Isn't It Romantic Review

Isn't It Romantic follows Natalie (Rebel Wilson) an architect whose grown incredibly cynical of her romantic life, and moreover, romantic comedies. Her friends, Whitney (Betty Gilpin) and Josh (Adam DeVine) try to lift her spirits and ask her to take more chances. This happens to backfire on her as she is knocked unconscious and transported into the world of rom-coms. Corny music follows her around, she has a gay best friend out of the blue and even Blake (Liam Hemsworth), her client that previously treated her like dirt now finds her quite beguiling. Unable to deal with the saccharine madness, Natalie tries her best to get back to reality.

Subversion is one of those concepts that appears so often yet never really feels outdated. So much of the best media out there deals with challenging a set of established values for how truly valuable they are. Though it doesn't always have to be so high stakes as to criticize deep-rooted social constructs or systemic problems. Sometimes, it's just going against genre stereotypes. There's a group of works out there that tend to get the approval of the haters of the genre that they take on. Usually it's because they both play into what frustrates those who are against the genre but also sneak in what makes the genre stand out in a meaningful manner. Animated movies getting too cutesy and Disney for you? Shrek adds some snark to the fairy tale. Super hero movies a little too by-the-book? Deadpool spins the formula around. Hate how campy musicals are? Chicago makes it racy. Isn't It Romantic seems to be wanting to court the anti-rom-com crowd. I don't quite consider myself as fervent in my hatred of them as other people do but I am a man, and it's in our DNA to just not be fond of them. But I'm willing to be wooed by a subversive take on it.

Usually on movies of this nature, there is a need to emphasize the stupidity of the genre's cliches either implicitly or explicitly. Shrek tends to have wonderful subtle instances of this, as most every character has a certain lack of grace that isn't befit of their fantastical origins. Deadpool is more blunt in its approach, with Deadpool being incredibly cocky of just how much he can get away with that other superhero films can't, especially with the addition of the R rating. Isn't It Romantic is a bit too eager in spelling out the conventions it's mocking, as there is rarely a moment where the film doesn't heckle itself on how unrealistic rom-coms are. For a few instances, the joke lands its punch when Natalie is brought into the rom-com alternate reality as the contrast between its sincerity and her cynicism play off each other well. In other instances however, it's about as fun as bringing a friend with your partner to hang out where they're clearly acting like an annoyed third wheel.

Obvious comedy in movies that subvert genres isn't a problem in itself. Sometimes being over-the-top in the absurdity of the conventions is fun, but such needs to be paced properly. Moreover, it needs suitable context that isn't quite as blunt as the jokes made at the genre's expense. Build-up in a subversive movie not only wins over the haters with how well it mocks conventions but also provides the heart that the genre has at its core. Much of Isn't It Romantic's premise plays on how rom-coms deliver unrealistic and toxic expectations to women. Women like Natalie aren't as represented in them as much, the dynamics within them tend to glorify romantic recklessness and it gets far too silly with how flaming the gays are in it. But there isn't a proper build-up to Natalie obtaining resentment against rom-coms; she's just told by her mother she'll never fall in love with a hunk as a child and it cuts to her all grown up and single. Neither are the dynamics that Natalie has with others in the rom-com world explored beyond her innate need to return back to reality.

The worst instance of Isn't It Romantic providing little set-up for its payoffs is in regards to who Natalie should be in love with. It acknowledges that her being with Blake is superficial as he's just her wet dream - a rich hunk that will wait on her hand and foot (which it turns out is not really the case). So naturally there needs to be another of whom she must fall in love with, but there's quite little that supports this new relationship. The movie is aware that it didn't properly explain itself there and tries harder to push it by having some dialogue that every screenwriter teacher would bang their head against a wall with "show don't tell" written on it. But even with this flimsy excuse, it tries to have a twist on the revelation, which makes sense generally speaking but isn't properly evoked through the presentation.

Story-wise, it's on par with rom-coms in being mediocre at best, which would work to its advantage were it not for the reason that its mediocrity is not due to the genre's conventions but in its inability to make a compelling story in deconstructing them. Most of the performances are cardboard cutouts with only Rebel Wilson standing out for how much she seems to fight with her role. I certainly enjoyed some of the cheap shots made at the expense of rom-coms and the karaoke scene was kind of delightful in being one of the only instances where the movie really has fun with itself, but I can't say it won me over. Perhaps I misunderstood it and it was more meant as a film for rom-com fans to have a little bit of a self-deprecating laugh at, but I would think that they would find it a bit too lifeless for their tastes.

