‘The Little Mermaid’ Review

May 22, 2023

With each new live action remake from Disney comes a dose of apprehension. The studio’s track record of reimagining their vault of animated films runs the gamut from enjoyable (Kenneth Branagh’s Cinderella,), to average (David Lowery’s Peter Pan and Wendy), to painfully empty (Jon Favreau’s The Lion King). Last year’s soulless offering of Robert Zemeckis’ Pinocchio may very well have been rock bottom. One can only go up from there, and the studio certainly does so with The Little Mermaid, a charming musical adaptation which soars comfortably in the top tier of Disney live action remakes. At the helm of theater and film director Rob Marshall, The Little Mermaid shimmers with splashes of romance and spirited energy throughout. Marshall’s vibrant theater background compliments the beloved story of Ariel, a young mermaid whose curiosity and drive for adventure opens up a world of possibilities. The Little Mermaid tells a familiar story in a familiar way, on a much more grandiose scale. At times, the film is visually distracting and narratively flat. But overall it resonates primarily through Halle Bailey, whose magnificent star-making performance holds the film together.

Those who have seen the 1989 animated version will pick up on the story’s main features — mermaid dreams, family expectations, trusty sea creature sidekicks, an evil sea witch, a lost voice, a dashing prince. Marshall’s adaptation of this underwater universe retains the magic of a classic story while finding an incredible star in Halle Bailey for a new generation. From the moment Bailey appears on screen and her voice is heard, she exudes Disney Princess. She exudes heroism, wonder, curiosity. She brings heart and soul to Ariel. From melody to facial expression, you could feel the character’s longing. Her determination to detach from the expectations of her father King Triton (Javier Bardem, who oddly sleepwalks in the role), and become part of a new world are the driving forces of the film. It’s why the iconic song ‘Part of Your World’ resonates so deeply. The lyrics encompass the character’s spirit. Bailey’s rendition of the song is a show stopping musical experience that hits all the high notes.

Beyond a beautiful singing voice, Bailey also navigates the dramatic shifts of life above water when she and Prince Eric (Jonah Hauer-King) fall in love. The film expands on the animated version by spending more time with their on-land romance. The two characters bond out of a strong desire to gain independence from family pressures. Hauer-King’s passionate performance of ‘Wild Uncharted Waters,’ a new song penned by Lin-Manuel Miranda, is a strong expression of character. Eric too leads with his heart and desires new adventures. The decision to include this song adds a layer to the romance, as it provides a behind-the-scenes of why Ariel feels attracted to him. Similarly, the inclusion of another new song, ‘For the First Time,’ gives Ariel an endearing ‘fish out of water’ moment where she discovers the world above the sea. Once lonely underwater, she’s now on the cusp of independence and the exploration of new experiences. Ariel and Eric’s spirited musical sequences show the strength of their romantic spark and what draws them to each other. The characters’ spark is complimented by winning chemistry between Bailey and Hauer-King. Bailey also conveys how Ariel maintains a meaningful connection with Eric without the use of her voice. As those familiar with the story will know, the loss of Ariel’s voice is a sacrifice made through a spell that turns her into a human.

When it comes to iconic Disney villains, one would be hard pressed not to mention the sea witch Ursula. In the animated version of The Little Mermaid, Ursula was voiced by the brilliant Pat Carroll and inspired by drag queen Divine. What made Ursula so entertaining was that in her eyes, she was the hero of her own story. She was euphoric in her own dark magical power, and Carroll gave the character a compelling theatricality by voice work alone. The animated Ursula was lively and terrifying in equal measure, which matched and flowed with Carroll’s vocal range. The 2023 live-action Ursula, played by Melissa McCarthy, pays homage to the icon who came before, sometimes to a fault. McCarthy has a lot of fun with the role. She infuses her own comedic charm, and utilizes her character’s hair and makeup as an extension of her performance. She also holds her own vocally during the classic ‘Poor Unfortunate Souls’ number. But she doesn’t embody the role beyond a surface level. The experience feels very much like one watching McCarthy in costume, as opposed to feeling immersed into a villainous character. By no means a bad performance, and it is no easy feat following the animated version. But given the similarities in approach, it does feel as though McCarthy does her best Carroll voice without bringing a more unique quality forward.

Of all the supporting performances in the film, Daveed Diggs stands out through his voice work as Sebastian the crab, who becomes Ariel’s primary protector and encouraging ally in place of King Triton. Sebastian is another role made iconic in the animated version, considering the late Samuel E. Wright’s entertaining performance as the lovable crustacean. But Diggs makes his own mark on the character and brings out excellent comedic timing. His line delivery elicits consistent laughs throughout. Plus, his singing voice tackles not one but two big musical numbers — ‘Under the Sea’ and ‘Kiss the Girl.’ The only downside of such vibrant voice work is the hyper-realistic CGI, which doesn’t always flow with the actor’s energy. Sometimes the voice work overpowers the effects, and sometimes the CGI is a distraction. This is most noticeable with the character of Skuttle, played with super heightened enthusiasm by Awkwafina but lacking the visual energy to match.

Contrary to very premature online chatter that scenes are too dimly lit, there is a lot of vibrancy and color to be found throughout the film. However, there are a number of rough patches that stick out particularly during the ‘Under the Sea’ musical number, and in the dullish animation of characters like Skuttle and Flounder. While the film looks and feels grandiose, the inconsistent visual effects takes you out of the escapist experience at times. It’s a missed opportunity in really immersing into a colorful underwater universe, especially given the set pieces and unconventional direction Rob Marshall tends to go in. He brings strong theater energy to The Little Mermaid. There are some visually interesting choreographed sequences that unfortunately clash with distracting CGI. 

What The Little Mermaid achieves that many live action Disney releases don't is the retelling of a familiar and beloved story without feeling aimless. The combination of Rob Marshall’s lively direction, a mix of old and new lyrics, and a brilliant performance by Halle Bailey help create an enjoyable experience. The story itself doesn’t change much from the animated version’s blueprint, which leads to some dullness in the narrative and pacing. But where the film lacks in that respect, it makes up for with the most significant element of them all: the casting of Ariel. Halle Bailey seamlessly bridges the worlds of enchanted fantasy and grounded reality. She is the little mermaid, and the film sings to her tune. 

The Little Mermaid releases in theaters on May 26. 

‘Elemental’ Review

June 9, 2023

​Themes of immigration and acceptance are given vibrant exploration in Pixar’s Elemental, an immersive mix of fire and water elements to create a charming love story. From the mind of Peter Sohn, who had previously directed Pixar’s 2015 feaure The Good Dinosaur, Elemental traces Sohn’s personal experiences as an immigrant traveling from Korea to the United States. The story is set in the colorful world of Element City, which houses residents of earth, fire, water, and air. Each element group co-exists but keeps to themselves, technically due to the harm some could cause if mixed together. Pixar has an illustrious track record of telling heartfelt stories through layered metaphors, from puberty as a giant red panda in Turning Red to emotions as characters in Inside Out. Elemental continues in the vein of high-concept creativity by personifying the four classical elements of nature. Each must work together in harmony for the world to survive, which drives home the strong emotional core Elemental lives in.
 
The story focuses on hot tempered fireball Ember (voiced by Leah Lewis), daughter of immigrants Bernie (voiced by Ronnie Del Carmen) and Cinder (voiced by Shila Ommi), who had moved into Firetown and turned their home into a store called The Fireplace. Since she was a little girl, Ember has helped her parents run the store. She stays close to home, much to her father’s delight. He dreams that one day she will take over The Fireplace and provide a future for her that he never had. But their cozy business is at risk of shutting down forever when a basement pipe bursts on a busy customer day, and a momentary flood introduces a watery Wade Ripple (voiced by Mamoudou Athie) into the picture. As it turns out, Wade is a city inspector, and his notes are not looking good for the future of The Fireplace. In an effort to save her family’s livelihood, Ember follows Wade outside of Firetown and toward the water-centric City Hall, to stop him from sending his notes to the higher-ups.
 
The idea of opposites attracting is a staple of the romantic comedy genre, and it is used to charming effect in “Elemental.” Ember and Wade, both witness to the widespread belief that fire and water do not go together, start to discover just how much they have in common. Her fiery passion and his nervous, sentimental temperament become a complimentary match. The film also incorporates sweet rom-com cues, from awkward dates and pickup lines, to meeting each other’s parents and learning valuable lessons. Adding spark to the characters’ blossoming relationship are terrific performances by Leah Lewis and Mamoudou Athie, whose vocal ranges bring out the humor and drama of a shared story. Their chemistry gives sincerity to the rom-com elements, and urgency to the moments of danger that they face together. While the romance itself feels a bit too sped up for the sake of plot, the emotions behind it are heartfelt and fun.
 
The film dually works as a moving story about immigrant families and their experiences arriving in a new city, full of dreams, only to be met with hostility. In Element City, the infrastructure is water-based, which drives Firetown on the outskirts where residents can live safely. The city “isn’t made with fire people in mind.” Fire people and their culture face prejudice and scorn. The depiction of such themes are extremely on-the-nose at times, but what resonates is how these subjects are worked into the story of a family following their dreams. The relationship between Ember and her father is an enormous source of the film’s heart. While he wants her to inherit The Fireplace, she carries anxiety about the prospect. Ember fears being honest with him about how her own dreams are different than his. Their dynamic gives the film an added layer of universal identity.
 
The visual language and soundscape of Elemental compliment the story wonderfully. The look of Element City mirrors a melting pot of different districts. The city is full of neat-looking designs, from waterfall skyscrapers and forest towers to a tornado-shaped stadium. Firetown also bursts with creative animation, with incorporation of warm colors and fire-based settings. Most impressively are the interactions between fire and water characters. From the flickers of heat to the transparency of fluids, the animation captures them in constant movement. Additionally, acclaimed composer Thomas Newman brings his familiar sounds to the film’s imaginary world, while also capturing human emotion. Newman creates one of his most experimental scores, full of crackling excitement, jazzy strings, and vocal chatters.
 
While Elemental can be heavy-handed at times, and the central romance feels rushed, the film is a funny and sweet story about generational expectations. The story shines through beautifully animated world-building, vivid voice work, and a resonating father-daughter relationship that strikes a chord close to home.

How Season 2 of ‘The Bear’ Elaborates On Character

​July 20, 2023

When the first season of a returning show captures lightning in a bottle, the question becomes, how will the next chapter live up to its various measures of expectation? Culinary smash hit The Bear, created by Christopher Storer, sets the bar high in its first season. A work of fiction feels like a documentary; every ingredient from the impeccable writing to the immersive acting evokes an energy that hooks you in from the start. Jeremy Allen White plays a young chef risen from the ashes, shoved through the world of fine dining, and pulled towards his family’s scrappy Chicago sandwich shop under mournful circumstances. Amidst the kitchen frenzy, however sticky and stressful things get, White’s yearning stares into the distance ground everything into place. This restaurant means something. And because he and the kitchen team have so much stock in the place, every little mishap feels like the entire world is crashing down.

The restaurant’s meaning depends on any given character’s perspective. How do they measure success? Where do they find themselves on the never-ending journey of self-discovery and growth? These are questions that the show smartly continues to explore in its second season, for the bedrock of The Bear has always been its characters. From the precise words on the page to the actors who interpret and embody them, their roles are the main ingredient as to why “The Bear” resonates. By building onto them and expanding their personal worlds outside of the kitchen, the writing of season two not only surpasses expectations, but creates a new recipe for success. The boiling, frenetic stress ball of season one is brought to a simmer in season two. Intimate character-driven episodes serve up a mostly soothing departure from clattering pots and pans. That is, until you swim with the Berzatto fishes in episode six…

Season two continues the chaos-ridden saga of Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto (White). The environment this time around is more contemplative and slightly less anxiety-inducing. The show picks up where season one leaves off — promising the birth of ‘The Bear’ (Carmy’s nickname), after the closure of ‘The Beef’ which was owned by Carmy’s late brother Mikey (Jon Bernthal). As Carmy and the team clean out shop to create a fine-dining Michelin star-worthy restaurant, they face numerous road blocks along the way, from outdated infrastructure to failed safety inspections. But in the process of starting over, they unearth new layers about themselves. When the pressures of the kitchen are stripped back, so too are the characters inhabiting that space. The writers take them beyond the environment you had been accustomed to seeing them in. Over the course of ten episodes, characters are coming into their own. Their personal experiences, family dynamics, and support systems are explored with a ton of heart, humor, and intensity. From Carmy’s culinary influence on the team, and subtle callbacks evoking the first season, to the ferocious dialogue of a holiday dinner gone sour.

Piece by piece, the writers of The Bear dig deeper into the characters’ lives while maintaining a recurring theme: it is never too late to have a breakthrough. Every second counts. That has never been more felt than in these standout moments of the season.
 
***SPOILERS AHEAD FOR THE BEAR***
 
Pasta (episode two)
Written by Christopher Storer, Joanna Calo, Sofya Levitsky-Weitz
Twelve weeks out from ‘The Bear’ opening, Sydney ‘Syd’ (Ayo Edebiri) delivers the news that Tina (Liza Colón-Zayas) and Ebraheim ‘Ebra’ (Edwin Lee Gibson) are being sent to culinary school to sharpen their skills. Tina beams with excitement while Ebra is hesitant. The difference in their reactions — one looking forward to change, the other afraid of it — is a great depiction of the restaurant’s transformative power over the people who help run it. Change and opportunity are spinning by; either you take the leap and fill your sidelines with support, or find yourself behind. Many characters are wrestling between old and new support systems in this episode. During a family dinner between Syd and her father (Robert Townsend), when she shares her excitement about the new restaurant opening and he struggles to take her profession seriously, she reminds him that she is in a different place: one where she is still learning and not alone; she has a partner. Nearing the end of this episode, her partner Carmy and his ex-girlfriend, Claire (Molly Gordon), reconnect at a grocery store. Claire walks into his life when he is on the cusp of newness and in need of positive influence, but he keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. By introducing this new character, the writing expands on Carmy’s past and evokes the feeling of him being almost frozen in time. As well, the choice to set their conversation by a freezer is a neat example of the season’s strength in planting moments that come full circle later on (in this case, the season finale).
 
