For those familiar with writer/director Paul Schrader’s body of work, it comes as no surprise that The Card Counter is in line with the likes of Taxi Driver, Light Sleeper, and First Reformed. It tells a simple story of a man grappling with his past, a broken moral compass, and an unexpected romantic relationship. However, more lies beneath the surface. Not only does it provide a compelling story and harsh sociopolitical critique, The Card Counter reaffirms Schrader’s ability to produce commercially viable, exciting movies that will reach a large audience after more than two decades of hit-or-miss releases, with strong performances to boot.
    Oscar Isaac solemnly stars as William Tell, a card counting gambler who has recently been released from prison. He leads a routine, sterile life, consisting of little other than merely existing and gambling for a small profit. When the son of someone from his dark past, Cirk, played adpetly by Tye Sheridan, confronts him with a task to torture and murder Tell’s former military supervisor, John Gordo, in a small but memorable turn by the fantastic Willem Dafoe, Tell realizes he needs to intervene. To prevent Cirk from experiencing the horrors of his past, Tell enters a celebrity gambling tournament, with the winnings going towards digging Cirk out of his debt and getting him back into school. Helping him is La Linda, portrayed by Tiffany Haddish in an absolutely show-stealing performance, balancing the roles of compelling love interest, comic relief, and Tell’s manager with ease. In order to redeem Cirk, Tell is forced to remember and relive his traumatic past, going to extremes to attempt to prevent Cirk from going through with his plan.
    The film implies heavily that Tell and his former military experience involves the “enhanced” torture techniques used by the U.S. military after 9/11. Tell’s character suffers from severe PTSD from the acts he was forced to commit. This program’s dissolution ultimately led to his imprisonment, taking the fall for his superiors, including John Gordo. The flashback scenes are jarring and uncomfortable without being glorifying or grotesque; Schrader still has a knack for stylistic, effective visual storytelling, rather than some of the lofty but flat dramas he has produced in recent years, while still retaining that sharp, biting edge that he has held throughout his entire career. The final confrontation with Gordo is also executed with panache as Tell’s past and present both collide as the morning comes with a simple fade. Additionally, the gambling scenes are excellent. They are well-crafted and fun to watch, with Isaac’s expressions and the revolving cast of competing players keeping things always interesting. The film’s coda also comes as a welcome surprise for Schrader, showing a glimmer of hope in the dark, unfair world that created Tell, choosing love and compassion over violence and torture.
    The Card Counter is a triumph. With the last decade rife with studio fights, dead-on-arrival Nicolas Cage vehicles, and strange publicity for Schrader, this is exactly the kind of movie to remind the world of his capabilities as a world-class writer, stylistic director, and dark, mean social critic.
    
Score: ★★★★ / ★★★★★

It will be extremely difficult for any film release of 2021 to top the enthralling, phantasmagorical, and breathtakingly labyrinthine charms of David Lowery’s The Green Knight. The epic adventure, regarded as one of the most famous Arthurian stories, is finally realized in a cinematic form which embraces the most essential elements of that chivalric tale. It is a surrealist masterpiece which lingers in the mind for a long while, growing as a moss might, untethered to such unnecessary definitions as ‘fact’ or ‘fiction’. Of course, the original myth has its own number of retellings and interpretations. Conflicting versions of the story passed down over six centuries presently result in something which appears more as a fog than as a truth; Lowery chooses to fully embrace this tangle in its entirety and allow us the opportunity to unravel it for ourselves. After decades of Arthurian adaptations which have failed to grasp the public imagination, The Green Knight rejects bombastic action tendencies and instead appears somewhat as the brainchild of Jean Cocteau and Hideo Kojima.

​The key to unlocking the cinematic potential of a well-known legend, and Lowery kept this well in mind, is to embrace the uncertainty which envelops them. Sir Gawain is among the members of the Round Table shrouded in great contradiction. In some retellings, he is considered as an elite member of the chivalric order serving King Arthur, possessing a particularly close bond with his uncle, the king himself. He may best be characterized as the ideal knight - loyal to the throne, compassionate to those of lesser fortune, courteous to his comrades, and a formidable warrior with near mythic strength. Other portrayals of Gawain are less flattering. In some texts, he serves as a vindictive or even downright villainous rogue whose vices and moral failures lead to the downfall of the Round Table and his own death at the hands of Sir Lancelot. Therefore, any attempt to adapt the story of Sir Gawain must reconcile with this deep uncertainty. Is the story better served by the gallant hero, or the inept nephew?

