, but there was nothing substantial that stuck. Here, I was entertained. So, I guess now I need to distinguished between being entertained and being fulfilled. I was appreciative and magnetized by a lot of the movie, but it didn't fire on all cylinders. The movie gripped me, then let me go earlier than I desired. It's like someone prepared a wonderful hearty meal for me, let me devour my thick, juicy roast beef and then threw out my rice, veggies, soup, and bread before I even got a chance to taste it.

CBS Films may be a mixed bag, producing critically acclaimed works (Seven Psychopaths, Inside Llewyn Davis), forgettable fillers moreso fit for the ether than the multiplex (Extraordinary Measures, The To-Do List) or outright duds (Beastly, The Back-Up Plan), but that means it's not impossible for them to make a solid film. Even if they shaved off ten minutes, they could've had a fine movie with a limp end. However, when it comes to a quality film this time around, much like Stella and Will, it seems they kept a reaching distance from that possibility.

Also, whoever was in charge of arranging the music for this film deserves a demotion. Burn every ounce of those stultifying, lifeless, emo tunes. Burn them! BURN THEM ALL, I SAY!

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

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