Overall, Isn't It Romantic feels like an unsuccessful round of speed-dating. You're just going through so many people and cycling through the same few topics to get some small talk going. Then you finally meet someone that you almost get to liking but they get distracted texting with their phone far too often that by the time you almost feel like something more might happen, you're already heading out with nothing more to go by. It's a shame that there wasn't more that could ignite that special spark.

The 2019 Oscars Or How Hollywood Is Gonna Please No One

Saying that the Oscars aren't exactly all they're cracked up to be is the equivalent of saying that a shot of Everclear will get you drunk instantly. It's a no-brainer, but fuck if that'll stop you from partaking in it just to see what happens! And given that now the lords of entertainment have bestowed to all of us who is worthy, the disappointment is as palpable as the vomit rising from a lightweight shotgunning a flask of 99% proof alcohol. It's been hard-pressed to find anyone who agrees with the Academy's choices. Certainly I could spend my time smashing the keyboard in my rage of Can You Ever Forgive Me being pushed aside for Best Picture to Vice, but harrumphing about personal decisions on nominations really is best suited for Twitter conversations or chats down by the pub. Rather, I just want to focus on the spectacle itself, as this year has definitely not been golden for the greatest awards Tinseltown has to dish out.

No one wanted to host this sucker. Well, Kevin Hart raised his hand to want to give it a try, but we all know that he thinks that the gays should be wearing a pink triangle instead. So now they're scrapping together to see how they can pad out the drama of Pixar winning Best Animated Feature. You can't really blame entertainers for not wanting to host award shows. From what they say, hosting the Oscars is more tense than a stand-up routine at a maximum-security prison. No one's really interested in the hot take that Drumpf bad, they just want to know if they're getting that goddamn golden Adonis or not. There might be a few laughs from the most plastered seat-fillers in the auditorium, but what comes up more is the dead eyes of a A-lister wanting to suck out the host's soul as a B-lister mugs to the camera to become a reaction image. It's not surprising then that their material isn't exactly their best, because why put effort in making a house of cards right before a hurricane's about to hit?

The whole idea of handing out industry awards doesn't need to be exaggerated into a massive glitzy affair. No one really thinks about the wonderful dresses the wives of automobile companies wore to the J.D Power And Associates Award Show. That's because J.D Power doesn't feel it necessary to make it a show. It would serve just as well to have the Oscars inside of a dusty Warner Brothers stuido lot with no cameras in it. The Academy however has to do all this self-fellating, not only because it feels good but also to brag about how great they are that they can do it. It's the largest way for them to showcase their moral posturing. Which you know, is funny from an industry that MeToo revealed was comprised of enough creeps that they should have their own Spotlight made about them. It's not really like they learned their lesson, as Bryan Singer could happily walk back in with a movie that makes Freddie Mercury come off as a selfish asshole, even though new allegations popped up before the red carpet could be rolled out. Add that they neglected to nominate any female directors and one might opt to think that wearing that pin was just a fashion choice rather than a moral stance. But you know, they got Black Panther and BlacKkKlansman in their nominations, so sorry to bother them. 

Course why focus on these identity politics? If a movie's good, a movie's good. Well, I'd appreciate a little bit more diversity in the awards, especially when Hollywood makes a big fuss about trying to be more inclusive. They sure seem to take their time to get with the times. They want to pretend that they're these hallmarks of progressivism but their performances are better suited for the Razzies. Sure, Hart was a little insensitive back in the day but how much more can the man say sorry? You don't need to be a fan of him to think that the Academy's full of it when they revoke him of that wonderful privilege of padding out the largest annual vanity fair. You can almost sympathize when MAGA chuds hate how smug those limousine liberals are, raising their noses up in the air as how much better it is not living in flyover country. Who are those hypocrites to think they're any better? Course that doesn't justify the rest of their views but it's rare to find issues where we can be bipartisan.

You know what I think the Academy should do? Own their inability to please anyone. The Oscars only manage to stand out with gaffes. All this work to sanitize the show seems counter-intuitive to the overwhelming press coverage that comes from a single mix-up of envelopes. Controversy is the adrenaline shot that keeps celebrity culture thriving. If all we're going to get is panem et circenses, then make the circenses fucking bonum. Have the worst celebrities present the awards. Ensure the acceptance speeches are rambling and crazy enough that the orchestra won't be able to cut them off from being stunned by how incoherent they are. Shoot Billy Crystal out of a cannon. I bet you even conservatives would be entertained from a proper shitshow taking place. Because given the current attitude that Hollywood has, the only thing that they deserve is another Sacheen Littlefeather-like lecture on their facade. 