​Lowery boldly decides to reject both those ideas. His Gawain (played to perfection by Dev Patel, more on that later) is hardly a knight at all; he’s just a young boy. We are introduced to our protagonist as he wakes up drunk in a brothel, too hungover even to participate in Christmas mass, only showing up in the end to impress his paramour. He stumbles to his castle and his disapproving mother (Sarita Choudhury) a sodden mess and readies himself for a feast at King Arthur’s court. Clad in fine wares, the debonair prince finally looks more the part of a knight, but notably absent the fierce dispositions and weathered countenances of his fellow Round Table comrades. While quietly enjoying the feast, the king (Sean Harris, in top form) surprisingly calls for him. In a moment of sublime tenderness, the aged king confesses to his heir that they have not had the relationship they should have had from the very beginning, a source of regret for the great monarch. He asks his nephew to sit at his side and regale him with some tale so that they may now bond. Gawain, clearly moved by this admission from his king, searches his mind for such a yarn but confesses that he has none to tell. He feels deep unease that amongst all the legends surrounding him, he alone is present due to family ties, with no feats or glory to his name. As these dual concessions are given, a beautiful track tugs at the heartstrings (‘Tell Me A Tale of Yourself, So That I Might Know Thee,’ go ahead and play it on loop after you’ve finished watching the film).

​Daniel Hart’s original score is again likely to rank amongst the best of the year. Fans of Lowery’s under-appreciated 2017 masterpiece A Ghost Story may recall that Hart orchestrated a similarly iridescent accompaniment at that time, but he outperforms himself here. It is a score which weaves in and out of the fabric of the film like its own character. Groaning violins herald the arrival of storms, moody harps are plucked to forewarn a natural dissonance, and elegiac rhymes bookend the introduction and departure of characters. Percussive strings and booming horns which accompanied the green Gawain (no pun intended) are switched out with a wonderfully deep lute when the world-wise Arthur begins to speak. It is the kind of original film score rarely made these days. Hart is instrumental in embedding within the film a feeling of the otherworldly clashing against the inflexible steels of the kingdom of man, which has claimed the world as its own haunt.

​Returning to the film, Arthur rises from his throne and asks one of the assembled heroes for a knightly parable that might amuse his court. Elsewhere in the castle, Gawain’s mother meets with a coven of what we assume are witches (it’s an Arthurian legend, after all, and although no spoilers will be discussed here, fans of the stories know who King Arthur’s sister is) and performs an unknown ritual. Why? The answer is not particularly important in the heat of the moment, but certainly consider the idea once the credits have completed their upwards trek, as there are a number of interesting possibilities which will influence the way you view multiple characters. Immediately as the women conclude the enchantment, the massive doors to Arthur’s court burst open and a hulking horse canters in, carrying on its back a most peculiar knight. In a remarkable blend of CGI and makeup, the knight is an earthen beast, perhaps best characterized as an armored Groot (the adult version). In one hand he carries a bough of holly and in the other, a massive axe long at least as any of the assembled men. Voiced by Ralph Ineson, the Green Knight is imbued with great majesty in equal terms as great mystery. With the king’s permission, he fearlessly extends the court an offer for a Christmas game. If any of the knights of the Round Table are brave enough, they may challenge him in a duel. The challenger who can successfully land a blow on him may win his axe, but in return, the man must travel to the Green Chapel in exactly one year and receive an equivalent wound in exchange.