 
Sundae (episode three)
Written by Karen Joseph Adcock, Catherine Schetina, Christopher Storer
Eleven weeks out from ‘The Bear’ opening, Syd and Carmy work on the new menu. Their attempts to figure out which dishes to serve fall apart. After a little too much of this and not enough of that, Carmy suggests that they both go out and try some stuff. They need to reset their palates and find culinary inspiration. But he ditches the plan after an impromptu phone call from Claire, leaving Syd to embark on a solo culinary tour of Chicago. “Sundae” is one of the finest examples of the writers’ love for these characters, Syd in particular as this episode focuses on her perspective. This is where the show’s new recipe for success really comes into play. The gorgeous montages of Syd exploring different foods is an odyssey of her hunger and attention to detail. Sprinkled in the mix, various chefs give her advice that unwittingly sheds light on her relationship with Carmy. The episode marks a strong example of how the writers find moments to reflect on character dynamics. Lines of advice such as, “Make sure you have a great partner, someone you can trust,” or “Listen to your gut” come at the right time. In building the menu with Carmy, Syd has just as much say on the direction of The Bear. Whether he also truly believes that is called into question.
 
Honeydew (episode four)
Written by Stacy Osei-Kuffour, Christopher Storer, Sofya Levitsky-Weitz
In the running for season two’s best episode is “Honeydew,” an emotionally intimate half-hour of pastry chef Marcus (Lionel Boyce) challenging himself. Upon a suggestion from Syd, who recognizes the need to empower her fellow chefs, Carmy sends Marcus on a Copenhagen trip to gain exposure and sweeten his dessert game. In Denmark, Marcus is trained by British pastry chef Luca (guest star Will Poulter), an old friend of Carmy’s and a walking example of precision. Luca's technique is delicate. He operates in stillness, the polar opposite to what Marcus is used to back home. “Honeydew” lovingly expands on Marcus’ character, impressively combining bits of his past, present, and budding future all in one. As written in the first season, Marcus always possessed an eagerness to create, and a desire to improve. Season two charts Marcus’ journey from a ‘clock in and out’ job to nourishing his career as a pastry chef. Additionally, “Honeydew” marks the first time Marcus opens up about his mother who is ill (season two begins with him by her side in a hospital). You could feel the weight on his shoulders when he visits Copenhagen; as he soaks in his new experiences, he makes a point of sharing his thoughts with her, even if she is unable to respond.
 
Pop (episode five)
Written by Sofya Levitsky-Weitz, Christopher Storer, Karen Joseph Adcock
One can only hope that season three is full of even more self-contained character-driven episodes, because Tina deserves her big moment. While the first season portrays her as having a chip on her shoulder, season two expands on the character through means of various opportunities. After Syd offers her the role of sous chef, and she attends the culinary arts training program (for which Carmy lends his knife), Tina has a more noticeable sparkle in her eyes. She is stepping into the potentiality of a new role with increased confidence and an inspired spirit. This training not only influences her career but also her social life; upon showing up to a gathering her fellow trainees had invited her to, Tina takes the mic at a karaoke bar and stuns with a heartfelt rendition of the song “Before the Next Teardrop Falls.” Moments like this are a prime example of stellar acting and character development coming together to create magic.

Fishes (episode six)
Written by Joanna Calo, Christopher Storer, Sofya Levitsky-Weitz
Following the palate cleansers and appetizers of episodes one through five, the main course of the season is “Fishes,” a bitter and fiery holiday time-capsule. The writers take you back a few years to a heated Berzatto family dinner that descends into a traumatic nightmare. What family dinner doesn’t have underlying tension on the brink of explosion? Carmy, Mikey, their sister Natalie (Abby Elliott), ‘Cousin’ Richie (Ebon Moss-Bachrach), Uncle Jimmy (Oliver Platt), and a nervous bunch of relatives (played by a star-studded guest cast) join forces for Christmas with the family matriarch, Donna (guest star Jamie Lee Curtis). This flashback episode gives remarkable context to the behaviors and dynamics between Carmy and his family across both seasons. The overlapping flow of dialogue and buildup of tension creates an environment that rivals season one’s kitchen disaster “The Review” when it comes to inducing anxiety. The incredible writing of “Fishes” hits home how the show has always been in service to its characters. Each and every detail counts. 

Forks (episode seven)
Written by Alex Russell, Christopher Storer, Sofya Levitsky-Weitz
In the season two premiere, Cousin Richie asks Carmy, “You ever think about purpose?”. The loaded question (and the time it would take to be addressed) drives Carmy away, until he notices the look of defeat on Richie’s face. In season one, Richie was the loudest voice in the kitchen. Season two meets him in an existential crisis. Feeling as though he has not accomplished anything, he questions where he belongs, just as the sandwich shop he had helped run is getting a facelift. Richie’s frame of mind makes episode seven all the more satisfying and inspiring. In “Forks,” Richie is sent to stage a three Michelin-star restaurant in Chicago. After days of polishing forks in a cold-looking kitchen, he moves up the ladder to shadow the pristine front-of-house staff. He also gets to meet the restaurant’s mysterious chef Terry (guest star Olivia Colman). Richie’s apprenticeship opens up a world of possibility; suddenly he sees a potentially rewarding path to follow, particularly in the business of hospitality. Whereas season one sees the characters in ‘fight or flight’ mode, just trying to survive back of house, the writers make an interesting shift towards front-facing hospitality. The season focuses intently on characters such as Richie, working on themselves and in turn, becoming of better service to others.
 
“The Bear” (episode ten)
Written by Christopher Storer, Kelly Galuska, Sofya Levitsky-Weitz
Overall, this season follows a more simmered down recipe in comparison to its predecessor. But it wouldn’t be The Bear without scenes of non-stop stress against the tick of a clock. In the finale, family and friends are invited to celebrate the opening of ‘The Bear,’ a fine-dining experience accumulated from months of training and renovating. The team make a fresh start with some new practices: Richie’s ‘note passing’ communication method taken up from his apprenticeship; Carmy and Syd’s temper-diffusing physical signaling of “I’m sorry,” which Tina observes and uses later on. But old patterns are hard to shake, and nobody can relate to that harder than Carmy. From the beginning of the series, fixing the restaurant is what he always set out to do, and he did not need a reason more sufficient than it being his birthright.

Fast forward to the season two finale, and the sentiment of this culinary responsibility consuming him has never been clearer. When an unexpected obstacle forces him to self-reflect in isolation, he simply cannot let go of being that person who keeps all the plates spinning. The writing of Carmy, as well as White’s deeply present and emotionally articulate portrayal, reaches new heights. What does the restaurant really mean to him? How intertwined are his measures of success with his definitions of self-worth and relationships? When the pressure of the kitchen is stripped away, so too is Carmy, trying to understand his place in all the routine chaos he has been living in. In a monologue played tremendously by White, he speaks of failing everyone around him. He resists letting something potentially good happen to him, which recalls his mother’s opinion of herself (not being deserving of goodness) in the “Fishes” episode. When the show leans into quieter moments such as this monologue, it showcases how the writing captures full-circle expressions of character. All it takes is one line — “No amount of good is worth how terrible this feels” — to realize just how much of a cyclical grip Carmy’s traumatic past has on him.

‘Marmalade’ Review

February 2, 2024

The heist romance sub-genre is given a peculiar spin in Keir O’Donnell’s directorial feature debut Marmalade. The film wastes no time getting right to the story of Baron (Joe Keery) and Marmalade (Camila Morrone), an ill-fated couple caught in a whirlwind of robbery. But the couple’s relationship manifests out of thin air, as do their individual motives and what drives them towards each other. Character development gets lost in the whiplash of hasty editing and questionable narrative choices, all of which the mostly reliable cast can’t quite rise above. From the underdeveloped central romance and subplots, to the uneven pacing, Marmalade doesn’t reach that sweet spot of balancing what makes both the romance and the crime compelling.

Marmalade starts with a recently imprisoned Baron and his newfound friend, cellmate Otis (Aldis Hodge). What starts as a cryptic chat turns potentially fortuitous for both of them. Baron has a secret stash of money hidden outside the prison walls. If Otis can help him escape, that money will be free for the taking. To explain how and why this money exists, Baron turns back time to explain how he met Marmalade (Camila Morrone). The two quickly fall in love and plan a Bonnie and Clyde-style bank robbery to kickstart a new dream life together. In the midst of scheming, Baron also cares for his sick mother, whose identity remains a mystery throughout the story. There is more to Marmalade than meets the eye, but the reveals add more confusion than enlightenment on what the intention is.

​The performances, while mostly committed to O’Donnell’s storytelling, offer no real insight into who these characters are beyond their actions. Joe Keery of Stranger Things fame has an expectedly charming screen presence as Baron. He gives weight to the character’s dumbfounded, seemingly clueless qualities. Keery also manages to balance the film’s odd tonal shifts that take the character on an unexpected journey. The choices O’Donnell makes to reach those unexpected moments, however, make the entire journey feel convoluted. Baron lacks the reliability and strength to be the anchor of this story. From his rushed character development, to underwritten relationships between those in his orbit.

Sharing the name of the title, Camila Morrone’s Marmalade is one of the more peculiar elements of the film. Her colorful introductory scene is full of promise and injects a mysterious energy into the story. She appears out of thin air, to the extent that one might question whether or not she is a manifestation of Baron’s imagination. Marmalade is a picture of danger to him. The two’s budding relationship presents the opportunity to embark on an adventure so far removed from his mundane existence. What each character aims to get out of the opportunity poses more questions than answers.

Morrone has shown promising talent so far, from playing the lead role in Annabelle Attanasio’s Mickey and the Bear to giving a standout Emmy-nominated performance in the series Daisy Jones & The Six. On paper, Marmalade is another role for Morrone to challenge her range and find a groove in her acting style. While she brings plenty of energy to the role, her efforts feel misplaced and underutilized. As a result, her character’s presence becomes exaggerated and doesn’t quite hit the mark of intended eccentricity. Morrone fares better in the quieter, more dramatic moments where one can sense insight into her character’s backstory. But that aspect of her unfortunately gets sidelined by the film’s uneven focus. To the same degree, Aldis Hodge tries his best with the material given, but his character Otis also feels underutilized. The film sets up a key connection between him and Baron as cellmates, but that connection quickly becomes a device to move the plot around, and neglects to give Otis a sense of his own purpose.

The story of Marmalade jumps from Bonnie and Clyde-style passionate crime, to an undercover prison break, to a complete one-eighty jump in a certain character’s identity, lacking the coherence to hold it all together. The film thrusts the viewer into the narrative without establishing a strong enough sense of place, nor getting to know the characters beyond archetypes. The end result is a mishmash of defining features one would find from a lot of crime-romance films, and not a whole lot of singular vision in the writing or direction. 

‘Sometimes I Think About Dying’ Review

February 16, 2024

Sometimes Fran likes to think about dying. Not necessarily because she wants to, but out of morbid curiosity. How would it feel to hang off a crane? To drink poison? To lay alone in a forest, so far removed from the physical world? Thoughts of death occupy the frontlines of Fran’s mind as she goes about her work day at a drab office in coastal Oregon. While co-workers give weight to water cooler conversations, she awkwardly keeps to herself and watches in silence on the sidelines. But all that changes when she meets Robert, the new employee with whom she feels an indescribable spark. As their conversations evolve from spreadsheets and emails to movies and relationships, Fran faces the ultimate test: will she feel comfortable enough to let Robert in to her otherwise solitary life? Director Rachel Lambert finds a confident rhythm with Sometimes I Think About Dying, a compelling gem in the “less-is-more” corner of storytelling.

Carrying the film with striking impact is an incredibly restrained Daisy Ridley. With every little glance, she lets the viewer pick up on her character’s hesitance of those around her. She might be seen as invisible by her co-workers, but her personality stands out in the moments of awkward silences. During a meeting where colleagues are asked to introduce themselves followed by their favorite cheeses, Fran matter-of-factly states that she likes cottage cheese. In the stillness that washes over the room, she catches the attention of Robert (Dave Merheje), unbeknownst to her. The two strike up a virtual office chat afterwards, and a new layer of Fran is explored. Ridley’s performance acts as a gentle guide through this character breaking out of her shell with the hope that she will be understood.

Crucial to the film’s staying power, Fran’s introversion is explored from a perspective that recognizes how much she tries to interact in social situations. She listens intently to the conversations happening around her, as though deciding at what point she ought to join in. While sticking to the wallpaper of a social interaction, she still lets her presence be known, even if her colleagues refuse to acknowledge it. With the introduction of Robert into her life, she opens up in ways that one would not expect and delights in the opportunity to be known by someone else. The story’s mundane office setting adds another layer to how impactful her delight is. Robert’s presence lights up an otherwise draining, monotonous environment for her. It’s in the moments left unsaid between them that she develops a connection, and in their voiced one-on-one conversations that she finds a way to let her guard down. The journey to that point is not an easy one for a character of Fran’s sensibility, which the film depicts with striking relatable qualities. Fran and Robert’s relationship evolves in a refreshingly honest way that puts weight on both of their roles; her attempts at letting him get to know her, and his embrace of the time it will take to reach that level of understanding.