Welcome To Marwen Review

Welcome To Marwen is the story of Mark Hogancamp (Steve Carrell), an artist who is beaten nearly to death by a group of five men for liking to cross dress. After the fight, he is unable to recall any prior memories and so to cope, he takes up photography. Mark creates a fantasy WWII-era town of Marwen, where a group of Allied soldiers (many of them women inspired by women he knows) fight a group of Nazis and Deja, the Belgian Witch of Marwen. Along with creating this exhibit, Mark tries to deal with the pain as he readies himself to confront his attackers at his trial.

Having a theater to yourself is an interesting experience. Usually when you're in that situation, you've either chosen something really terrible, gone in at an inconvenient time, or you're a rich asshole. But when you have that chance, you're able to put a movie to the test. One of the major components of a theater is to be designed in a way so that the audience pays attention. Everyone is properly packed into the seats, the screen is massive to accommodate for everyone and lure the eye in, and the surround sound adds further to the immersion. The added norms of the movie-going experience add even more incentive for you to take in what's on screen, with the film doing it's best to keep you satisfied. However, when one is alone, it's mob rule. You're free to be distracted, to cheer and jeer at your pleasure. A movie that can rein you in when there's no incentive to do so, is one that is honestly engrossing.

Welcome To Marwen did not manage to get my respect for attention. Though it came out in late December, it felt very much like a Fuck You It's January film from the trailer. The soaring music paired with the edited dialogue bringing about this hopeful message, it all seemed so corny. I had likened it to what it would have looked like if Steve Carell was one of the actors in Tropic Thunder, aiming too hard at wanting an Oscar. To some extent though, I wanted to forgive it.  It wasn't aiming to that level, it wanted to be a good movie under its own merits. Trailers also tend to mislead with the tone of a film. Given the story of Mark Hogancamp, I expected that it would perhaps be more true to his pain and how he was able to cope. I could reasonably expect something more pointed. Unfortunately, it's hard to expect a biting production when someone as toothless as Zemeckis is involved.

Lately, it seems like he's trying to capture the same lightning in a bottle that he had with Forrest Gump. His attempts to do so have often fell short of that, and even now that lightning has managed to spoil. Still, he tries to see if he can get it, and doesn't really change much of his tactics in doing so. To it's credit, Welcome To Marwen is appropriately performed. All the actors, including Steve Carrell, are trying their best to deliver with what they're given. After all, the events are bizarre and harsh, but ultimately with a ray of hope. They are keen enough to tune themselves to that odd frequency and settle down when the drama requires it. It's a shame though that Zemeckis shifts the dial of the movie's tone to bring about the most jarring transitions.

Much like how Mark fights with his addiction to painkillers, Zemeckis fights with the film's tone. It's weirdly sexual, as there are an abundance of scenes that focus on how sexualized the women of Marwen are and how Mark himself has his own lusts. Yet at the same time it doesn't explore that in a meaningful way, only opting to focus on the legs because Hogancamp likes women's heels. The violence isn't really much better, as the action scenes tend to go mild with the blood and gore, minimizing it's impact. It aims to be a drama but it clumsily pratfalls as it tries to ease the tension. Which is only made even more tragic by how you hardly feel any of it.

Personally, it would have been better for them to have committed more to delivering on the dramatic element. However, it makes sense to turn the story into more of a dramedy as there are plenty of quirks that allow for a lighter experience. But it feels wrong to restrain either of those approaches under a PG-13 rating, given that it suffocates the material. This is mostly due to Zemeckis's use of CGI, to animate the dolls in Hogancamp's pictures. To some extent, it makes sense to view this as a necessary evil, given that you would need to incorporate the dolls in some way. Simply showing their recreations wouldn't suffice to fill in the story. With that said, it would have been much better just to delve into the scenes with the actors and then returning them into doll form to punctuate a transition. Having them as their own whimsical entities only serves to diminish the impact of dramatic scenes and add an uncanniness that doesn't fit with the events.