​The heroes hesitate. It might be suspected that they are all experienced enough to not enter into such a deadly covenant issued by a clearly dangerous spirit. Gawain, however, sees the opportunity before him and seizes it. Starving for a chance at recognition, he boldly accepts the challenge, and leaps over the feast-laden table to challenge the Knight. When he calls out for a sword and no one responds, Arthur hands him his own silver blade, and reminds his overeager nephew that this is just a game. One might hope for some moment of Christmas spirit and camaraderie between the young prince and the Green Knight, but alas, only the Knight is in a festive mood. He simply lays down his axe and bares his neck. Again, in the face of such an obvious provocation, a more cautious knight might have favored a slow approach. After all, a nick on the shin or a shave off the neck would constitute a bodily blow. Gawain, unknowing in his youth and unthinking in his fear, chooses instead to behead his foe with a single stroke. Turning to look at his uncle, he sees a look of deep regret on his uncle’s countenance, but has no time to contemplate on it. The Knight, quite unfazed, collects its head in its arms and reminds Gawain to honor their agreement before mounting himself and riding off. Only the monstrous axe remains behind him. Gawain’s fear fades away as his comrades applaud him, and he regains his composure. Later on, he even brags to his lover, Esel (Alicia Vikander in a quietly luminous role), that he held Excalibur in his hands and fearlessly slew the beast. A year passes in a drunken haze and Gawain has no intention of riding out to receive any beheadings, not until Arthur meets with him and gently recommends that he make the journey that he had promised.

​We now enter the main events of the film. This review will not cover any of that epic journey, as it is quite the adventure to behold. One one hand, it serves as an incredibly intimate coming-of-age tale for the naive Gawain as he seeks out honor and glory, but instead must come to an understanding of the basic tenets of knighthood. These are the five chivalric virtues: generosity, piety, courtesy, chastity, and friendship. In the source material, Gawain is the ultimate knight inhabiting all these ideals, but suffice to say that this film does not adhere so closely to the myth. What stands The Green Knight out from the rest of its fantasy-adventure genre brethren is its cinematic approach to storytelling. Nothing in this film is given in the form of spoken word. Everything must be derived by the audience themselves as they experience the myth with Gawain. His trials and tribulations are carefully chosen by Lowery to maximize the effects of Gawain’s character arc. Well-known faces weave in and out of our perception - Barry Keoghan, Joel Edgerton, and Erin Kellyman are among the number of characters whom Gawain must encounter on his wintry journey through the cliffs of Ireland.

​Gawain confronts not only those foes on his travels, but inner demons from within himself. Constantly conflicted and betrayed by his own base desires, it is even suggested at separate intervals that he recognizes these weaknesses. After a tryst with a woman ends with her telling him “you are no knight,” he quickly flees to avoid confronting such a naked truth. He is a deeply flawed, deeply human character with a fervent desire to find honor but little incentive to genuinely better himself. Another event during his journey has a young woman asking him for a favor, which he responds to be questioning what he might receive in return. She pauses for just a second and voices what we are all wondering: “Why would you ask that?” Indeed, his biggest challenge may be his own ineptitude. We are confronted with a significant question. Do we even want him to return from this journey? By the rules of the game, he should receive the same decapitating blow he so ungenerously delivered to the Knight, and in the final moments of his life he may gain some of the honor he was searching for. On the other hand, we also desire to see Gawain truly evolve as a character and somehow work out an alternative conclusion to his tale, one which might allow his head to remain on his shoulders so that he may continue onto his path as a better man.

​A lot of our goodwill for the morally-questionable protagonist is due to the efforts of Dev Patel, in an outstanding performance that confirms his invaluable contribution in these sorts of independent productions. An Oscar-nominated turn in 2016’s Lion followed by a charismatic lead role in 2020’s The Personal History of David Copperfield heralded him as a leading voice in bold creative yarns told by skilled filmmakers operating outside the oft-stifling creative atmospheres of major studios, but The Green Knight catapults him to the top of the heap in a similar way to stars of the recent past such as Saoirse Ronan (Lady Bird) and Daniel Kaluuya (Get Out). Patel plays Gawain with a deeply unsure soul. He swaggers in front of Esel and his mother, humbly genuflects to his king, and capitulates to fear whenever he encounters the unknown. His eyes constantly sweep around him, looking desperately for easy solutions. Whenever trouble strikes, it feels like he is just a moment from turning tail and fleeing back to his castle, hiding his shame within drink and women.