Sharing the screen with Ridley, Dave Merhe brings exceeding warmth and charisma to his character. From his passion for movies to the way he lovingly teases Fran, Robert is an endearing personality whose directness and honesty help give Fran some clarity about what she wants. Their melancholic final interaction in the film would not hit as hard emotionally without Merhe’s understanding of how Robert’s presence makes Fran feel. As well, the chemistry between Ridley and Merhe accentuates the initial butterflies that swell on first dates and the early process of getting to know someone. Whether Fran can trust Robert with opening up, sharing her fears and desires, gives the film a strong narrative focus.

In addition to Ridley and Merhe’s performances, an unsung standout of the cast is Marcia DeBonis as Carol, the employee who has reached her last day at the office. DeBonis, one of the most prolific character actors in the industry, brings an immediate warmth to the film. Her naturalistic work builds to a compelling moment between Marcia and Fran in the final act, which calls out a depressing reality. For all the work people put into their jobs, they can miss out on life, and most of all the loved ones they choose to spend it with. DeBonis’s understated work speaks to the very human need to be included. Whether it's an office setting where one can present the most conversational version of themselves, or a personal vacation where one can release from mundanity.

While the pacing of Sometimes I Think About Dying add to the dreary atmosphere, it also maintains a sense of repetitiveness to a slight fault. It may not come as a surprise that the film is based on a short of the same title, written and directed by Stefanie Abel Horowitz. Stretched into feature length, the nuances of Fran’s introverted experience navigating love and work feel too drawn out for the purpose of filling in space. One too many scenes of Fran zoning out at the office make the film feel overlong in its runtime. Once the relationship between Fran and Robert kicks in, the story takes on a more dynamic shape.

Helping to break up the office mundanity is the film’s use of imagery and sound. Whether a long take focused on a crane, or a shot of a “deceased” Fran laying in the forest, the visuals are a vivid reflection of her mind. As well, the use of music conveys the feeling of watching a fairytale and constantly hoping the best for Fran. Dabney Morris’s original score has the sounds of a sweeping romance. Adding to the fairytale is the choice of including a poignant tune from 1937’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. “With a Smile and a Song” arrives at a point in the Disney film when Snow White reassures the forest animals not to worry, she won’t leave them. She asks the birds what they do when things go wrong, and the birds sing a song. The use of this Disney tune in Sometimes I Think About Dying not only builds on the film’s recurring forest imagery, but also adds a thought-provoking layer to where the story leaves Fran. Her realization that Robert doesn’t know her at all, and her willingness to change that, is a sweet embrace of someone working their way through loneliness. Sometimes less is more, and in focusing on Fran and Robert’s serene embrace, as forestry surrounds them, Rachel Lambert creates a rich vision of the central character’s growth. She finds a way to let Robert in.

‘The Beast’ Review

April 18, 2024

The power of what it means to be human is put on ambitious display in Bertrand Bonello’s The Beast, a hypnotizing sci-fi odyssey that spans time and space. Adapted from Henry James’ 1903 short story The Beast in the Jungle, Bonello swirls a techno future with a contemporary Lynchian L.A. noir and an Edwardian era love triangle. At the core of these intertwining worlds is Gabrielle Monnier (played by Léa Seydoux), a woman who lives in perpetual fear that something catastrophic will happen. Gabrielle’s fear dates to 1910, around the Great Flood of Paris, when she was a married pianist in mysterious liaisons with an Englishman named Louis (played by George MacKay). The two characters’ first meeting feels akin to déjà vu. Surely their paths must have crossed elsewhere, whether “elsewhere” is reality as we know it, or another version fueled by subconscious drives. Bonello’s film is concerned with losing the beauty of reality and the varied spectrum of emotions, good or bad, that make us human. The fear of not feeling things, and the manipulation of that fear by artificial intelligence, makes The Beast a startling modern day horror story. In Bonello’s version, the beast is brought out of the jungle and into a bleak dystopian future.

The Beast sets the stage with a futuristic concept that is both technologically advanced in its practices, and hauntingly realistic in its ideology. Partly set in 2044, the story takes place in a society where everyone’s lives are dictated by artificial intelligence, and human emotion is considered dangerous. To achieve neutrality, citizens purify their DNAs by undergoing a “purification” procedure that deletes centuries-old inherited trauma. Past lives are eradicated to cleanse human beings of emotion, so that life can be surface-level and free of complexities. When Gabrielle undergoes the procedure, she is faced with simulations of her past lives, among them an esteemed pianist in 1910 Paris, and a club-hopping house sitter in 2014 Los Angeles. In each decade, she encounters different versions of Louis (MacKay). The film introduces his character at a 1910 high-society party, where he exudes the energy of a tempting and passionate suitor. Yet there is something about his interactions with Gabrielle that carry an aura of impending disaster, as though another version of Louis is lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce. The 2014 storyline drags the most horrific version of him into the light: Louis Lewansky, a 30-year-old virgin of incel ideology who vlogs about how magnificent he is, and that women deserve to be punished for not being with him. Through this despicable character, Gabrielle still senses her past lover buried deep within; for instance, after an earthquake rattles the streets of L.A., she notices him outside her temporary home and invites him inside.

The film leaps through time to show how “the beast” takes on many different forms. Bonello first uses a green-screen environment to frame the story. It is unclear whether Seydoux is playing herself, or simply another version of Gabrielle, as she is instructed in a scene to act afraid of something that doesn’t really exist. Her palpable fear in this introductory scene sets the tone for a recurring sense of dread. Whether in the form of a natural disaster (flood; earthquake), a technological disaster (cyberattack), or a man-made hell (Louis Lewansky), fear ravages through The Beast like a plague. On the surface, the film presents as a sci-fi romance about two lovers reconnecting across space and time. Buried in the passion and yearning lies a deeply unshakable horror story about artificial control and existential dread. Continuing a page in the book of many great horror films, Bonello grounds horror in real fears. The film explores the beasts that we cannot see, hiding in plain sight. Much of what Bonello has to say involves the concerning rise of artificial intelligence, particularly the replacing of humans to generate images void of real emotion.

The 2044 storyline is populated with dystopian designs and muted expressions. An invisible substance cloaks the air, prompting Gabrielle to wear an enhanced face mask outdoors. The “purification” centre is surrounded by buildings marked with a year – 1972, 1980, 1963 – and each space has a disco with era-themed music. In Bonello’s future, lives of the past are within easy reach. Most of the scenes are visions of Gabrielle’s past that she experiences during the procedure. In reliving these moments, she becomes torn between wanting to continue living out the past and being fearful of spoiling the present. The play on time travel is a fascinating subversion of storylines that often populate the sub-genre. The story moves back in time not to change something from happening, or to analyze the ripple effect of one incident, but to hold onto what it means to be human. The dread that Bonello explores is that of losing emotions, and reaching a point where artificial intelligence causes a new way of life. Gabrielle speaks of such dread when she reveals, “I’m scared of not feeling things.” Whether good, bad, or everything in between, emotions make us feel alive. To love is to feel, and the romance between Gabrielle and Louis goes against all odds to survive a bleak future.

Bonello’s vision for The Beast is brought to life by a spectacular Léa Seydoux as Gabrielle Monnier, the film’s protagonist. Seydoux has the complex role of playing different versions of the same character, across various time periods, within an unconventional narrative structure. The story can be muddled and tricky to fully understand, but the majority of The Beast finds a steady anchor in Seydoux. The role plays to her incredible strengths of timelessness and emotional vulnerability. She carries just as much persuasiveness in the 1910s as she does in the 2010s and 2040s. Seydoux also establishes a powerful heart line that connects all these versions, so that they feel part of one entity. Gabrielle’s heartache for humanity is transfixing to watch, as is her chemistry with George MacKay, who plays her lover scattered across time. MacKay is an actor of impressive range, and he flexes his chameleonic muscles as three versions of his character Louis. The 2014 timeline in particular gives MacKay the most material to work with. He delivers a truly unnerving performance as Louis Lewansky that keeps you in a perpetual state of fear, and leaves you with the depressing fact that many versions of this character exist in real life.

The Los Angeles narrative in its entirety gives interesting context to the film overall, while also working as an effective horror standalone. The classical music adds to the nightmarish quality. The Beast marks the first soundtrack composed by both Bertrand Bonnello and his daughter Anna. Together they’ve crafted a mix of intense sounds that can shape a sweeping romance one moment and cut the tension of a murderous spree the next. Much of the imagery also lends to the nightmarish feeling of the L.A. narrative. One of the most frightening scenes takes place in a video call exchange between Gabrielle and an online psychic, while a dangerous figure looms around the house. The psychic, who initially appears in the 1910 timeline as a fortune teller, has an extremely Lynchian quality, from her surreal mannerisms to her ominous dialogue. Even in the face of potential danger, her tone is eerily neutral.

In a 1910 scene between Gabrielle and Louis, Louis refers to the doll factory that Gabrielle’s husband owns, and questions why all dolls have the same expression. Their faces are neither happy nor sad, just neutral. The subject of neutrality is often explored through the recurring symbol of dolls in The Beast. The 1910s lay the groundwork, followed by a modern talking doll in the 2010s, and a life-size companion doll (played by a tremendous Guslagie Malanda) in the 2040s. Malanda’s character encourages the endless possibilities of artificial intelligence (“I have many options you know, make the most of me”). This companion can be anyone and anything to Gabrielle, but nothing can recreate the real emotions that Gabrielle fears losing.

The Beast is full of bold ideas and grand executions. While the story is not the most coherent to follow, the creative vision puts you in a compelling trance nonetheless. Bonello wraps the intense fear of love with an ambitious sci-fi tale of 20th century affairs, contemporary horror, and a future that isn’t so fantastical. The dependency on technology and advancements of artificial intelligence put humanity in an increasingly vulnerable position. But human emotions are impossible to shake. The Beast tells an expansive, daring tale about what it means to really be alive.

The Beast arrives in theatres in Toronto and Vancouver on April 19.

‘Under the Bridge’ Review

May 7, 2024

Victims of many true crime stories in film and television lack characterization and humanity. Often young women in these narratives, the question of who they were beyond a statistic remains largely unanswered. The stories tend to focus on who committed the crime, using the whodunit element to build suspense, while the interior worlds of the victims go underrepresented. Names and faces become headlines, archived in a constantly changing news cycle. The Hulu limited series Under the Bridge pulls from the archives to respectfully dramatize one of the most horrific true crime stories in Canadian history. On November 14, 1997, fourteen-year-old Reena Virk attended a party in Saanich, British Columbia and never returned home. Following the murder, a violence prevention campaign emerged from Reena’s parents, encouraging the BC government to introduce anti-bullying programs into schools.

Developed by Quinn Shephard and based on Rebecca Godfrey’s book of the same name, Under the Bridge explores the backstory of Reena (Vritika Gupta) in the context of intergenerational relationships, systemic bullying, and the devastation of broken homes. For many kids navigating their teenage years without a healthy family foundation, emotions like anger and anxiety have no place to go except inflicted on others. It is a brutal cycle Reena finds herself cornered into, and she wants to make the bullies feel as bad as she does. Series co-director and co-writer Quinn Shephard makes a compelling effort to try and understand who Reena was as a person. Like most teenagers, she felt frustrated living at home and being told what to do by her parents, Indian immigrant Manjit (Ezra Faroque Khan) and Indian-Canadian Suman (Archie Panjabi). Reena craved acceptance, and found a corrupted version of it outside her flawed but loving family.

The viewer also gets to know Reena through the impact of peer surroundings, mainly the girls of the Seven Oaks Youth Home. Nicknamed “BIC” for being labelled as disposable (like the lighters), these girls form a gang to look out for each other, because they have no one and nowhere else. The gang includes leader and John Gotti worshipper Josephine (Chloe Guidry), her terrifying best friend Kelly (Izzy G), and fellow youth home resident Dusty (Aiyana Goodfellow). Josephine and Kelly are the biggest instigators of the group. They call themselves the Crip Mafia Cartel (CMC) and build a foundation on vicious intimidation tactics to survive. Dusty is kept on the outskirts of being a true gang member. Josephine and Kelly manipulate her vulnerable state of mind to get whatever they want, ultimately extending the same behavior towards a shy Reena. Their faux acceptance fills Reena’s loneliness. It is heartbreaking to watch her soul gradually deteriorate at the hands of so-called friends, who are lost and broken themselves. As Riley Keough’s Rebecca Godfrey states, “Young girls in Victoria were the ones we were supposed to protect, not be protected from.”

There are several layers to this narrative beyond a girl falling into the wrong crowd. Under the Bridge takes a ground-level approach in its inclusion of teenage perspectives. On a more resonant level, the series focuses on authoritative figures in the areas of law enforcement, journalism, and parenthood. Lily Gladstone plays police officer Cam Bentland, an Indigenous woman adopted by her father, police chief Roy Bentland (Matt Craven). Cam takes the lead investigator role on the murder case, bringing immense sensitivity and urgency to finding Reena. Having grown up knowing the feeling of abandonment, Cam also identifies with the Seven Oaks girls. Her presence is a beacon of hope for justice, and a voice of reason speaking out against racism in Canada’s police force. Her character also ignites a needed conversation particularly around Indigenous Canadian history.

Lily Gladstone anchors the series with a sublime, thought-provoking performance that immediately draws you in. From Kelly Reichardt’s Certain Women to Martin Scorsese’s Killers of the Flower Moon, quiet intensity has become a defining quality in Gladstone’s work. Their sensitivity as an actor lends exceptionally well to the role of Cam. Gladstone conveys the weight of many resonant themes at play, from the struggle for acceptance in this position of power, to fighting for justice in a racist environment that also does not take rebellious youth seriously.