What most confounds me about Welcome To Marwen is how dull it is given just how much of a mess it is. Marwen's creation and lore is perfectly suitable for a surreal experience and an intricate delving into the story of Hogancamp's creation, yet the film feels like a weird dream that you quickly forget as soon as you go into the shower. Never has a film based on true events felt so trite. I was more interested in looking up random things on my phone or making the occasional tweet than being invested. Any time I was willing to focus on the film, I couldn't help but comment on it, either for its corniness or for how it lacked any substance. I suppose I was lucky I had the theater to myself to be so disrespectful, but I doubt there will be a time where those seats will be filled with viewers that are rightfully irritated by anyone acting the way I did. If anything, they'd join in.

An Unconventional Review Of First Man

The following is an unconventional review of First Man, a movie directed by Damien Chazelle which stars Ryan Gosling as Neil Armstrong, the first man to walk on the moon. This review is less about the abilities of the crew to create a cinematic experience and more about how that experience became something more penetrating to the following viewer.

Let me begin by saying that I am not trying to exaggerate when I say just how powerful the following experience was to me. Whether I have chosen to or not, the emotions I have felt and the thoughts that I have dispelled have a degree of insincerity compared the reality of my being. There is no way for me to convey the strength that I felt that will not come off as incredulous. For my experience was aided by a psychedelic enhancement. I went about this journey of the self in the most contrived and intolerable manner. So I understand if all that I evoke is sneers and if what I represent is a pretentious intoxicated fool. I cannot fully comprehend your understanding of the world and meld myself well enough to build the gateway between our selves to a mutual reality. For that I am sorry. But so much of our matter is the same that I may still be able to relate what I felt to some degree.

As you can already tell, this review of First Man will stand to be more literal than other iterations. What I aim to achieve with this piece is to replicate the altered state that I was in upon viewing the film to the best of my linguistic and creative ability. Though film criticism is generally a subjective matter, one can hope to inject some objectivity by relating it to schools of thought and common approaches that have shown to be successful. To focus on First Man in any objective terms will be near impossible. For it in conjunction with the sedative sensations brought about spiritual passion. Passion has no place in objectivity, but I was so overwhelmed by it in the moment that I cannot help but speak about it. Absurd as it all may seem, the journey of one man to the moon dramatized by Hollywood artists provided an understanding deeper than the darkest depths of the oceans.

I went in, expecting nothing more than a bit of fun. So often I heard that anecdotal rubbish of enhancements to your media-viewing experience. That whole line of “gaining a better understanding of your fellow man” felt like posturing from lowlifes that had thrown their life away to loaf about. But given that I had a chance to indulge, I opted to explore the possibilities. I did not feel it so much to discredit them as I did not think to even consider the potential effects. It was more an experiment. So I went in, securing my treat, and consumed it right from the start.

At first, I thought I had made a mistake. The movie opened with a heavy dramatic sting of Neil Armstrong struggling to maintain control of the world around him. Death was a common visitor and his aspirations of becoming the first intergalactic pioneer dwindled with each day. The discrepancy between my childish expectations and the intense reality being presented felt comical to me, but no humor should be derived of a man suffering from a loss of a child. So I focused in on the movie, absorbing its beautiful, haunting visuals and sublime musical score. Every motion felt disorienting, every sound locked into a collective harmony. The dialogue and performances all felt so pointed, so carefully designed. But it did not feel relevant to the larger context this movie was framing.

Midway through the film, something unlocked in my head. I had become so glued to the narrative in front of me, I did not bother to check on my self. When I did, my vision contorted into fish eye lens. My hands had shrunk and would do so even more as I extended them outwards. Each motion I took was sluggish, without concern for gravity or speed. I began to feel as though the film I was seeing was tangible. It wasn’t physically speaking – I could not pluck out the moon from the sky and crumble it with my hand. But I could feel its pulse, I moved along with the movie in such a profound way, that each beat that it took was not only logical but enlightening.

We often perceive ourselves as minimal. As such, we believe we are only capable of minimal thought. Sure, we think more than any other animal in the world, but fundamentally speaking we are limited by size and scope. We inhabit only three of the possible dimensions out there. Bats hear more than us and shrimp see more than us. So as such, the idea that we are even capable of extending our minds far beyond the stars is one that is scoffed that. Indeed the movie presents how dismissive everyone is sending a man to the moon when there is more important matters to attend to. Important meaning within our own control. We are minimal, so we think minimal. That assertion is immensely flawed and demeans humankind, equating ourselves to tortoises without the reflexes to avoid a sledgehammer dropped from fifty stories above it.

