​The title of director Sean Baker’s latest film since breakthrough Tangerine (2015) references Disney’s in-house name for the Orlando resort and theme park. It’s tongue-in-cheek that the title also references the motels-turned-housing projects outside the aforementioned Disney park in Kissimmee, Florida. The hotels and motels along the state’s infamous highway 192 are the setting of The Florida Project, an extremely confrontational look at capitalist exploitations in the sunshine state of America. Baker maximizes emotional pull by placing Kissimmee’s children at the forefront, chiefly the everyday summer adventures of 6-year-old Moonee (the outstanding Brooklynn Kimberly Prince).

Moonee’s adventures revolve around The Magic Castle, the extended-stay motel she and her single mother Halley (Bria Vinaite) call “home.” Despite the pastel purple paint job, The Magic Castle is a dump, shrouding the troubles of an economically unstable region behind it’s closed doors. “The man in there gets arrested a lot,” Moonee casually details as she gives a tour of the motel’s many rooms to her friends for the day. In another scene, Moonee and her friends watch as lost newlyweds learn they booked a stay at The Magic Castle instead of the similarly-named Magic Kingdom of Disney, and the couple express their shock of the setting as if it’s the most abominable place they’ve ever seen. The phrase Baker has used to describe the motel’s community is the “hidden homeless.” These residents aren’t living on the street, but they’re not far from it either. 

“You know why this is my favorite tree? ‘Cause it tipped over, but it’s still growing,” Moonee explains to her friend Jancey on one of their adventures where they share strawberry jam sandwiches and sit in trees. In spite of their situation, the children always make the best of it by spending their summer days spitting on cars or taking long strolls to the local Twistee Treat. Cinematographer Alexis Zabe perfectly composes her shots to frame the children walking amongst the novelty shops that populate Highway 192, as buildings shaped like half an orange or signs that proclaim “MACHINE GUN AMERICA” provide more than just backdrop to their everyday lives. Scenes hold on the kids lapping up ice cream in the hot sun, twerking and yelling obscenities they don’t understand, and the unbridled joy is rarely portrayed as effectively and as modern as it is here.

The best part of The Florida Project lies in the juxtaposition of these children and their setting, where society happens. We are a society that turns our cheek to the homeless asking for help, we say “no” to the cashier who asks if we’d like to round up for charity, we actively look past Moonee’s living situation and struggling mother to admire her bright outlook on life, despite how loud and colorful that setting establishes itself. Kissimmee, FL is just a glance at the marginalized communities that exist all over America and the systems put in place to keep them that way. Baker excellently faces the audience with this reality, to the point where I found myself purposely looking away from the screen even during scenes where nothing happens because I couldn’t help but feel so bad. That Baker is able to evoke such empathy is what makes The Florida Project an essential watch.  

Grade: A-

​Fashion has often been a fertile land for film material; The Devil Wears Prada, Zoolander, and Funny Face are some movies that come to mind. Some depict the fashion industry comically, some more dramatically, but there’s always been respect from one industry to the other. Fashion designers have even delved into filmmaking themselves, with Tom Ford and his 2016 film Nocturnal Animals being a recent edition. Only issue is, most of them aren't very good at it. 
​
This year, the founders of esteemed fashion brand Rodarte and also sisters Kate and Laura Mulleavy decided to also test their strength at filmmaking with Woodshock. They wanted to channel what it was like growing up in Northern California, surrounded by the redwoods and the constant juxtaposition of the ancient trees with the contemporary, booming industries. The camera gazes upon the infinite height of the trees with the silence and solace conveyed through main character Theresa (Kirsten Dunst) wandering around in graceful white slips. Woodshock follows Kirsten Dunst in one of her most captivating roles yet, as she plays a grief-stricken, remorseful daughter trying to navigate through her Northern California world. 

Woodshock begins in media res. Theresa can’t stand to see her mother suffering from an undisclosed illness, so she rolls up a medically legal but poisoned spliff so that her mother can go out in peace. It’s peaceful, sure, but one can’t help but feel liable in her position, and the “death weed” haunts Theresa for weeks, months. The film follows Theresa’s mental decline at a sluggish pace, which matches the Northern California, pot vibe but is otherwise a bit testy. Theresa begins making deadly mistakes at work, sitting at home and eating from strictly the middle of a cake, until she eventually rolls up 6 spliffs with a little bit of the poison in each so that she may feel like she has some control of her breakdown. 

One by one, spliff by spliff, the Mulleavys experiment with accumulating synesthesia via dissolves, blue and red hues, and dream sequences. It’s both addicting to watch and tedious at times, especially when it tries to constantly hit home the linkage between cutting down trees and ending a life. It’s especially tedious when the film tries to develop other characters, all quite poorly. There’s Theresa’s coworker who I couldn’t figure out if she had romantic feelings for, an old man who gives her drawings, and even her boyfriend who only shows up at night to tell her she has problems. With less narrative and character intrusion and more experimental filmmaking, Woodshock could have been a stunner. 

Nevertheless, I appreciated the devotion these sisters have for their hometown and for nature itself. Rodarte pieces are known for their delicacy and light floral embellishments, so the Mulleavys being able to express their passion through other art modes is inspiring. The Mulleavys have indicated interest in more filmmaking, let’s hope their passion can be proclaimed with more focus.

Grade: D

​“The chief enemy of creativity,” Pablo Picasso once said, “is good sense.” Director Darren Aronofsky has made a career of films centered around such artistic torment, as displayed in 1998’s Pi and 2010’s Black Swan. His latest deep-dive into madness, mother!, indirectly turns the camera on himself and metaphorically (don’t finish this sentence if you’re sensitive to “spoilers”) encapsulates the artistic process from inspiration to critical reception. Unlike his six other films which gestated with him for years, Aronofsky produced a rough draft of mother! in five days, which probably explains the self-centered plot, the limited dialogue, and maddening descent the ending takes.