Gladstone shares authentic chemistry with each of their co-stars, among them Riley Keough who plays author Rebecca Godfrey. In the series, Rebecca begins writing her book called The Misunderstood Girls of Victoria, which would go on to become Under the Bridge. After years of living in New York, she returns to find Vancouver Island haunted by her own tragic memories and overwhelming guilt. The closer she gets to the girls of Victoria, and ultimately the murder case, the deeper her reconnection with an old friend: Cam. Together they find a mutual benefit — Rebecca gets material for her book, while the trust she earns among teens provides Cam with insider case-related knowledge. Rebecca and Cam feel sympathy towards the teens on different levels, which brings alliances into question and complicates their dynamic. Both perspectives are so fascinating to watch, in that they are navigating conflicting stances when it comes to defining justice for Reena.

Following her Emmy nomination for Daisy Jones & The Six, Riley Keough returns with another impressive performance that exhibits her understated and intuitive qualities. She balances a poignant backstory with a self-awareness in her character being the one to tell Reena Virk’s story. While Keough does not get a whole lot of material to explore, it makes sense for the author to be more of a footnote here. Under the Bridge has a bigger narrative picture at play, where much of the supporting cast shine.

Reena’s parents Manjit and Suman, played brilliantly by Archie Panjabi and Ezra Faroque Khan, bring a significant amount of context and emotional resonance to the story. They too get layered backstories, which adds weight to one of Reena’s lines: “My story began long before I got here.” To understand her, the viewer goes back in time with her parents. Panjabi is one of the biggest standouts of the cast. She gives the most impressive performance of her career as a mother utterly heartbroken by the void in her family picture. Her emotional rollercoaster is so lived-in, you feel as though you are sitting right next to her through the entire ordeal.

The young cast also impresses throughout the series. Vritika Gupta gives a commendable performance as Reena and brings complex humanity to this role. You want to reach through the screen and stop her from meeting such poisonous influences. Chloe Guidry and Izzy G are terrifying as the troubled best friends Josephine and Kelly. Their unpredictable intensity makes each scene nerve wracking to watch. Aiyana Goodfellow shines memorably as Dusty, and has some of the most morally haunting moments in the series. The teens' shared chemistry is terrific and adds to the overall emotional pull of the storytelling, which balances various perspectives that maintain attention. As well, their individual abilities to test the grey areas of humanity make you absolutely loathe their behavior, and yet still feel pangs of sorrow and sympathy towards (most of) them.

A recurring theme that stands out in Under the Bridge is how impactful it is to have beams of support, people who love and care about you, and want what is best for you. Whether such support comes from chosen families, or families we are born into, the significance of that togetherness comes through, and its absence is strongly felt. What makes the series even more heartbreaking than it already is, Reena had this family life, but was so overcome with loneliness, and shown manipulative affection by kids who are missing real affection in their lives. As Suman (Panjabi) explains, to understand who Reena was is to understand the mindset of those who took her soul, and ultimately her life.

In mass media, victims of true crime are often limited to public perception and become defined by their tragic endings. The series adheres to the idea that stories have no definite endings or even beginnings. Reena’s story does not begin and end with murder, making Under the Bridge more than just another entry in the true-crime genre.

Under the Bridge premieres on Disney+ in Canada on May 8.

Enjoy a Taste of Rian Johnson’s 'Knives Out' with The Perfect Bite!

May 15, 2024

Calling all hungry detectives! In collaboration with Netflix, Secret City Adventures is bringing a Knives Out-inspired dinner to Toronto for the first time, and you can have an exclusive bite.
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Set in Rian Johnson’s mysterious Knives Out universe, The Perfect Bite promises and delivers on an evening full of delicious meals, with an interactive whodunit twist. From acclaimed Chef Maribelle Moore comes a 4-course set menu carefully dedicated to the untold story of her dearest friend, Noah Johnson. The menu contains secrets about Noah and the Salty Six, a culinary group formed by Maribelle and fellow chefs while they were all students. Each dish has a hidden message for dinner guests and their table mates to solve, bringing them one step closer to unlocking the mystery of The Perfect Bite. As the guests are wined and dined, key players from the Salty Six emerge to make everyone feel part of the story. The moment you arrive on the scene, tucked away in Toronto’s mainstay Peter Pan Bistro, enthusiastic actors whisk you into their world of the culinary elite.

Committed performances are just a few of the ingredients that make The Perfect Bite a satisfying experience. Guests are sat in groups of four and work together to decipher the clues in each dish. The mystery elements are incorporated into the food so creatively. Cutting into the Amuse Bouche — a sweet pea risotto — reveals cheesy layers of truth. This sampler gets the ball rolling for more intricate dishes; a mushroom mousse appetizer, a duck confit entree with a twist of seasoning, a fluffy palate cleanser, and a “berry” delicious sous vide cheesecake to finish.

The mix of delicious food and whodunit puzzles is a truly sensory experience, one that works your brain and satisfies your taste buds at the same time. The puzzles are easy to grasp, fun to decipher, and have enough twists and turns to keep you guessing. The dinner service is well-timed and adds to the flow of a smooth evening. Some of the plating is a playful nod to the murder mystery genre, in particular the pastry cigar filled with mushroom mousse, a dish fit for a detective. The menu also accommodates vegan, vegetarian, dairy free, and gluten free dinners.

From the delectable food and inviting ambience, to the immersive mystery elements, The Perfect Bite is a stimulating night out that leaves a lasting impression, down to every last bite. Whether you’re planning a creative date with your significant other, or a gathering with family and friends, Secret City Adventures has you covered. But not for long…tickets are selling in hot flashes. Savour the moment and get ready for a dinner like no other. Your mystery table awaits!

The Perfect Bite opens at Peter Pan Bistro in Toronto on May 16 and has been extended to run until July 28. Visit www.knivesoutdinner.com for tickets.

‘Gasoline Rainbow’ Review

May 31, 2024

One of MUBI’s latest and greatest releases now streaming on the platform is the Ross Brothers’s Gasoline Rainbow, a spirited contemporary portrait of young adults. The film follows teenagers from a small town who go on one last adventure before “having to be someone” in the real world. Directed and written with a refreshing openness, the story embraces Gen Z characters who are on the cusp of facing societal pressures. From restlessness and independence, to exuberance and isolation, each character conveys many of the attitudes that come naturally from teenaged perspectives. They have a wide-eyed energy to explore the world beyond what rural Oregon has to offer. As one of the characters muses, “When there’s nothing to do, you just venture. You’re always trying to find something.” The film captures that spirit of roaming through life at its most present, breathing in the natural elements around us that many take for granted. Gasoline Rainbow embarks on the open road with a raw coming-of-age journey into the Gen Z wild.

Set in Wiley, Oregon, five teenagers crowd into a van en route to a location over five hundred miles away: the Pacific coast. The purpose of their trip is to enjoy purely uninhibited quality time together. They traverse through the American west seemingly without a care in the world, but as the film’s narration unfolds, they each harbor some level of burden about their experiences thus far and what the future will hold. The film navigates in a space where home is everywhere but also nowhere, which realistically encapsulates the young adult experience. With adulthood in the rearview, the world is their oyster, filled with pearls of possibilities. The story moves at a leisurely pace to capture how responsibilities feel miles away. The lack of narrative structure also strips the film of typical coming-of-age plot points, allowing feelings and vibes to paint a picture. Self-exploration takes a front seat and drives where the story is headed.

Gasoline Rainbow has a roaming, up-close and personal direction that meets characters without judgment or predisposition. Much of this film operates on the energy that the cast bring to their roles. The performances feel so naturalistic and mirroring that it’s a wonder whether the actors are playing themselves or totally adopting a character. Blurred lines between reality and fiction give the film a documentary-like feeling. Adding to that sensation, the characters are introduced through their Wiley high school IDs. It’s a neat way of conveying how identities and expectations are formed through social systems. The film beautifully juxtaposes their school identities with who they are, and who they want to be, beyond such constructs. With a freewheeling approach, the Ross Brothers show a great deal of endearment towards letting the youth speak for themselves.

Part of the conflict that arises in coming-of-age films is teenagers not being listened to. Those feelings of being unseen and unheard are combatted by a keen observation of Gen Z dynamics. From dialogue and articulation, to ways of relating with one another, the film admirably sets out to capture authentic generational experiences. In a standout scene, a skateboarder who meets the central teen group empathizes with their desire to get out of their town. He couldn’t stand his town either, and his parents couldn’t hold him back from doing what he loves. This moment intersects with a recurring theme of the film: new beginnings. As soon as the teenagers hit the open road, their possibilities feel endless and vast.

With a film of this nature, the needle constantly moves in its narrative focus. The meandering pace can sometimes lose your attention, but that wandering eye also works as the film’s strength. The story focuses on characters less individualistically and more as a collective. They are a spirited burst of feelings, moments, and experiences that flow freely into one another. The film occasionally uses narration to personalize some characters; for instance, one of the teens speaks on growing up quickly and caring for his younger siblings without the help of their parents. Hearing of the formative responsibility he carries makes his search for identity all the more profound.
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The youth of Gasoline Rainbow figuratively and literally get the open space to roam free and discover themselves, a refreshing change of pace in modern social media-driven terrain. The handheld direction encourages an unfiltered environment for them to absorb real settings and engage in spontaneous interactions. The use of setting and location help to establish a candid tone and atmosphere. Vast landscapes of pink-orange skies capture a far-reaching horizon and the feeling that anything is possible. The Ross Brothers’s cinematography finds a stunning cinematic angle to everyday settings, from a cafe parking lot to a stranded van on the open road. As well, the film’s soundscape is an eclectic absorption of what the teens are listening to, and which pieces of music can elicit a specific mood. From asking Siri to play Howard Shore’s “The Shire” from The Lord of the Rings, to the use of Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” as they finally reach the Pacific shore, music plays a reflective role in capturing the various sounds of a generation.

While Gasoline Rainbow loses some focus with a meandering structure and slow pacing, the film has a poignant conclusion once the teens reach their destination and are faced with the reality of what to do next. Will they traverse back to Wylie and get “real jobs”? Or will they find a course off-route and divert from what everyone back home expects from them? The film strikes an impressive balance between how the teens interact with expectations, and how they navigate the independent thoughts swirling in their minds. Gasoline Rainbow finds a spirited adventure in its timeless homage to being young, wanting to discover the world at your feet and determine your place in it.

‘I Used to be Funny’ Review

June 7, 2024

From 2020’s TIFF breakout Shiva Baby and 2022’s Gen Z horror Bodies Bodies Bodies, to 2023’s queer high-school comedy Bottoms, Rachel Sennott has made an exciting name for herself on the big screen in just a few short years. Her charisma is a magnet for the camera. Through deadpan observational humor and a grounded persona, she captures deeply relatable social commentary on the millennial experience. In the transition from stand-up comedy to film acting, she has maintained her comedic sensibilities. Though even in humorous roles, whether playing Danielle in Shiva Baby or PJ in Bottoms (a brilliant one-two punch from writer-director Emma Seligman), Sennott shows a terrific knack for the serious bits. She knows when to play a scene for convincing dramatic effect just as well as she can draw dark humor from moments of sadness. Sennott conveys this balance terrifically in writer/director Ally Pankiw’s impressive feature debut, I Used to Be Funny, a smart character study that unpacks trauma through day-to-day female relationships.

The Toronto-based story follows Sam (Sennott), an aspiring stand-up comedian with PTSD who learns that Brooke (Olga Petsa), the teenaged girl she used to nanny, has gone missing. Hearing the news becomes nearly paralyzing for Sam. She ruminates on whether she should join the search, but that would mean leaving her apartment, an act that has become incredibly difficult for her to do. When we first meet Sam, she has trouble eating, sleeping, and socializing. It seems as though performing comedy has been put on the back burner of her life, and the unfolding story reveals why. The dichotomy between Sam’s concern for Brooke’s wellbeing, and own lack of energy towards an attempt to locate her, drives the central conflict of I Used to Be Funny. Pankiw’s sensitive direction and screenplay unearth painful memories from the past that haunt the protagonist’s journey to recovery.

The first act mirrors Sam’s frame of mind, and operates in a state of non-linear ambiguity. As she finds herself in the thick of slow progress, faces and objects trigger fleeting memories that pull her back to what feels like another lifetime ago. Sam’s piecing together of the past helps contextualize the present and why her relationship with Brooke is so complicated. Through one of the visual triggers, the film cuts to a few years ago, when the two characters meet at a mansion. Sam is brought in as Brooke’s nanny during an emotional time for the family. Brooke’s mother is ill in the hospital, and father Cameron (Jason Jones) needs help to alleviate responsibilities. Initially, Brooke vehemently opposes the idea of a nanny, but eventually lets her guard down once she and Sam start to form a sisterly bond. But that bond crumbles against the disdain and misogyny of Cameron, who undermines Sam at every point of their communication. His presence carries a terrible uneasiness that takes a turn for the worst.

The film takes time to reveal its methods, and sometimes the ambiguity can feel a little out of reach. But once the flashbacks and present-day scenes become more clearly distinguished, Pankiw finds a stronger groove between the narratives. She brings a thoughtful approach to heavy subject matter, and the non-linear structure of her film reflects a very true-to-life movement of healing. The story slowly peels back layers of the protagonist to reveal which truths she has been harboring. This level of storytelling offers a resonating way to build tension around Sam’s perspective.