If we are truly so worthless to be as a species, then how can we bring ourselves to reach further from our current capabilities? Why did we flirt with oblivion to establish ourselves as beyond the scope of a blue marble sitting above the dustbowl of darkness? Are we just simply unable to admit to the awesome might we possess and instead meander about with squabbles so granular that they slip from the seams of time like sand in a sieve? We could truly ascend if we took a collective pause and fused our potential together to piece the void with colorful force. First Man made it so clear that our potential is hypergalatic.

However, it was only the moon that we went to. No more beyond that. My claims of the experience with a cinematic masterpiece appear more as deceitful incomprehension and incredulous hyperbole of our proportion to the universal populous. But what I found from my stay in the delicate machinations of Damien Chazelle’s making and what befell to my greater senses is the important of Armstrong’s journey to that silver satellite that circles our world. Him analogous to him and his team and all who assisted them. They all sliced through that stable flux that we had of our own understanding. That our own eyes brought about a massive lie. They proved that we can derive order more grand than the glands inside our brains. They brought us clarity and introduced us to the third eye. It is the eye that we all share, one that sees the galaxy for the attractive desolation that it is.

For Neil to peer out to the far side of another celestial body, for them to view a new horizon was a risk so high it would be like pleading for success from rolling the universal die. The gamble stacked against us to lose smashed out all existing expectations and deserved more elation that in got. In one moment, Neil was every possible permutation bound by reality of a person that could come to be. Our whole kind streamlined to a synecdoche of an Ohio astronaut. Collective deaths, stresses, worries, concerns, pains all burdened upon Neil, forming courage for the path ahead. With that, the glass of our cosmic creation shattered and charged through to reach to the edges of one of its cliff sides. And there in the emptiness of space, we were reminded of our plight. Of what should be our true goal.

(closest image to a scene in the movie)

The whole performance was empowering, the viewing of our self confronting reality and acting as it were in our grasp to control it so hopeful. The sets so real made even more by what affected my system. It only seems more bittersweet how fleeting it was that it was just scraping the confines we were in. We have not yet slipped through the holes we made and journeyed any further. When Neil stepped on the moon, that step was into a new realm. And much like his step, Neil was frozen, overwhelmed by the success of this grand experiment. The moon was nothing more than grey powder, but stepping on it was pressing down on space itself. But the significance of this achievement was ignored, as we ignore our miracle of our unique existence. All the odds that we beat to be so unimpressive to us, we collective mope and double down on crawling into the crevices we made to cope with a growing human misery.

Amidst melodic visuals and striking melodies, First Man erases concepts of humanity and instead imposes exposure of us at our most finite of molecular congregations. We are dried and hung up by the universal thread of our existence. Every concept that we’ve concocted fades away into the odyssey as the fuel for our prodigy against the solar systems’ forces. We tore a hole for insight into our whole – the whole of our meaning.

Immediately after viewing the film I eased my way home, owning up to my existence and doing my best not to be overwhelmed. Here I was, a singular individual with their minuscule concerns still fortunate to carry along with a multitude of seconds allotted to me. But with an experience that had left me with a sentiment so impactful, majestic and cryptic, I could not let it fall to the wayside. I wrote eight pages of what was on my mind. It could not compare to what I thought up while in the theatre and even what is on here now is not what was on the page. It is the modification of a recollection of the echolocation of the mental dictation that took place. What has resulted is a riddle that is both trying to be established and trying to be solved at the same time.

The difficulty is that there does no exist a logical system to formulate the question that was posed to me in my viewing of First Man. Nor does there exist one to solve it. The words that I write are incapable of the emotions and the realizations that were so visceral that I felt them as a waterfall of my soul. Awash with confusion, my hands helplessly articulate my efforts to defeat this intellectual incompetence. Alas, all I can muster that is properly comprehensible is my adoration for the movie and the experience. With the right combination of entertainment and recreation, it seems one can discover a greater understanding of us as a whole. First Man was a beauty beyond compare, far ahead of 2001 for bringing a more personal touch and adding our amazing potential for the greater good. If I ever return to that warped perception into greater self-realization, I hope I amass more of a better understanding of our state. Perhaps then I can improve in how to communicate the awe of sinking between dimensions.