​However, it is impossible to ignore the real MVP of the film, David Lowery himself. With his most operatic and ambitious film outtake yet, he brings us deep into a world of fantasy and danger, sweeping across the beautiful natural vistas of Ireland. There are shots in the film which betray words, and yet seem natural and inventive in the hands of Lowery. He is greatly aided in this venture by his cinematographer, Andrew Droz Palermo, who infuses significant moments in the film with carefully curated lighting choices. For example, take a single idea from the film: the re-emergence of the natural world to oppose mankind’s irreverence for the beauty which surrounds it. The streets of Arthur’s city are unkempt and washed out, nary a blade of grass to be seen in a veritable stone ocean. It is a land of unyielding gray. Compare this to the ethereal majesty in which the Green Knight holds court; to compare the two is an effrontery tantamount to likening the earth as to the heavens. Palermo frequently uses natural light, but is unafraid to utilize more recent technological achievements in digital wizardry to lend each sequence the lensing it requires.

​Lowery is content to draw us into a natural rhythm, ignoring the opportunity for cheap gimmicks, choosing to reveal the camera to the audience only when it achieves an effect which lingers in the depths of our consciousness. One particularly astonishing shot sees the camera patiently pan 360˚ clockwise to allow us a glimpse of a potential future for Gawain in a dire moment, and then swivel back around counterclockwise to see that Gawain himself has realized this fate and is now in the throes of a great struggle to avoid it. This incredible shot invisibly accomplishes a great deal. Not only are we given a chance to explore Gawain’s inner mindset in an intuitive and inherently cinematic fashion, but it also allows Lowery and Palermo an opportunity to break spatial bounds and exit the grounded world into something more closely approximating the tone of the great Arthurian legends. It is a prophylactic idea which occurs relatively early on and guides us onto a more fantastical environment, open to a number of more unusual possibilities which disconnect us from what we know of ‘Sir Gawain and The Green Knight,’ and drops us squarely into the territory that Lowery and his collaborators have so carefully crafted. After all, the film takes a number of creative liberties - as all great adaptations do - from the aged text, all of which are necessary to reasonably revitalize its worthy themes for a new medium.

​It is impossible to discuss this film without at least mentioning the ending. Without going into any details at all, it suffices to say it utilizes an astonishing narrative trick. It is not such a groundbreaking visual stratagem or curious abstract ruse, but the quality of material itself which must be approached with exquisite delicacy. Lowery proves to be a deft hand at this, seamlessly skating through time while maintaining the same narrative tone. It is one of the more memorable cinematic conclusions of the 21st century thus far. One may go so far as to say it equals the infamous endings of Inception or Whiplash, which simply tether their hooks into you and refuse to let you go even long after the credits have rolled. Lowery has earned a chair amongst the top titans of today, alongside technical wizards like Nolan and Chazelle, and one can only hope that this film earns him the plaudits those directors previously earned and of which he most certainly deserves to partake in.

​​The Green Knight interacts with the audience on a nearly spiritual scale. It is cinema which draws your mind to ruminate on an endless number of questions. Lowery crafts a timeless masterpiece that forces us to look inwards, refusing to give us any easy outs. Multiple interpretations of the film have already spread online, all insistent in their own veracity; yet, they are all correct and are all wrong. To reduce this film down to a single, factual plot thread does a great disservice to its creators, who labored intensely to ensure its numerous coils can be untangled in a number of different ways. The film inspires fervent discussion just as mythology passed down in written form and spoken word has done for past generations. After a dark year for cinema lovers, this is exactly the soul-stirring drama that the theatrical business needs to revive itself. The blockbuster appeals of F9 and Black Widow and Jungle Cruise will always live on. They were never under threat, though. It is an indie gem like The Green Knight which illustrates why film must survive on as an essential art form. The only relevance which we can extract from the infinite expanses of the natural universe that surrounds is that which we must seek for ourselves. Just as Sir Gawain must discover this along his arduous journey, so too must cinema survive as a reminder of that essential truth.

Score: ★★★★★ / ★★★★★

Tom McCarthy’s first theatrical film since the acclaimed Spotlight is an unusually subversive crime drama set in the localities of Marseille, boasting one of Matt Damon’s best lead turns in years. Despite a number of interesting ideas and strong trio of performances at its heart, Stillwater stumbles through an overstretched and often clunky plot, with a disappointing third act rounding out an otherwise heartfelt transatlantic drama.