What sets I Used to Be Funny apart from many films that use humor as a framework for tragedy is how both Pankiw and Sennott make this story their own. The writing covers an array of heavy subject matter including sexual assault, trauma, and grief, all explored through the ups and downs of formative female relationships. By focusing on the bond between Sam and Brooke, Pankiw establishes a clear direction of the formative dynamic she wants to capture. Sam becomes a guiding figure for Brooke, and when that sense of guidance becomes lost, the aftermath can be incredibly harmful. The film smartly examines how Sam’s traumatic experience impacts the relationships in her life, from “little sister” Brooke to best friends Paige (Sabrina Jalees) and Philip (Caleb Hearon). In certain scenes, you can feel how Sam’s negative view of herself influences how she believes others ought to treat her. The cycle of trauma and the road to recovery are not a straight line. Pankiw does a beautiful job of showing those ups and downs, and how funny some of those directions can be.

In the way that humor can pull you from a hurtful frame of mind in real life, dark comedy carries Sam’s spirit along in the film. I Used to Be Funny conveys a powerful sense of community and togetherness that exists when one have friendships in the comedy world. As well, Pankiw explores the specificity of being a woman in stand-up, which comes with its own set of complications as straight white men have dominated the space far too long. Sennott, having started her career in stand-up comedy, has an acute awareness of this environment. While each show takes tremendous effort and the confidence of putting one’s self out there, Sennott still makes it all look effortless. As well, she adeptly handles the film’s tone and navigates all the subtle changes in her character’s expressions. The film rests on the heights of Sennott’s talent, and her ability to find the humor and poignancy of day-to-day life. Humor is often used as a means of coping. Sam does not see herself as funny anymore; in her mind, how can she be funny after experiencing something so traumatic? The story gently explores how Sam rediscovers her talents and uses that humor to get through a dark point in her life.

In addition to Sennott’s performance, the ensemble of I Used to Be Funny combine a great sense of humor with layers of bittersweetness. Casting real comedians Sabrina Jalees and Caleb Hearon) adds a natural energy to the comedy bar scenes, as well as a communal understanding of the emotions Sam goes through of not considering herself suitable for stand-up comedy anymore. As well, Olga Petsa gives a breakthrough dramatic performance as the missing teen girl Brooke. Her character navigates a raw space in which her mother is ill, and she finds a new sense of female guidance in Sam. When their sisterhood becomes compromised, you can feel the heartache of her loss so deeply. Petsa's chemistry with Sennott adds endearing layers to their characters' dynamic.

Using humor as a framework, Pankiw tells a poignant story of reconciliation and how relationships can either pull you through or fall apart. While the editing and pacing can be a little too ambiguous, the performances and core themes of the story are unwavering. I Used to Be Funny shows the promise and confidence of a thoughtful feature debut with plenty to say.

‘Young Woman and the Sea’ Review

July 19, 2024

In August 1926, 20-year-old Olympic champion Trudy Ederle made history as the first woman to swim across the English Channel. Ederle swam from Calais, France to Kent, England in just over 14 hours. Not only did she set a world record, she also shattered the widespread doubt that a woman could ever be capable of achieving such a thing. Her awe-inspiring story is brought gracefully to the screen in Joachim Rønning’s film Young Woman and the Sea, a heartfelt gem anchored by a compelling Daisy Ridley performance. The screenwriters occasionally swim into the deep end of cliched, formulaic waters. However, the sheer determination of the story’s protagonist carries this film to shore. Young Woman and the Sea tells an extraordinary tale of refusing to accept “the way things are” and fighting to make everlasting change for a new generation.

The film is a refreshing entry into the ever-growing sub genre of sports dramas. The screenplay from Glenn Stout and Jeff Nathanson relies on a tried-and-true narrative formula that proves to work despite its shortcomings. The story charts Trudy’s legacy from her humble beginnings and formative teenage years, to her life-changing ambitions that would pave the way for future young female swimmers. Trudy’s passion started at a very young age. Growing up with her sister Meg (Tilda Cobham-Hervey) in a strict household run by their father Henry (Killing Eve’s Kim Bodnia), thankfully they had nurturing support from their mother Gertrude (Jeanette Hain). She wanted both of her daughters to learn how to swim, which was no easily acceptable feat in the early 1900s.

With training from her coach Charlotte (Sian Clifford), Trudy quickly became a force of nature in the water and already a world-record breaking champion in her teenage years. Trudy’s accomplishments eventually led her to the 1924 Olympics, where a few bronze medal wins in place of gold discouraged her from the sport altogether. She returned home and reluctantly settled into the more socially acceptable role as the butcher’s daughter, but her ambition never disappeared. A chance encounter with a group of young girls, who look up to her as a beacon of what’s possible, reignites the fire within her to keep pushing forward. Trudy seizes the opportunity not only to continue swimming professionally, but to swim the English Channel. Much to the chagrin of her father, who hesitates to believe in her aquatic skill, she embarks on a staggering journey of physical and mental strength.

Trudy’s perseverant spirit is wonderfully conveyed by Daisy Ridley, who continues to shine following her blockbuster breakout role as Rey in Star Wars: Episode VII - The Force Awakens (2015) and its subsequent celestial sequels. Ridley has gone the intriguing route of choosing more subdued fare including her career-best performance in Sometimes I Think About Dying (2023). Young Woman and the Sea adds a new layer to Ridley’s repertoire. She leads the story with incredible tenacity and charm, making the viewer feel emotionally invested every step of the way. Ridley brings enough intrigue to evoke some mystery as to why the English Channel in particular is so meaningful for her, along with a commitment to the level of physicality this role entails. The strenuous nature of Trudy's abilities are written across Ridley's face, especially in the character's final swim to the English shore, where an enthusiastic crowd of people await.

The film also touches on the various degrees of sexism Trudy is subjected to every step of the way. It’s emboldening to watch her continuously excel in her profession, prove doubters wrong, and challenge relentlessly patriarchal standards for a more equitable future in the sport and for women generally. Joachim Rønning’s straightforward, subdued direction gives ample room for the inspiring true story to stand out on its own accord. While not necessarily an inventive choice, Rønning brings a steady hand to the material. The film sheds an entertaining, heartfelt light on a special moment in history for those discovering Trudy's journey or walking in her footsteps.

​Young Woman and the Sea is now streaming on Disney+ Canada.

‘Alien: Romulus’ Review

August 15, 2024

Ridley Scott captured pure awe-inspiring shock with the 1979 science fiction classic, Alien. Audiences had never seen anything like it, and the film’s reverberating mystery kept them coming back for more. In response to the film’s success, naturally a franchise was born. Scott set a fully realized world in motion, a creepy crawly sandbox for more directors to play in. James Cameron pushed Aliens (1986) into an empathetic action spectacle. David Fincher went for medieval nihilism and upped the psychosexual tension for Alien³ (1992). Jean Pierre Jeunet took a bizarrely voyeuristic and silly swing with Alien: Resurrection (1997). Hollywood’s alien fixation spawned another franchise in the 2000s, Alien vs. Predator, before orbiting back to the original helmer for a fresh start. Scott’s prequels Prometheus (2012) and Alien: Covenant (2017) put a more cynical spin on this world, once again leaving the sandbox open for play. What more could be added to the extra-terrestrial lore at this point? A grungy emulation of what made the original special, interwoven into a haunted maze with some bold horror choices. Fede Alvarez’s Alien: Romulus plays it far too safe to push narrative boundaries, but the film still manages to bring excitement back into the franchise.

Having previously directed such films as Evil Dead (2013) and Don’t Breathe (2016), Alvarez has a strong appreciation for the horror genre that lends comfortably to the Alien universe. Starting with a nostalgic opening sequence, he dips Romulus in dread and feeds on the impending doom to create a slow-build. Set in between the 1979 and 1986 film events, Romulus follows a group of human colonizers on the planetoid where Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) and the Nostromo crew first encountered aliens. The location never sees the light of day, and paints a grim future in which inhabitants must mine their way out. Rain (Cailee Spaeny) is hoping that her dues are paid and she can leave the colony with her brother Andy (David Jonsson), an android programmed to take care of her. With the odds working against her, she joins a group of rebels who have a deep end escape plan. They want to board a deserted ship and use its resources for long-term travel, and they need Andy’s help for full clearance access. But the ship conceals a terrifying creature just waiting to unleash havoc, and the new crew must put up a fight for survival.

However otherworldly the creatures, human emotion has always rooted the Alien films in a place that feels real and tangible. Conscience and morality are at odds with corporate interests. Romulus echoes this direction mainly through character arcs and plot devices, with a little too much exposition sprinkled on top. Character-wise, Rain and Andy’s relationship is placed at the forefront. She is constantly trying to keep Andy out of harm’s way, as Andy’s naivety and sensitivity make for a delicate combination. While their dynamic is not explored in great depth, the two still help to establish an empathetic anchor. Their characters add a much-needed sense of direction to a story that thematically feels lost in space. The more surfaced storytelling —from Alvarez’s artistry and intense action sequences, to the magnificent sound and scale — overpower all else. You feel enveloped in the visual language of an Alien film without the added resonance of a clear-cut plot.

In theory, Romulus sticks with a tight-knit crew of characters and follows in the claustrophobic footsteps of the original Alien. However, in practice, this new crew consists of mostly undeveloped and unmemorable characters who act more as plot vessels. Ironically, they feel less human than the android, Andy. While the cast show some individual talent, they lack the chemistry as a unit to create lived-in history. There’s only so much they can do to elevate characters that feel like chess pieces. As the story progresses, their value in the story shifts and can become disposable at the drop of a hat. Whereas Rain and Andy are given more consistency. The cast being younger, fresh faces adds new energy to the Alien universe, but only one character makes enough impact to entice further exploration into the unknown.

Reliable and engaging as Spaeny is for Romulus to evolve around, the real breakout of the film is David Jonsson as Andy. For a character who operates within extremely limited emotions, Jonsson’s performance feels incredibly expressive and fully realized. Andy’s arc affords the actor an exciting opportunity to walk an interesting tightrope of controlled chaos. His subtle distinctions between humbleness and imposition are simply brilliant to witness. The progression of Andy’s character is influenced by some extreme fanboy exposition. However, Jonsson still conveys an entirely unique personality and makes a lasting impact as a result.

While Alvarez and co-writer Rodo Sayagues lack deftness on the overall character and story front, they find far more efficient fuel in the horror elements and entertainment value. Given the impossibility of ever surpassing the shock and awe of Scott’s Alien, the directors who followed (Cameron, Fincher, and Jeunet) had the right idea of wanting their signature aesthetics to shine in an already established universe. Alvarez continues in a similar vein by bringing his horror genre experience into play. Romulus works best when operating in the shadowy suspense of Xenomorph brutally hunting their prey. The end results are grungy, gooey, and edge-of-your-seat thrilling. Alvarez’s steady direction, combined with deftly crafted action and eerie moments of stillness, add to the strong atmosphere. The majority of practical effects and CGI make the film feel genuinely transporting. The influence of Tippett Studio’s stop-motion animation brings texture and palpability to the visuals. Excellent sound work heightens tension, especially in conveying the face huggers and creature movements. Benjamin Wallfisch’s terrific score pulsates throughout. Some neat imagery is also incorporated, from the use of zero gravity to the acid blood splashes.

The overall experience plays out similarly to that of decently made horror, where a build-up of suspense leads to an eruptive final act that either makes or breaks the film. With Romulus, the twisted final act feels more reflective of Alvarez’s vision than any other segment in the film. He throws in a grotesque offspring narrative with jump scares that rattle you to the core. Alvarez takes a wildly gory turn with the subject’s recurring themes of motherhood and creation. Is this approach enough to make Romulus totally distinctive in a long-running franchise? Not entirely, as there are distracting moments where nostalgia overpowers horror-fueled originality. The nods to Scott’s original are usually effective when incorporated as visual cues, like the drinking bird toy, or the door opening mechanics. Where it becomes a problem is in the resurrection of a character from the ’79 film. It’s a head scratcher which element is worse: the CGI face imposed onto an animatronic, or the redundant exposition that came with the character’s inclusion. This resurrection throws off the flow and becomes increasingly distracting.

Overtly nostalgic elements aside, Alien: Romulus is still an incredibly entertaining watch. The film prioritizes thrills and chills over an in-depth narrative, for better or worse. Alvarez combines elements of what made the ’79 and ’86 films flourish, from eerie atmospheric stillness to ambitious twists. The end result is a slightly missed opportunity not leaning fully into the director’s horror background, however, the visceral storytelling on display injects energy into the franchise overall.

FOFS 2024: ‘The Sweater’ Review

August 15, 2024

Simple stories about everyday life are given impactful personality and nuance by filmmaker Maziyar Khatam. From writing and directing his 2022 comedic short film Bump, to writing and starring in the 2023 dramatic short film Baba, both of which premiered at the Sundance Film Festival in their respective years, Khatam has a knack for conveying jewels of original ideas in the little things. Between Bump and Baba, he has exercised an impressive range inclusive of sketch comedy and tense family dynamics. Khatam’s latest, The Sweater, brings him back into the director’s chair for a delightfully short and sweet story. With echoes of Larry David’s Curb Your Enthusiasm and a finger on the pulse of situational humour, The Sweater blossoms into a resonating narrative about sentimentality and conflicted identity. Khatam packs layers into a 9-minute runtime and makes the most of every second on screen. In addition to directing and writing the film, he also stars as the endearing protagonist whose heart is torn on what he truly wants.

The film begins in a state of shambles with a couple's disagreement. Pressured by his girlfriend Anya (Chirkova) into giving away his clothes, Maz (Khatam) tries to reclaim a treasured mushroom sweater that is rightfully his before it disappears into the deep end of donations. He immediately longs for this piece of clothing that holds such great sentimental value for him. After speaking with a skeptical Oasis Clothing Bank employee, Maz makes his way to a sea of clothing racks in the hopes of finding his sweater. The idea of stealing from a thrift store after unintentionally donating an item feels like a page lifted from Larry David's book, wherein the humour derives from stumbling into scenarios almost spontaneously. The Sweater does have an impromptu energy, made pronounced by the grainy hand-held filming techniques and frequent close-ups of characters.