I know that this is not something to play around with. These things are not meant to be abused. They have a time and a place. Additionally, what I saw in the film will not be what I may see in the film, nor what you may see. So I cannot encourage the experience outright as much as I give it glowing praise now. Instead I can offer an imitation of a fraction of the emotion I felt overall. There’s a song in the film, Quarantine. It plays right around the end of the film. There, a harp plays softly as one listening can imagine a silence of sight. A theremin looms over as the bright edge of a new celestial body. The two waltz together and a new body is formed. In there, a new understanding is made that relaxes the tensions of everyday grievances. Confidently we must continue into this illusionary stabilization that we’ve developed to fight against the cosmic truth. One’s spirit can take a deep breath, alleviating pressure caused by the current disease we’ve afflicted on ourselves. This is the only thing that can remind me of the epiphany I had: the paradox of our lives is how we futile beings have the immense ability to give purpose to our being.

Fahrenheit 11/9 Review

Given that we're nearing the midpoint of Donald Trump's tenure as leader of the free world, it's surprising just how little we've seen of him in film. It's not a bad thing, but given how television is drowning in supposedly witty zingers about Number 45, I would have expected to seen more of him on the big screen. At the very least, I was expecting 10 crappy impersonations spray-painted orange to have popped out of some raunchy low-budget comedy making a joke that even in 2008 would have been too easy. But instead I suppose we got the next best thing, a Micheal Moore documentary focused on him which inverts the date of the most catastrophic attack to occur on American soil in recent history. Godwin only knows what will come out of that bout of subtlety. 

To Fahrenheit 11/9's credit, Trump doesn't really become the main topic so much as Trumpism being the umbrella of which the movie's topics fall under. Much of what is discussed about Trump is already known: he's a narcissistic pervert, the media has done a great job of playing into his hands, and he has gotten away with so much garbage right out in the open. Even the opening makes a point about how the campaign was all a publicity stunt. This all serves as contextual fodder to segue into recent events such as the West Virginia teacher's strike, the Parkland shooting, and of course the Flint water crisis. In fact, Flint takes up such a significant part of the film, that it almost seemed as though Moore was intending to go with that first but then had to adapt it to Trump now that he was president. Course, that would be ignoring how Moore was pretty much on the money about the Don. 

While there is a great deal that is being juggled, Moore does well enough to tie everything together but the tone does take some sharp turns that can be as disorienting as the daily news. In his other works, Moore does well to provide a good balance of humor and calm to an otherwise grim or upsetting reality that he constructs. Fahrenheit 11/9 diminishes its comedy for a starker reminder of the damage that has been wrought. The humor is isolated into small segments that are inundated with so much panic and deadpan conversations that any relief that you might've gotten is lacking. Perhaps this adds to the urgency but it further confuses what Moore's trying to aspire to, a commentator or a propagandist. 

Its brand of alarmist comedy reminds me of Full Frontal With Samantha Bee, as it appears to want to be more proactive in pushing its message and uses jokes as the ice pack that the punch delivers. Both also attack the threat from within, calling to that old political adage that Democrats are a bunch of spineless compromise-happy liberals. Moore's efforts to puncture the Democrats certainly was a lot more biting, as he chided Hilary for her complacency to the presidency and disgusting perpetuation of political establishmentarianism along with Obama being a fraud of progressive ideals, using Flint itself as one of the turning points. I've heard these points before, but having someone more mainstream as it were making them was heartening to see. Much as I would commend him for pushing the envelope a little, I can't help but feel like its not enough to win over those that feel that he's just flirting with progressivism. Despite him have some decent credibility to being a leftist rather than a run of the mill liberal, he did not necessarily hold Obama to the same fire that he has chosen to roast both Trump and Bush under. Not to mention that he still can come across as nothing more than a celebrity armchair activist. 

Perhaps the reason that I find myself so mixed on the film is because I'm mixed on the country itself. It is a nation that willingly has blinded itself to the ugly truths before it. It's one where disgraces are perverted to noble traits. It's so horrifically dismissive to consider that the entire nation approves on the travesties that the government commits domestically and worldwide or that they are merely idiots that cannot help to fall into their worst impulses out of ignorance. But they exist and they represent the United States of America. Internal divisions have distracted from larger threats that have permeated in the system and the wounds of partisanry are so deep that it does feel like something truly ugly could come to pass. Fahrenheit 11/9 encourages one to be on the alert, to not depend on easy solutions, and that eventually a collapse of the system will come, be it by the force of the people or the faulty structures caving in. Yet, it only seems that those motivated will be those that already were. And I bet you they're already doing something else than going to the movies to watch this. 