Damon plays Bill Baker, a Oklahoman oil rig worker who travels to France periodically to visit his imprisoned daughter, Allison (Abigail Breslin). The screenplay, which often lacks subtlety, makes it clear very quickly that Bill and Allison do not get along very well. Baker, however, perseveres with what he sees as his only chance to redeem himself in her eyes after being absent for most of her childhood. On one particular visit 5 years into her 9-year sentence, she hands him a letter written in French - quite intentionally, since this disallows him from learning of its contents. She tasks him with delivering it to her lawyer. Throughout her entire trial and her prison sentence, she firmly maintains innocence in the crime she was accused of: the murder of a young Muslim woman who she had an affair with during her study abroad term.

Before he delivers the letter, he encounters a local single mother, Virginie (an enchanting Camille Cottin), and her young daughter, Maya (Lilou Siauvaud, in a star-making turn). When Allison’s lawyer rejects the letter, Baker has it translated by his new friends and learns that Allison has heard some prison hearsay regarding a man she believes is the true killer. Fully believing his daughter’s claims of innocence, he believes it is only right that he personally pursues this flimsy lead that no one else will. Assisted by Virginie, he wanders around the streets of Marseille looking for a single hint to latch onto, while attempting to avoid detection by the police.

However, it is at this point that the movie deviates from its procedural plot and brings into something more genuine. The widowed Baker is played to perfection by Damon. He is an unabashed American, staying at a Best Western and eating at Subway even in France. He prays before every meal and stringently follows his favorite college football team. The longer he stays with Virginie and Maya, though, the more he grows out of his comfort zone. The three of them together create an utterly believable makeshift family. Baker and Maya, especially have a terrifically strong bond, even though he can only speak English and she can only speak French. It’s a testament to the skill of Damon and Siauvaud that they can create something so genuine with just gestures and looks. With nothing attaching him to his home in Oklahoma, Baker approaches something approximating a fulfilling life. The more he relaxes into his new role in this family, the greater our hope is that he can finally relieve himself of his deep feelings of guilt, irresponsibility, and inadequacy.

The screenplay at this time is at its finest. When the film finally allows itself to take a breath and locate itself, we are lulled into this sweet tale of an American roughneck engaging in daily life 5000 miles away from home. He cooks pasta, buys clothes with Maya, accompanies Virginie to her theater rehearsal, and continues to visit Allison in prison. If the film had focused entirely on this burgeoning family dynamic, it might have been deeply moving. It is only the fault of an overstuffed and impractical third act that send Stillwater off the rails. It entirely disregards Baker’s character development and instead is content to devolve into an unnecessarily complex series of dark twists in Allison’s case.

In fact, Stillwater might have entirely excluded its Hollywood urge for a plot-based story, not just leaving the melodrama on the cutting room floor but also trimming excess fat away so it could run at a more reasonable length. The crime-drama tendencies of the movie are best felt only when exploring the inner psyche of Bill and his relationship with Allison. From the first act, we are introduced to the idea that Bill is not just an irresponsible man, but someone who will inevitably continue to hurt himself and those around him. His daughter believes that he is entirely incapable of cultivating a long-standing relationship with anyone; what’s more, she comes to believe that his self-destructive behaviors have genetically passed down to her. It’s fascinating to see how these predictions manifest, as if some fate had been pre-ordained for the Baker family which they simply cannot break away from.

Unfortunately, there are simply too many disparate plot threads in this movie to cohesively conclude. The heart of the film is undercut by a criminally undercooked Taken-esque narrative and it is disappointing that such a strong family bonding tale was of secondary importance to the screenwriters. Only the ending offers some idea of what has been lost - Baker, having returned to his hometown, takes a look outside at the quiet streets that he is so familiar with, and confesses that this world is now alien to him. It’s a poignant conclusion to his character arc and reinforces the idea that even for a person like him, the chance at redemption presents itself - it just takes immense strength to see the opportunity when extended.