Losing something of sentimental value, potentially forever, is such a specific feeling that, depending on the item lost, can eat away at you. Nothing can replace the cherished item, and the film taps into that paranoia of desperately grasping for what is yours. Khatam layers a simple premise with a protagonist who faces an internal dilemma of sorts. Swayed by his girlfriend's persuasion and his friends' peer pressure, Maz gives more weight to the opinions of others than to his own. As a result, he finds himself in an identity crisis. The one thing he is sure of at this particular point in his life is the importance of the mushroom sweater, and his determination drives the story forward.

Khatam's largely unscripted, documentary-like approach to the material creates a strong observational tone. As a result, the film puts you into the eye of Maz's storm and captures his distressed frame of mind to palpable degrees. The whereabouts of his sweater genuinely feels like the weight of the world on his shoulders, which is deeply relatable for those who have had to unexpectedly part with an object that carries sentimental meaning. The film also captures how that level of attachment can be either misunderstood or dismissed by others. When Maz ultimately locates his sweater, and steals it from the thrift store, he later wears it to a social outing over drinks. After Maz excitedly shares the news of his beloved sweater, he is stunned into silence when his friends apathetically acknowledge it and swiftly move on.

​This moment exemplifies a great little thematic exploration around identity. Maz has nothing, and no one, to cheers this moment with. His supposed closest friends show no interest in celebrating the moment with him, which in turn makes the viewer question, how well do they really know him? The sweater is a fundamental part of who this character is, and watching that be dismissed in real-time feels like a very quiet gut punch to the heart. A deft choice of end credits music in Weezer's Undone (The Sweater Song) captures the scene's energy perfectly. Not only is the sweater's purpose coming undone, but so is the person proudly wearing it, whose pride is slipping away. The Sweater marks another authentic creative expression from Khatam, and an exciting continued collaboration with producer Anya Chirkova (who had previously directed Baba). The two operate on an incredibly compelling wavelength full of continued promise and a keen eye for what makes a simple story so special.

The Sweater had its world premiere at the 2024 Future of Film Showcase.

TIFF 2024: ‘Conclave’ Review

September 8, 2024

The process of electing a new Pope is usually hidden from the outside world. Like a covert operation, the most powerful Cardinal members of the Catholic Church gather behind closed Vatican doors to define a new era. As several frontrunners emerge, the cardinals face a growing volume of competing interests and conflicting beliefs. This centuries-old ritual is closely guarded by Cardinal Lawrence, who struggles between the lines of faith, doubt, and religious duty. He oversees a powerful game of politics from the clinical rooms of the Vatican. Author Robert Harris saw the literary potential and wrote the bestselling 2016 novel Conclave, a thriller with cinematic sensibilities as Edward Berger’s marvelous-looking film adaptation proves. In his follow up to the Oscar-winning All Quiet on the Western Front, Berger’s Conclave enlightens one of the most mysterious events through a riveting web of secrets and lies.

When the beloved Pope suddenly dies, Cardinal Lawrence (Ralph Fiennes) is tasked with managing the inner workings of voting for a new leader. The process requires that all cardinals be sequestered to avoid outside influence of world events. In the Sistine Chapel where voting takes place, cardinals from around the world secretly wield their overlapping views against each other in pursuit of power. On the surface, they work in quiet audacity. Behind the scenes, their true intentions are hidden between sacred walls, only coming to light when certain accusations and revelations spiral out of their control. The responsibility to keep this conclave in order falls on Lawrence, who listens carefully to the cardinals’ concerns and must ensure that the election unfolds in full transparency. As such, Lawrence goes head-to-head with quite a few ambitious figures willing to manipulate their way to the throne.

Lawrence finds himself undertaking a duty he never thought he had to perform. He was ready to leave Rome altogether and reexamine his own deeply conflicted faith, but his request had been denied by the Pope. Lawrence walks a fine line between questioning his beliefs in the religious institution, and listening to the urges of those impassioned to fight for it. Cardinal Secretary of State Aldo Bellini (Stanley Tucci) stresses that liberals must unite to stop people like Cardinal Tedesco (Sergio Castellitto), whose antiquated views threaten to undo the progress made by Bellini’s supporters. Conservative Cardinal Tremblay (John Lithgow) is of particular interest; being the last person to have conversed with the Pope, Tremblay might be pulling strings on the late leader’s behalf. The arrival of Cardinal Benitez (Carlos Diehz) from Afghanistan also stirs conversation and leads to an intriguing development.

The screenplay by Peter Straughan excels at highlighting all these characters not just by their power rankings, but by their human failings. Focusing on Lawrence at the center of potential controversies and schemes raise the stakes, as he himself is a contradictory character. His personal doubts cast a shadow of uncertainty across the Vatican, causing other cardinals to question his ambitions and whether his inquisitiveness is a ploy to support his own candidacy. “You need to pick a side,” Bellini demands to Lawrence. The future of the Catholic Church depends on it. Investigative interactions between cardinals helps to unveil a tense mystery at the film’s core.

Berger’s superb direction creaks open the doors of an electoral system that had long been shrouded in secrecy. He makes use of multiple locations, from offices and staircases to theater rooms and courtyards. No stone is left unturned. No corner is without the whispers of corruption. Even the seals of the late Pope’s quarters are not enough protection, nor the beautifully painted walls of the Sistine Chapel. The deeper into this conclave the film goes, the less places there are to hide from an antiquated foundation that needs to be disrupted.

Conclave has an astounding visual uniformity that adds to the story’s ritualistic nature. While the cardinals elect in a place of pristine historical beauty, they are sequestered in clinical-looking environments. The inner workings of the conclave are really a mundane series of human failings. Stéphane Fontaine’s cinematography illuminates cold interiors and basks in the sterile light. Suzie Davies’ detailed production design distinguishes between the many spaces cardinals occupy and gather in, the theater room being a tremendous highlight.

We often see the cardinals move wherever they please, like using their phones in the courtyard. Whereas the group of sisters in the film, overseen by Sister Agnes (Isabella Rossellini), fade into shadows and backgrounds. Lisy Christl's costume design incorporates a uniform approach between the cardinals wearing red and the sisters wearing blue. The colors red and blue play a striking role in the film's color palette. In addition to the visuals, the sound and score of Conclave reverberate. Much like composer Volker Bertelmann’s Oscar-winning work for Berger’s All Quiet on the Western Front, here Bertelmann creates another distinctive score that utilizes a minimal variety of notes. The music intensifies increasingly tense narrative developments, as do an accomplished group of actors.

With a cast like Conclave’s, to deem one actor best in show would be to compliment the work of another, as this ensemble finds an incredibly collaborative groove together. Part of the mystery and thrill of this story is watching the characters bounce off each other. Though it takes an actor of immense gravitas and control to set a consistent energy for the supporting players to orbit around. The film has its unwavering leader in Ralph Fiennes, whose towering talent reaches new heights as Cardinal Lawrence. Every close-up of Fiennes is a blessing to understanding not just the nuances of his character, but the complexities of the institution he wrestles with. Fiennes walks the line between faith and doubt in a compelling magnitude.

The supporting players have brief moments to shine, and they do so with the reliability one comes to expect. Isabella Rossellini has a standout scene when her character unexpectedly breaks a vow of silence with damning truths. Carlos Diehz, making his feature film acting debut, stands out in a stunning scene where Cardinal Benitez questions what the other cardinals know about war. Benitez also personifies a bold and startling twist that leaves much to ruminate on, as this entire conclave procedural does.

From the artistry behind the camera to the terrific actors in front of it, Conclave explores political tension in a fresh and fittingly disruptive manner.

TIFF 2024: ‘Seeds’ Review

September 13, 2024

From starring in Vanessa Matsui’s endearing web series Ghost BFF to appearing on hit television shows Letterkenny and Reservation Dogs, Kaniehtiio Horn is an exciting talent in the Canadian scene and beyond. Horn continues to show intriguing range with her feature directorial debut Seeds, which premiered in the 2024 TIFF Discovery program. Incorporating the ingredients of a home invasion thriller, a dark comedy, and a twisted horror, Horn crafts a genre film about preserving Indigenous legacy. While the film falls short in balancing various tones, Seeds finds moments to bud in the layered groundwork. Horn shows a singular voice in her thoughtful commentary on seedy corporations and in a well-defined slice of contemporary reservation life. Her potential behind the camera makes for a worthwhile experience that leaves you with the glimmers of bigger and better things to come.

In Seeds, Horn plays a Kanien’kehaka (Mohawk) woman named Ziggy who aims to make it big as a social media influencer. Much to her excitement, she lands a job promoting Nature’s Oath, a seed and fertilizer company that checks off the boxes of an environmentally conscious venture. Showered with big cheques and branded swag, Ziggy spreads the seeds of Nature’s Oath to her growing subscribers. The opportunity feels too good to be true, but Ziggy presses on in the hope of making a decent income and progressing in an exciting new direction.

Nature’s Oath becomes the driving force of Ziggy’s decision making. When her cousin (Dallas Goldtooth) calls her to house-sit for a relative in the middle of the woods, Ziggy reluctantly agrees on one condition: the place must have a stable Internet connection. She finds a hot spot that overlooks much of the community, just as her reliability on the company comes to a halt. When her cousin finds out about Nature’s Oath, he feverishly explains why she needs to stop. The company plants seeds in a corrupt avenue of industrial agriculture; they are the enemy, and with Ziggy’s endorsement, she is selling out to her community. What begins as a promising social media gig quickly becomes a contradiction of values, and a matter of life and death. The company breeds a violent stranger sent to follow Ziggy into her small Kanien’kehaka community and steal her family’s legacy for corporate gain. As Ziggy fights to protect the seeds on this reservation, she taps into the ancestral history of her people and the horrors that have threatened multi-generational land.

Written and directed by Horn, Seeds has a consistent and clear voice throughout, though her narrative focus spreads very thin. The attempts to juggle multiple stories in one shot falls flat. The film jumps from a home invasion thriller, to a family drama, to a blood-soaked horror fest, without a strong through line to hold all the tonal shifts together. As a result, Seeds plays out as a collection of ideas rather than a cohesive narrative. The most effective layer — using the seeds as a metaphor for fertilizing a healthy environment or pollinating with toxicity — gets lost beneath stylized and generic genre choices. With an imbalance in the story and tone, the emotional stakes feel rushed, as does the spiral into twisted horror in the final act. While an interesting choice to visualize Ziggy’s moral stance and the significance of exacting her revenge, the decision arrives too late in the game to have a stronger impact.

The film thrives more in how Horn populates a small community with unique detail and shared history. She strongly establishes the setting, and makes ancestral connections between characters who give voice to the legacy Ziggy fights for. The film also does a neat job visualizing the protagonist’s frame of mind and the crime culture that influences her. First Nations actor Graham Greene appears as a figment of her imagination, specifically in hosting mode. Many who grew up in Canada know Greene from the show Exhibit A: Secrets of Forensic Science, in which he hosted a series of cold cases through the 1980s and 90s. His iconic presence, used as a guiding voice for Ziggy’s conscience, brings out a nostalgic quality and adds personality to the film.

While Seeds may not entirely work tonally or narratively, Kaniehtiio Horn sprinkles her feature directorial debut with enough vision to exist in a world of its own.

TIFF 2024: ‘Anora’ Review

September 15, 2024

From Starlet and Tangerine to The Florida Project and Red Rocket, filmmaker Sean Baker has become one of the most insightful storytellers of America’s outskirts. Baker’s films give marginalized groups a voice without patronizing or exploiting their authentic experiences. Focused consistently on sex workers, he writes well-rounded characters with agency and individuality in their stories. He directs with humanistic sensibilities, which help to erase the stigma that adult work often faces.

Baker continues to meet the lives of sex workers with compassion in his latest, Anora. The film explores the American dream from a two-sided coin: a powerful family afforded everything at their disposal, and an independent young woman caught in the crossfires who rightfully pursues a better life. This dual narrative embeds a satisfying, energetic, often funny picture with reverberating melancholy. The fairytale of Anora unfolds through Baker’s authentic voice. He anchors a lively whirlwind fantasy in the aching reality of who gets to keep dreaming, and who gets left behind. Led by a magnificent Mikey Madison, whose performance should make her the brightest star, Anora embraces the independence and vulnerability of a young woman coming of age.

The film introduces Anora (Madison) at a Manhattan nightclub called Headquarters, where she works nightly as an exotic dancer. Going by Ani, she effortlessly scans a floor full of men and leads them each into private rooms. Ani joins a micro-community of female dancers whose artistry is on full display; the opening montage of their various dances sets an energetic tone and immediately establishes a kinship towards them, Ani especially. From her astute observations of male clients' needs to her thoughtful interactions with them, she knows how to play the game. She also recognizes this livelihood as a hustle and will seize the opportunity for her Cinderella story.

When an excitable rich Russian kid named Ivan (Mark Eidelshtein) walks into the club, Ani's Russian background gets her assigned to cater to his needs. She tells him she never speaks Russian but decides to do so in this case, letting her guard down. As the two form a connection, he whisks her away from Headquarters, and her life takes an enchanting turn. Ivan lives in a mansion (afforded by being the son of an oligarch) and enjoys a lavish lifestyle Ani could only dream of having. The more dates Ani and Ivan go on, the deeper she falls not for his money, but for the gratification that being with him means she can leave Headquarters behind. Ivan asks if they could be exclusive, and one impulse leads to another until they dash to a Vegas chapel.