Can You Ever Forgive Me Review

Everyone's got an actor that they seem to enjoy on-screen but others tend to dislike. Perhaps we just cling to the few good roles that they've had and excuse the rest of their garbage. Or maybe it's part of our idiosyncrasy. To me, I've felt that Melissa McCarthy has been that actor. It feels to me like she's in a similar position as Adam Sandler: loved by the industry, but despised by the public for participating in comedies that aren't even worth the dignity of the dollar bin. Barring the touchy subject of the Ghostbusters remake, she has gotten the reputation as overly reliant on simple slapstick humor and being seen as just loud and obnoxious. However, I happen to believe that she does well with the crass and brash character type, being able to hone in her strengths and mold them into whatever role she's put into. Think of it like how Jack Nicholson uses anger, or how Nicolas Cage uses his batshit insanity. She might not be on par with them, but she can offer more than just pratfalls.

Of course, if one wants to see what a comedic actor is truly made of, they always have to look to the dramas, and Can You Ever Forgive Me? looked to be the one that would bring Melissa's acting credibility up a notch. Based on Lee Israel's eponymous memoir, Melissa stars as the author, struggling to make ends meet as she's a minor name in the literary world. Her latest work on Estée Lauder hardly garnered any attention and her agent Marjorie (Jane Curtin) is hardly helping her out. As she does research for her next book, she comes up with the idea to forge letters from Noël Coward, Dorothy Parker, William Faulkner and many more. She works with her friend Jack Hock (Richard E. Grant) to sell the forgeries and begins to befriend a local bookstore owner, Anna (Dolly Wells), to whom she sells her letters to along with many others.  

Marjorie makes a point that the reason that Lee doesn't have the same level of fame as Tom Clancy is that the subjects that she writes about aren't "sexy". To some effect one could say the same about the film's concept. Forgery isn't exactly the most exciting crime to tackle. Marielle Heller understands this concern and manages to do an excellent job of elevating the entire experience. From the montage of forging and selling letters to the camera closing in and appearing from unconventional angles when the tension builds, the scheme takes on a more glamorous appearance. It does well to punctuate the emotion in a scene and maintain the attention of those that might not initially be intrigued by the premise. Peppered in the dialogue are an assortment of witty moments (mostly coming from interactions between Lee and Jack) and a seemingly romantic relationship brewing with Lee and Anna that add to the film's richness.

Without a doubt, Melissa McCarthy does a spectacular job in the lead role. As mentioned before, the aggressive and blunt personality that comes through in many of her roles is prominently on display. Lee Israel is portrayed as sophisticatedly uncouth, as she is both knowledgeable of figures in high society and is a foul-mouthed alcoholic. Her sensitivity comes through as much as her toughness as she is relatively vulnerable given her situation. McCarthy has found herself in roles that try to justify her hard-shelled nature as merely a protection mechanism to the harsh criticisms of the outside world, but Can You Ever Forgive Me? is where it expands beyond the need for subversion of her usual schtick. She is able to properly deliver the warts and all of how Lee conducted herself, and she does well to make sure that the audience gives a shit. 

Strangely, this biopic manages to feel a lot more proper, in that one can sense how it truly is a novel adaptation. Though many biopics offer the third person limited perspective in which the narrative is clearly told from the perspective of the main character, Can You Ever Forgive Me? approaches it in such a masterful way that it captures the thrill of a great page turner. Narration is strictly left to the writing Lee does within the film, details about characters and Lee's understanding of them are integrated subtly and superbly, and the pacing is so steady and organically done that no moment feels unwelcome. The last point is particularly impressive given that the film surprisingly does not dwell too much on taking breathers. At times this can catch one off-guard but it hardly feels unnatural. 

In writing, there is saying that you either live a life worth writing about or write about lives worth living. Lee transgressed her way from one to the other. And if it turns out that there was far more embellishment in this adaptation of Lee Israel's forgeries, it would still be something to take pride in, much like how Lee herself took pride in her forgeries. It captures the frustration of Lee's own interests being looked over by the public, the squandering of her talents that come from her doing as well as her ability to capitalize on her talent and the sardonic wit that carries her throughout life. For the desire to have a voice and be recognized for it is the driving force of any writer. Much in the same way, Melissa has strengthened her own abilities as a performer and Marielle has established herself with a truly captivating work of cinema.