Score: ★★★ / ★★★★★

Previous installments of the Purge series have squandered their attempts at tackling the issues being addressed, whether by providing bland, irrelevant commentary, such as 2013’s The Purge, or by having a pro-establishment savior, such as The Purge: Election Year. The Forever Purge, however, follows in the footsteps of The First Purge, offering an incendiary exploitation film with a fresh twist and enough Purging and violence to satisfy most fans, all while offering a natural conclusion to the series.

While not as direct as The First Purge, which was a totemic example of 21st century blaxploitation done right, The Forever Purge is a fine example of the Purge movies’ ideas and conflicts at work. The story follows a Mexican couple that has illegally crossed into the U.S. and made a home for themselves. After the annual Purge night has ended, a nation-wide group of white supremacists have called for a “Forever Purge,” continuing to commit crime indefinitely after the sanctioned day has ended. The couple, along with a wealthy Texan family who employed one of them, then attempt to escape to Mexican border. Where the previous films have shown an utmost failure of the system and its structure to offer protection for those who have less money and privilege, The Forever Purge shows its grisly end state, one of constant violence and dominant nationalist ideologies, dissolving both the facist government structure in the film, launching the country into complete anarchy, and the thin fictional veil of the Purge movies, showing a reality where this violence and hatred does not stay contained to a single night.

The film, like The First Purge, suffers stylistically without series creator James DeMonaco at the helm, but not to a great extent. While never great, DeMonaco’s style offered a unique look and energy to the events of the Purge night that was not replicated in the fourth and fifth movies, which adhered to a safer, blander visual style. Nonetheless, The Forever Purge director Everardo Gout is more than capable at handling the action of this movie, which is explosive throughout. 

While it doesn’t rise to the heights stylistically or thematically of previous installments of the Purge series, The Forever Purge mimics what it’s direct predecessor got right, while remaining entertaining and satisfying to fans of these films.

Score: ★★★ / ★★★★★

While it might be hard to make a general audience care about something as rare and expensive as white truffles, The Truffle Hunters radiates a unique energy that permeates through the runtime, despite a lack of substantial material present in the film. The film focuses on a group of aging truffle foragers and their loyal dogs in Northern Italy. While there is also a narrative undercurrent of the truffle foraging practice becoming oversaturated and even potentially dangerous, the weight of the film rests on the shoulders of its quirky subjects, as watching these aging men and their companions traipse about the picturesque Italian countryside offers a great deal of enjoyment. Although, after the credits have rolled, it leaves a little to be desired. The greater point about a younger breed of truffle foragers running these men out of their jobs is mostly lost on the viewer, as that arc is much less developed than the foragers themselves, and the occasional scene involving the business-and-consumer-ends of the truffle industry feel fairly out of place, as they consume so little of the conversations and screen time of the film. 

The film in subject feels very similar to the documentaries of the Ross brothers, as it contains no narration or subject interaction with the filmmakers, but, unlike the Ross’ films, has a very refined and cinematic look. This makes for an interesting contrast between the formalist style and realist content, with moments at which one crosses over into the other, such as the scenes where one of the dogs has the camera mounted directly on them, or where the old men enact obviously very staged conversations and actions for the camera. While a documentary that remains either entirely dedicated to one or the other, such as 45365 or Abbas Kiarostami’s Close-Up, may provide a more cohesive experience, the stylistic experimenting in The Truffle Hunters does not go unnoticed or unappreciated, as it is refreshing to see filmmakers Michael Dweck and Gregory Kershaw attempt to break free from the trappings of documentary conventions. While a bit scattered in both content and form, The Truffle Hunters manages to find moments of joy and interest in its subjects and keeps the viewers entertained throughout with occasional unconventional stylistic choice.

Score: ★★★ / ★★★★★

    It’s often difficult to translate a stage play into a motion picture. Although the mediums may seem similar at a first glance, there are several factors which can make a successful theatrical production seem hollow on film. The two major factors stem from temporal and spatial manipulation. A play must proceed linearly, with a number of factors such as visual effects, timing, and physical stage space limiting the extent of immersion for the viewer. A film, on the other hand, can openly create and invite you into a fabricated reality where anything can be manipulated. Think of Memento, Mulholland Drive, or Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Time, space, and memory themselves are abstract concepts, so in the hands of a deft filmmaker, they can be used as tools to draw you into a novel story. This brings us to Florian Zeller’s filmmaking debut, The Father, adapted from his own 2012 play Le Pére. Despite being his first film, there is remarkable intuition displayed which elevates the material past linear constraints.