Ani always wanted a Cinderella honeymoon suite, and it comes at a depressing cost. As she works hard to reach what Ivan takes for granted, the carriage gradually transforms into a pumpkin. Baker draws out the facade for as long as possible, creating a destructive slow-burn drama. The film unravels into a chaotic spell of crushed dreams at the hands of a rich kid's tantrum. Baker's script deftly balances the two very different sides of Ani and Vanya's relationship: the former opens her heart and mind to the potential of a new reality, while the latter bleeds his entourage dry and runs from accountability. In Vanya's eyes, Ani is a token he can gamble. For Ani, Vanya represents a bigger and brighter future. When his truest colors show, the film morphs from a romanticized whirlwind romance to an estranged relationship drama about class divides and the poignant bonds formed through quiet solidarity.

Baker finds an incredible anchor in Mikey Madison to convey the protagonist’s downward spiral. Ani is the viewer's way into a world of dashed dreams and harsh realities. Madison plays the character with such conviction and fearlessness, that one immediately feels excited by her ferociousness and concerned for her fate. She conveys a person's heart being broken in real time, trying so adamantly to hide how hurtful it is to lose each piece. Madison fills Ani with remarkable nuances and moments of small revelations, where one can sense she carries an emotional weight deep down. Her work gives the film's ending a reverberating impact and urges the viewer to reflect on Ani's journey.

In addition to Madison's star-making turn, the supporting cast of Anora brings various compelling energies to the story. In a standout scene of Vanya's henchmen Garrick (Vache Tovmasyan) and Igor (Yura Borisov) "breaking in" to his house, the entertaining sequence plays out like a slow-motion thriller. Baker fleshes out Garrick and Igor's personalities; they are hesitant to keep acting on behalf of the Vanya family’s representative Toros (Karren Karagulian). All three actors bring fantastic comedic sensibilities to the film. Their interactions often unravel into a comedy of errors and shed light on the ridiculousness they have to put up with to cover Vanya's antics. 

With Anora, Baker approaches a larger scale of filmmaking with his same core sensibilities. His focus on under-explored communities and empathy for stigmatized individuals give this story tremendous heart. Ani might be whisked off her feet, but the film is planted firmly on the ground with tenderness. Electric and sorrowful, Anora paints an aching picture of the humanistic costs associated with the luxury of dreaming.

‘Dahomey’ Review

October 30, 2024

In the deeply rooted fears of not recognizing home, and home not recognizing you, resonates an astonishing story of lost artifacts. French-Senegalese filmmaker Mati Diop’s Dahomey chronicles 26 royal treasures that return to their origin of present-day Benin (formerly the Kingdom of Dahomey). Written and directed by Diop, she personifies these artifacts by giving a voice to their lost impact, and provoking conversations about how they ought to be measured in the context of restitution. What value do these treasures hold, and for whom? What do they signify for cultural identity? Is the act of bringing them home a victory, or an insult to the thousands of voices still hidden in the dark? Part documentary, part surrealist cinematic work of fiction, Dahomey examines the past through a mystical perspective of relics’ souls. With futuristic-sounding narration, impassioned student debates, and hypnotic procedural shots, Diop visualizes an ancestral homecoming.

After the French invasion of Dahomey in 1890, thousands of artifacts were seized by colonial troops and donated to the Musée d’Ethnographie du Trocadéro (now the Musée de l’Homme). Among these thousands were the now-repatriated 26 artifacts, which had been kept in the Musée du Quai Branly since the year 2000. For centuries, these irreplaceable treasures had not seen the light of day in their country of origin. Pleas for the repatriation of African heritage were ignored until 2016, when Patrice Talon (President of the Republic of Benin) officially requested the French government to return the pillaged objects. This request led to a French law passed in 2020 that specified restitutions must be made within a year. Set in November 2021, Dahomey follows the meticulous transportation of 26 royal treasures from Paris, France, to their rightful home of Benin, West Africa.

The film subverts traditional documentarian expectations of talking heads and bullet point summaries. In a poetic fusion of fact and fiction, Diop tells the story from the artifacts’ points of view. Within the first few minutes, an evocative voice begins to narrate from the abyss of a black screen. The voice speaks in Fon, a Dahomean language spoken primarily in Benin. This spellbinding introduction sets the stage for an avant-garde exploration of the past through futuristic eyes. From the consciousness of trapped Beninese culture, to the effects of colonization on the present-day, Diop brings incredibly vivid layers to subjects of infinite weight. She finds terrific ways to visualize the perspectives both of lost artifacts and the lost people of Benin.

When the royal treasures are returned home after centuries of displaced exhibition, they see a new light of day. Benin is no longer the place it was in the 1800s, and that sense of vast unfamiliarity provokes a myriad of mixed emotions. The act of returning these artifacts might be celebratory and indicative of some progress made, but more work needs to be done. Diop rightfully never lets the viewer forget this sentiment. She films with stunning precision, taking the time needed to grasp how much reverberating power the artifacts carry. Dahomey moves to a poetic rhythm, and packs powerful material into its 68-minute runtime.

Inside the Musée du Quai Branly, we get scenes of methodological handlings. Museum workers examine, carry, crate, transport, repeat. Diop conveys these moments with brilliant attentiveness. The camera circles the artifacts in awe of their rarity, and lingers on them for as long as possible before cloaking them in the darkness of crates. Diop’s textured direction also brings a palpable uneasiness to the museum scenes. The camera moves inside these crates, capturing muffled sounds from the outside world, as though you are being transported alongside the artifacts on their confined journey. This sensory personification creates an immersive, unforgettable experience.

Given the centuries-old history at hand, it's surreal that such repatriations actually happened in this lifetime. Dahomey exists in that lens of surrealism. With dreamlike artistry, Diop tells this story in the most uninhibited way. She expands on the possibilities of where a narrative can take you. The juxtaposition of disembodied Fon voices filling the space of a public art forum like the Musée du Quai Branly stands out. The statues are on display while the realities of their history are buried behind museum walls. In giving them a life form, Diop challenges the idea of artifacts as art. This conversation expands in one of the most impactful scenes of Dahomey: the auditorium debates at the University of Abomey-Calavi in Benin. As students debate the significance of the artifacts being returned, a resonating thread emerges on cultural identity and learning about Benin history in the French language. Diop holds space for a younger generation to take turns describing what the absence of culture has done, which in turn gives us a ground-level look at the impact of colonization.

Making extraordinary images from an invisible world, Dahomey is an insightful reversal of African history. The film shines a spotlight on the young generations of Benin whose inquisitive minds end us on a hopeful note. As the spirit of an artifact narrates, “Within me resonates infinity.” Dahomey blends the past, present, and future into one stream of consciousness, where traces of history are carried to immeasurable places. Mati Diop has crafted far and away one of the most vital documentaries of our lifetime.

Watch the 2024 Berlinale Golden Bear winner Dahomey in Toronto cinemas starting November 1.

2024 Toronto Youth Shorts Welcome A New Generation of Filmmakers

“In Lily Jia Qi Wu’s Embracing Shadows, a girl encounters monsters born from her self doubt and negative emotions.”

October 21, 2024

In the words of the great Guillermo Del Toro, animation is cinema. The art form can take on any genre and explore varied subject matter, often helping younger audiences digest big themes. The Toronto Youth Shorts festival has plenty of gems to discover within this medium of filmmaking, particularly from a diverse group of storytellers. Founded in 2009, Toronto Youth Shorts is a youth-based film festival that shines a spotlight on local filmmakers under 30 years old. This year marks the festival’s 15th anniversary, an exciting achievement and formative stepping stone for the future storytellers of this industry.

From November 1 to 2, over 40 locally made short films are showcased at the Spadina Performance Arts Theatre in Toronto. Films are presented across five program categories, each a diverse reflection of a younger generation engaged in the world around them. SPARKS, featuring a blend of animation and adventure, is most suitable for children. Among the wonderful standouts of this category, Brandon Po’s Coral Loop is a witty snapshot of a nine-to-five workload told through a fish eye lens. ESCAPE OUR REALITY opens the doors to fantastical, unconventional worlds. From Daria Rodneva’s imaginative Dive In and Tir (Rey) Tabandeh’s spooky Mourning Routine to Grace Choi’s melodic Syrinx, these surreal pieces of escapism find resonating personal stories rooted in emotion.

The festival lineup covers more mature themes in the SWIPE LEFT, STORIES OF GEN Z, and A BIZARRE DAY programs. Awkward love is a staple of young adulthood, and these experiences are embraced in SWIPE LEFT, an eclectic mix of romantic comedies and dramas. The anxiety of romance in your teens and twenties is one of many messy journeys on display in the festival programming. A BIZARRE DAY showcases headline-driven short films made in a 24 hour timeframe. Young filmmakers were tasked with finding the cinematic angle of local events they considered newsworthy, which extends to the core of the festival. Creatives are given the space to find their voice and reflect the worlds they inhabit, both through imagination and reality.

STORIES OF GEN Z focuses on films about self-worth, grief and loss, professional aspirations, and personal growth. Animated films shine in this category, from Caydee Lewis’s powerfully vulnerable Rock Candy to Lily Jia Qi Wu’s spellbinding Embracing Shadows. Both Lewis and Qu visualize their emotions with remarkable imagery and distinctive filming styles. Among the live-action entries, Brianna Russell’s dramatic Poster Child and Gemma Eva & Maria Hausmann’s experimental Concealed add layers to their respective subjects. Poster Child has a strong narrative hook in its orchestral prodigy-idol dynamic. Russell takes an intimate approach to the mixed emotions of walking in your hero’s footsteps. Concealed imagines what it looks like to be consumed by beauty standards and conflicted about putting your best foot forward.

This year’s programming holds space for an array of creativity. Let’s take a closer look at a highlighted section of the Toronto Youth Shorts.

ESCAPE OUR REALITY

Syrinx directed by Grace Choi
Set to the titular flute solo by French composer Claude Debussy, this film explores the meaning, the music, and the myth of Syrinx.

The highlight: The first flute solo written for the modern flute, Syrinx, is considered a landmark in music history. Grace Choi personifies syrinx with a magical lens, using peaceful animation and evocative sounds to carry the story. Syrinx is a lovely personal expression of historical resonance and the reverberating power of music.

Coral Loop directed by Brandon Po
Oro the fish businessman goes to work every day like your average working adult. When his never-ending workload starts to take a toll on him, he loses his mind and wanders off to get a change of scenery.

The highlight: The mundanity of life is told through a fish eye lens in Brandon Po's Coral Loop. Po takes a deeply relatable subject and plays with perspective. We come to find that the forbidden surface is fun and games, concealing the harsh reality of what humans use fish for. With colorful animation and strong comedic timing, Coral Loop is a charming reminder to keep our heads above water.

Don't Sleep On The Subway directed by Ceejay Garrido
A sleep deprived artist struggles to stay awake on their mundane subway commute. ​

The highlight: The majority of us who live in the city have had our share of mundane subway rides. We have our own places to go, but for a moment, we all share in a collective experience. Everyone has a story, which Ceejay Garrido visualizes in Don't Sleep On The Subway. This short bursts with creativity and drives home the message about finding inspiration from our surroundings. The artistry reminds us not to sleep on our potential.

Dive In directed by Daria Rodneva
A group of monsters and fantasy creatures dream and think about their past and personal conflicts.

The highlight: Dive In looks inward to the power of imagination and what fantastical worlds exist in our minds. Rodneva introduces wonderful glimpses of characters you want to know more about. We feel an instant connection to their inner conflicts and wishing for a super power of their own.

Mourning Routine directed by Tir (Rey) Tabandeh
Two undead halves of a once-human whole, an uncoordinated zombie and a methodical ghost, fumble their way through a domestic routine. ​

The highlight: Just in time for spooky season, Tir (Rey) Tabandeh brings us an endearing tale of a zombie tethered to a ghost. The spiritually connected halves go about their "mourning" in slightly different ways, often leaving the ghost impatient, frustrated, and sad. From distinctive character designs and comic book influenced animation, to the ethereal visual puns, Mourning Routine is an adorable story to wake up to.

I Bit Off More Than I Could Chew directed by Dalia Hawash
Two stories about people who take on more than they can handle.

The highlight: Everyone knows the feeling of having too much on your plate and experiencing burnout. In I Bit Off More Than I Could Chew, Hawash crafts two scenarios of pushing your luck, whether living on the edge of possibilities in a card game or thinking you know someone in a relationship. Sketch animation and upbeat music give this story great movement.

Crime Never Gets Old directed by William Manning
Detective Wendell Kent solves mysteries by putting the pieces together.

The highlight: Piece By Piece is not the only chronicle told through LEGO this year. William Manning melds LEGO animation with a film noir in Crime Never Gets Old, a comedy of aging errors. When a group of older bandits rob a bank, an investigation ensues with a wry lead. Manning uses quick remarks and a bustling pace to spin the narrative into unexpected places.

STORIES OF GEN Z

Rock Candy directed by Caydee Lewis
A film about family dynamic through tough times and dealing with loss.

​The highlight: Grief knows no bounds. The effects of loss are lingering and hit you unexpectedly. Caydee Lewis visualizes grief with tremendous vulnerability in Rock Candy, a transcendent story of healing. Using thematic ingredients to show generational impact, Lewis delves into deep subjects. Rock Candy shines as a vivid outlet to work through raw emotions. From the beautiful animation to the insightful voiceover, the short makes an incredibly memorable mark in this year's lineup. 

Concealed directed by Gemma Eva and Maria Hausmann
A young girl descends into a world of beauty and fashion. Blinded by lights and glamour, she must find her way before the darkness consumes her.