The Old Man And The Gun Review

TIFF is in full swing in Ontario, delighting those with early-bird alertness and nest-egg-minded thriftiness. There was a lot for me to choose from: Should I try the blood pumping Widows by Steve McQueen? How about I opt for the captivating Damien Chazelle biopic First Man? What if I decide to go with the Italian political satire Loro from Paolo Sorrentino to delight in my more foreign tastes? The options were many, but the tickets were so few. Though I was tempted to engage in the political documentaries on the current American quagmire and felt that it would be fun to see how long I could last in Lady Gaga's latest attempt to imitate Madonna, I instead chose two quaint "based-on-a-true-story" films each involving a criminal element.

The Old Man And The Gun got my attention immediately through the idea of the "charming convict". A character that is criminal and charismatic, some may see the concept as a cheap way to provide some grey morality into a film, but those people are what I call snitches. One often is enthralled by the silver-tongued fox that weasels their way in and out of any situation, for their motives are not for power or vengeance, but rather for love. And seeing Robert Redford and Sissy Spacek partake in sweet small-talk immediately brought to mind I Love You, Phillip Morris, a favorite of mine for being one of the greatest charming convict stories out there. For both films also revolve around a specific characteristic of the charming convict to define the movie as a whole.

In the case of The Old Man And The Gun, Forrest Tucker (Redford) is clearly aware that the days are quickly fleeing for his age. Though he does well robbing banks without the need to fire a single shot, he is often concerned about what will come next for him now that his accomplices Teddy and Waller (Danny Glover and Tom Waits) move on from a life of crime. However, once he comes across Jewel (Spacek) from his time on the 'lam, the two hit it off and he manages to slow down. Meanwhile, Detective John Hunt (Casey Affleck) slowly awaits to capture him, while he too is concerned about how his life is going.

With a soft jazzy soundtrack and an even softer tone, each day feels pleasant, resembling the stress-free nature of retirement.  Crime scenes are treated like a coffee shop conversation, as the stakes lower with each reassuring quip from Forrest. The struggles of cracking the case take the form of minor migraines in which John makes the best efforts to piece the puzzle. What should be heart-pounding and intense is mundane, a routine, especially when the ticking of Forrest's stopwatch comes into play. Of course there is also the bond that forms between Jewel and Forrest, along with John's family life with his kids and wife, Maureen (Tika Sumpter) which add to the rustic Americana delight that covers this film.

It is however when Forrest is alone that there is an unsettling sensation. It is there that that we see his fragility, his willingness to defy the law as respite from his inability to defy death. Though he may seem comfortable with living next to a cemetery, he is at his core more uneasy. Only when Jewel offers her perspective does he become reinvigorated. It's par for the course of senior-centric cinema to focus on carpe diem, and The Old Man And The Gun certainly approaches it from a reasonable perspective. Much of the change from Forrest and Jewel is subtle, compromising on their limitations. Redford does well to show that Forrest's charm is how considerate he is, despite his isolation. Along with Spacek, their chemistry comes through strongly but slightly off-kilter, burdened by how incompatible their backgrounds are.

Despite how nice most everything was, it can almost seem like there is hardly any tension. The moderator for the film opened by saying how the director, David Lowery seems to make "elevated bedtime stories" and there are certainly times when it would be better to fall asleep. Much of Affleck's scenes carried no life with them, which while logical for a dejected detective, often felt like they were there as a formality to the film's structure. It did not seem to properly contrast well with Redford's more relaxed easygoing nature, since they would often trail off or leave hardly any impact. Not to mention that his voice was so slurred and muffled that a drunk with honey soaked cotton balls under his tongue seemed more coherent in comparison.

It's a shame that his performance does undercut some pivotal points for Hurt, but in fairness, it's not like the writing does any favors. They hardly go further into Forrest's shades, instead choosing to completely portray a nefarious mastermind of multi-million theft as no more than a polite grandfather. There is beauty in the mystery of who he is, but there would be more beauty in it if there was more muddling of what that was. It helps to add more complexity to the why of his criminal activity. Yet only two or so significant details get left behind. It may seem inconsequential, but these matters should be as meticulously constructed as Forrest's heists were. However, if one were to be robbed of more layered characters and scenes with an old-fashioned romantic journey of a charming convict, then I suppose there are worse ways one could be held up.