    The Father follows the story of an elderly Welshman as he struggles with the increasingly bleak effects of dementia. Anthony Hopkins, at the age of 82, gives the performance of a lifetime as the film’s protagonist, Anthony. Despite being in nearly every frame of the taut 97-minute runtime, he constantly reveals new layers to his character. In a particularly astonishing sequence of the film, he enters a room and charmingly wins over a potential caretaker, before launching into a merciless tirade against his eldest daughter (who is in the room with them), lambasting those who he believes are trying to tear him away from his beloved flat, and then curtly dismissing the shocked young woman. Hopkins is a master like no other of the mood shift. Throughout his career, he has been able to swing the tone of conversations with a single look or line, and that remarkable power is in full display here.

    Although this film could likely have functioned just off Hopkins’ devastatingly empathic performance, the rest of the crew rises to the challenge of matching him. Olivia Colman is reliably fantastic in the role of Anthony’s eldest daughter, Anne. She is caught between a rock and a hard place. She loves her father and respects his drive for independence, but she can no longer see him continue down a path where he can genuinely no longer function on his own. Anthony’s caretaker Laura, played by Imogen Poots, also finds it difficult to deal with his mercurial disposition. She resembles his youngest daughter (and favorite, as he makes no secret of), he says, but he can switch between doting on her to rejecting her on a dime.

    This, in fact, is the greatest strength of the film. Although we have seen many films centering around memory loss, many of them were from the perspective of a loved one or caretaker. Zeller places us squarely into Anthony’s perspective, and we see how his world is crumbling around him. Despite his protestations that he can live independently, we see him, again and again, flailing about to find some constant he can tether himself to. Everything which he takes for fact - the appearance of his daughter, the identity of her husband, the whereabouts of his wristwatch - is revealed to be something entirely unknown. He cannot even take time as a constant. What he believed to be 8:00 AM was, in fact, 8:00 PM. Or was it? Zeller’s editor, Yorgos Lamprinos, is an invaluable contributor here. The presence of cuts is nearly invisible as we wander around this labyrinth of unreliable memory along with Anthony, unsure of what is real or false anymore. 

    Zeller, however, is not even content with the nonlinear temporal shifts or the excessively unreliable narration. He embraces the medium of film and pushes it to its boundaries. With no foreshadowing, he changes the space of Anthony’s flat itself. The living room, the kitchen, the doorway, and every other feature in the house can change in an instant. Anthony believes he is living in his own flat, but then why is his daughter’s husband saying he’s living in their flat? He looks out his bedroom window, but why does he see something different today? Every single element of this film - the layout of furniture, the presence of Anthony’s hiding spots for valuables, the color of paint on the kitchen wall - serves to further disorient the octogenarian. While he attempts to fight back at first, and reassert what he knows as the truth, we see him increasingly lose himself in despair as he no longer has the strength to question his surroundings. He knows he is walking a fine line. By questioning the madness around him, he can either assert his independence or convince those around him that he is truly beyond their help. He can see it in their eyes; they question his sanity as he tries to rationalize his surroundings.
​
    The Father, in short, is a truly remarkable feat in filmmaking, as deserving of praise as Memento or Pulp Fiction. In the pantheon of films about dementia, it stands far above its competitors. Reality and fiction, opinion and fact, family and stranger blend together and contradict each other as both the audience and Anthony attempt to orient themselves. Just as we think, ‘Aha, I understand what is going on now,’ Zeller delights in pulling the rug out from under us again in a completely new way. This is the potential cinema has to offer that no other medium can. For 97 minutes, we enter a world which may well be an entirely different reality, and yet is no less precise than our own. Hopkins continues to remind the world why he is one of our greatest living performers, and we look enthusiastically towards what Zeller does next.

Score: ★★★★½ / ★★★★★