​The highlight: One of the most experimental shorts of the festival is Concealed, an immersive look at the overwhelming pressures faced in the beauty industry. We follow a young girl's descent into glamour and discover a world in which beauty is not what it seems. Directors Gemma Eva and Maria Hausmann create a strong sense of dread throughout. The moody colours and frenetic editing shine, as does the haunting visual of being swallowed by darkness.

​Poster Child directed by Brianna Russell
An up-and-coming pianist attempts to replace her childhood idol at the most prestigious orchestra in the country.

The highlight: Here's hoping that Brianna Russell's Poster Child becomes a full-length feature, as this story has an incredibly strong narrative hook. The student-teacher dynamic can be full of insecurity and bitterness. The story explores the generational gaps of a successor and her replacement, conveying the mixed emotions of walking in your childhood idol's footsteps. At the heart of Poster Child is an excellent lead performance by Mikayla Geier.

Embracing Shadows directed by Lily Jia Qi Wu
A girl encounters monsters born from her self doubt and negative emotions.

The highlight: Sometimes all it takes is one visual to convey the voice of an artist. In Lily Jia Qi Wu's Embracing Shadows, the image of a girl embracing a figure of self-doubt speaks a thousand words. It is evident in every frame that Wu has an incredibly clear voice. The message of being gentler and kinder to ourselves by running towards negative emotions resonates deeply. With a memorable animation style and a gorgeous colour palette, Embracing Shadows is a stunning entry that reminds us why the Toronto Youth Shorts is vital. Young filmmakers get the opportunity to express themselves openly, and with such diverse programming, their voices are embraced in safe spaces.

Toronto Youth Shorts runs from November 1 to 2 at the Spadina Performance Arts Theatre in Toronto. Tickets are available at https://www.torontoyouthshorts.ca/.

‘Bird’ Review

November 7, 2024

“It really really really could happen.” These six words are sung to Andrea Arnold’s hopeful tune in Bird, a rare gem of ethereal beauty. Arnold blends realism and surrealism to paint a vulnerable portrait of adolescence. In this portrait of moving images, Arnold speaks to the youth of today’s generation who are faced prematurely with the responsibilities of adulthood. Often left to their own devices, they search for which paths feel safest to survive on. Sometimes those paths emerge in the form of a spiritual bond, a spark that cannot fully be explained but is nonetheless vital in existing. Bird exists in the magic realism of such a connection, one that gives communities on society’s fringes the visibility they so deeply deserve.

Set in the British suburbs of North Kent, Bird orbits the fragmented world of twelve-year old Bailey (newcomer Nykiya Adams). Bailey lives with her teen brother Hunter (Jason Buda), her dad Bug (Barry Keoghan), Bug’s girlfriend and soon-to-be wife Kayleigh (Frankie Box), and Kayleigh’s baby daughter. It’s a full house of clashing personalities and uninhibited expression, a powerful cocktail of humanistic sensibilities. As Bailey navigates her interior conflicts and emotional retreats from family dynamics, she meets a transient character named Bird (Franz Rogowski). His mysterious presence evokes a dreamlike state, as he appears seemingly out of thin air. Bird is searching for his family, which comes to align with Bailey’s coming-of-age journey.

Arnold infuses Bird with the gritty realism one warmly expects from her work. Through observational writing and empathetic direction, she holds space for a candid exploration of characters and settings. In doing so, Arnold captures moments of unadorned magic, details specific to being in the right place at the right time. Simply put, she sees people, not just for who they appear to be but who they hope to become. She creates down-to-earth heroines like Bailey, whose fierce inner strength and determination to keep herself grounded become a driving force for the narrative. When Arnold takes the story to an ethereal place of otherness with Bird’s character, the film transcends narrative expectations. A spiritual bond gradually washes over the broken-down British landscape, and with that, Bird shape shifts before our very eyes. The changing energies of this ambitious fable would not hit as hard without a remarkably introspective performance at the center.

​From Kate Dickie in 2006’s Red Road and Katie Jarvis in 2009’s Fish Tank to Sasha Lane in 2016’s American Honey, Arnold has crafted three of the most layered and confident female characters on screen. The filmmaker’s exceptional eye for newcomer talent continues with Bird. In a fiercely brilliant feature debut, Nykiya Adams carries the weight of Bailey’s journey on her shoulders. The character’s staying power often rests in moments of introspection and pent up frustration, which Adams excels at. Whether looking out for her mother Peyton (Jasmine Jobson) and younger sisters who live in an abusive household, or wrestling with the acceptance of her father’s life choices, she makes every moment ring true. With vulnerability and vitality, she gives herself over to a compelling exploration of girlhood.

Most impressively, Adams shines in conveying the spiritual connection that Bailey finds in Bird. Their relationship bridges the film’s ambitious movement into surrealism. Given how the characters’ dynamic often unfolds in readings of facial expressions and body language, both flourish in the hands of Adams and Rogowski. The always enigmatic Rogowski delivers another extraordinary performance of soothing, inviting demeanor. His presence evokes dreaminess, yearning, sadness, and everything in between. The depiction of Bird proves to be absolutely crucial, not only for the surrealist shift in tone but also for the arc of Bailey’s journey. Rogowski’s tenderness lays the groundwork for one of the most powerful endings of a film this year; Arnold catches lighting in a bottle.

In establishing a sense of community for characters, the film also catches terrific little interactions between the actors. A jolt of lightning himself, Barry Keoghan is electric whenever he appears on screen. He nails the communal, working-class spirit of Bug. Additionally, he has the charisma and intuitiveness to bring extra layers to Bug’s personality. You can’t help but be swept up in the character’s wild ride through life, as he dashes between hectic scenarios and makes a point to indulge in joyous moments. The majority of such moments revolve around music. There’s the amusing reference of Sophie Ellis-Bextor’s 'Murder On The Dancefloor' from Saltburn. Then there’s the one-two punch of Coldplay’s 'Yellow' and Blur’s 'The Universal' in two stellar karaoke scenes that arrive at the most opportune moments. Music plays an effective role in finding a melodic pace, notably through the hypnotic original score by British electronic musician Burial. Whether the inspired needle drops or Burial’s dazzling sound, these components fit neatly into Arnold's vision of blending realism with surrealism.

Bird unfolds in a trance of playful, grounded filmmaking. With a neat incorporation of cellphone footage, depicting how today's youth live through screens, the film immerses into Bailey’s perspective. Chaotic as her world is, Arnold holds space for moments of profound stillness and care. Every now and then, we slow down with Bailey as she watches birds in the sky, longing for the ability to take flight from broken grounds. It is on these same grounds that she finds her path towards spiritual healing, and is soothed by six of the most comforting words a young person can hear. “Everything is going to be okay."

Watch Bird in theaters in Canada starting November 8.

‘Wicked’ Review

November 22, 2024

There’s no place like the movies. Victor Fleming’s The Wizard of Oz was one of the earliest films to capture such a feeling. Watching Dorothy and her little dog Toto embark on a brave journey, and collect unexpected friends along the way, radiated a timeless story of togetherness and hope. Over 80 years since its theatrical release, this 1939 technicolor masterpiece still shimmers over the rainbow and continues to make dreams come true. The film inspired audiences to follow their own yellow brick roads towards becoming artists, some of whom continued to explore the land of Oz with gravity-defying stories of their own.

The dreams built in Emerald City eventually found their way to the stage with the beloved Broadway musical Wicked. Sung from the perspectives of witches Elphaba and Galinda, before and after Dorothy’s stormy arrival in Oz, Wicked sparked countless passions for musical theatre. The original 2003 production, starring Idina Menzel as Elphaba and Kristin Chenoweth as Glinda, shattered box office records and won the hearts of millions. Menzel and Chenoweth’s powerhouse voices told a story of female friendship and the capacity for goodness to conquer evil, which rest at the heartfelt core of Wicked. It’s a love story, and it’s always been political, as Jon M. Chu’s impressively acted Part I adaptation conveys.

With soulful musical numbers, fantastically detailed production design, and a whole lot of heart running through the characters, Wicked shines as one of the most joyous theatre experiences. Plus, there’s the added layer of hearing reactions to the film from people who hold this story near and dear. For my Wicked screening companion, the stage production changed her life from a young age. It gave her hope and light during a time of darkness. This optimism soars through Wicked and lights a fire that cannot be contained, especially from the perspective of Elphaba, who defies a system designed to silence anyone who speaks out against it.

The green image of Elphaba recalls the familiar Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz. With an iconic cackle and all-black attire, Margaret Hamilton’s witch loomed over Oz and melted at the hands of lovable characters. Only her pointed black hat was left behind, leaving us without knowing the whole story of how she came to be an evil witch. Wicked begins with a re-telling of history that hints at how green-skinned witch Elphaba (Cynthia Erivo) became the Wicked Witch of the West. The cinematically grand “No One Mourns the Wicked” celebrates the witch’s death and casts a spell of relief over Oz. While all of Munchkinland rejoice, Glinda the Good (Ariana Grande) sings with notes of somberness as she ponders, are people born wicked? Or do they have wickedness thrust upon them? After all, the Wicked Witch of the West had a childhood. She had a mother and father. She had hopes and dreams. And after all, she had a friend in Glinda the Good, before Glinda became the Good Witch of the North.

The film takes us back to Shiz University, where Elphaba and Galinda first meet. Elphaba initially arrives not as a student, but to support a smooth transition for her younger sister Nessarose (Marissa Bode). The moment Elphaba steps foot on campus, she is immediately ostracized and feared for the color of her skin. A slight commotion involving Nessarose and a professor ignite a power in Elphaba that takes over without control, causing damage to the university property. The incident catches the eye of Madame Morrible (Michelle Yeoh), who sees a potential yet to be harnessed and a possibility to impress the Wonderful Wizard of Oz (Jeff Goldblum).

All the while, Galinda is clearly pampered and adored as the most popular girl in school. From her dreamy bubblegum pink arrival on campus, to her comical hair tosses and excitable energy, she stands out in a sea of students. She’s used to getting whatever her heart desires, but finds a roadblock in Madame Morrible not taking notice of her. The classmates’s eyes may all be on Galinda, as they soon will be on charming new student Fiyero (Jonathan Bailey), but the headmistress focuses on Elphaba’s “unlimited” future. As higher powers convene, Elphaba and Galinda are forced to bond. The two witches go from loathing each other to loving each other.

The film flies high on the exquisite powerhouse talents of Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande. With keys to the Emerald City, Erivo and Grande unlock the bewitching potential for their characters to soar from stage to screen. Elphaba and Glinda’s moving relationship arc, not to mention their respective interior conflicts, is absolutely integral to the film’s emotional weight. You feel the world crushing on Elphaba’s shoulders as she navigates life as an “outsider” and breaks from conformity. From the optimism of “The Wizard and I” and the realism of “I’m Not That Girl” to the reverberating rebellion of “Defying Gravity,” Erivo hits every single note with incredible vocal range. Additionally, she shines in the quieter moments with subtle shifts in physicality; the Ozdust ballroom dance sequence is a definitive example of how far facial expressions can carry. It's an absolutely pivotal moment for Elphaba that Erivo plays gracefully, wearing emotions on her sleeve.

You also feel the lonely complicity in Galinda’s eyes as she aches for popularity and ponders her best friend’s future. Grande’s sparkling humor — whether in her excitable line deliveries or her physical comedic timing — bounces across the screen. Galinda feels like the role Grande was born to play, and she embodies the essence of Wicked with a thorough understanding of how Galinda performs goodness. When the performative nature of her character reaches a pivotal crossroads, Grande charts that emotional arc with great subtlety. The film is a beautiful showcase for her operatic vocal range as well, from the somber “No One Mourns the Wicked” to the bounciness of "What Is This Feeling?” and the shimmering personality of “Popular.” Together, Erivo and Grande compliment each other at a pitch perfect rate. Your heart glows when the two truly see each other, and dampens when their paths reluctantly divert at a crossroads. With the characters in such good hands, Wicked can only go up from there, and it mostly does.

​The idea of splitting Wicked into two films admittedly caused some skepticism, but Jon M. Chu justifies the extra time with his elaborate storytelling. He stays faithful to the source material, sets up the character arcs for Part II, and gives all the musical numbers plenty of room to shine. The film has impressively wicked pacing; not once does the runtime feel too long or too crowded. The visualization of each song also feels fully realized as it builds on character development and moves the story along. From the ticking functionality of “Dancing Through Life” to the sheer bubblegum pink energy of “Popular,” the songs are given eye-popping looks to match.

Much has already been said about the cinematography of Wicked. In particular, the use of backlighting as an approach to create a more “realistic” look. This choice feels at odds with conveying the film’s bold colors and textures. While it can be distracting at times, the overall impact on the end result feels inconsequential when you have talent such as Erivo and Grande operating at the highest levels to bring their characters to life. Plus, neat clues along the way indicate the heavy research that went into Nathan Crowley’s production design and Paul Tazewell’s costume design, not to mention the entire hair and makeup department. From the tornado shaped heels on Nessarose’s crystal shoes, and the beaded spiraled on Glinda’s bubble dress, to the textured fabrics of Elphaba’s black silhouette worn at the end of the film, the magical designs of a reimagined Oz come alive. A lot of these details are quite subtle and blend into the world-building, fully part of the fabric of Chu's storytelling.

Filled with so much goodness across the board, Wicked soars as one of the most impactful and delightful musical adaptations. In the hands of Erivo and Grande, Elphaba and Galinda are brought to the big screen in unique and soul stirring ways. With emotionally engaged writing and patient direction, the film echoes the significance and timeliness of fighting for voices to be heard. Given how much care and attention to detail went into this production, one can only anticipate Part II to end on a high note.