Married couple Mother (Jennifer Lawrence, notably also Aronofsky’s current romantic partner) and Him (Javier Bardem) live in a ramshackle, three-story mansion in the middle of nowhere. Mother spends her days painting the ashen walls and re-installing sinks since the house experienced a disastrous fire a few years prior that only Him, an esteemed poet seeking to make his next masterpiece, survived. The vague names, questionable backstories, and remote setting leave a lot to be answered by the audience, thus allowing metaphorical translations to be truly subjective and consequently divisive. It’s part of what makes mother! so thrilling in its first half: Ed Harris and Michelle Pfeiffer appear as the house’s first unwanted guests, constantly causing turmoil and unsubtly re-enacting biblical scenes such as Cain and Abel and Noah’s Ark (except the flood is people). These, in combination with Mother discovering squishy blood seeping through the house’s floorboards and Him’s unrelenting generosity are only a handful of elements that I attempted interpreting for a larger meaning.

I’m curious what news story really set Aronofsky off to write mother!, because it jumps off the reality-bandwagon pretty drastically. Mother is soon pregnant and graces the guestless house in flowy white slips, caressing her tummy in the sunlight like a true angel. It’s peaceful and gorgeous, and one of the few times the camera isn’t pushed anxiously close to Lawrence’s face. Around the same time of the baby’s due date, Him publishes his newest work, and he attaches much of it’s credit to “the inspiration,” Mother. It’s here where mother! escapes reality entirely, swirling into possibly the most pessimistic depiction of humanity to grace the big screen. The house is swamped with devoted fans, fights break out imitating humanity’s history with warfare, people fight back against law enforcement officers and it evokes memories of recent police brutalities, parts of the house become dedicated to Him-mania, with maniacal religious services and images of Him dedicated to his genius. It’s nothing short of fucking insanity, and Aronofsky’s dedication to the metaphor is honestly enjoyable. I found myself cackling among other audience members at the absurdity taking place, leaning me on the more positive side of this divisive part of mother!.

Because who am I to expect any kind of subtlety from Aronofsky, the director who began his 2006 The Fountain with a quote from the Book of Genesis? Though preposterous to realists, mother!’s transition from Polanski horror beginning to degenerate Von Trier ending is delightful for how absolutely in Aronofsky goes with his self-critique. There’s nothing performance-worthy and the dialogue is mostly Lawrence shouting “What’s going on?” with a camera pressed up to her blood-stained face. It’s never about her or what’s going on; it’s all about Him. It always was. 

Rating: B

2016 film has been quite the year to uncover the multifaceted female psyche. Krisha, Elle, Kate Plays Christine, Toni Erdmann, and now the stellar Jackie explore the unearthed sexuality and trauma that female characters are often forgotten of possessing. Particularly in the case of Jackie, it’s almost criminally forgotten that there were two passengers in the backseat of the presidential limousine the day of John F. Kennedy’s assassination, one whose brains spilled out on the lap of the other. Though director Pablo Larraín (No, The Club, Neruda) doesn’t refrain from showing the horrors of that reality, his focus lies more on the overlooked, quivering trauma that Jacqueline Kennedy endured on her own.

Jackie is structured around an interview the former First Lady gave to famous American journalist Theodore H. White (Billy Crudup) eight days after the assassination. Draped in all white at the family’s secluded Hyannis estate, Mrs. Kennedy (Natalie Portman) takes long drags of her cigarette in between riveting recounts of her relationship with the White House. “Oh, and I’ve never smoked a cigarette,” she says as she lights one up looking White in the eyes, and the film’s humor emanates in these moments where she reminds White that she truly controls what’s written. Her tales begin with the assassination day itself, the real pièce de résistance in White’s eyes, as she was flung onto the Air Force One with the blood of her soulmate still stained on her pink Chanel suit.

Maybe my language is a bit dramatic when referencing these assassination day details, but that dramatic storytelling is where Larraín’s expert vision takes Jackie to transcendental heights. The Kennedy family has always been associated with Greek myth, the Iliad-like carnage and ceremony, the family curse, and even Jackie referring to her husband’s term as a Camelot- the mythologizing of a family made their deaths feel less like aberrations than like fulfillments. Much like Danny Boyle did in last year’s Steve Jobs, Larraín washes away Mrs. Kennedy’s preconceptions by presenting a harrowing tale of a woman whose love was publicly shot right next to her. Cinematographer Stéphane Fontaine’s camera draws attention to her facial responses, her nervous yet graceful Tour of the White House presence, and her more intimate moments where she’s left with nothing to think about but the “pop” sound of her husband’s death. There’s a particularly moving scene where she tries on all her previously worn, now famous dresses in a frenzy while the Camelot soundtrack blares from another room, and she looks in the mirror with a longing at what once was.

A scene like that wouldn’t work without a magnificent performance by Portman. She masters both the hysteria and poise that ran through Mrs. Kennedy’s mind for that nightmare week of her life. I wouldn’t be surprised if Portman slid into the Oscars for Best Actress once again, and it’s even more amusing that her Best Actress wins would both be for characters who themselves are strenuously performing (this and Black Swan). And Portman’s performance wouldn’t stun if it weren’t for the greatest aspect of Jackie, the thunderous Mica Levi score. Levi’s work was most prominently featured in 2013’s Under the Skin, an atmospheric, visually arresting abstraction that can be reduced to “weird horror movie,” so her experience with eerie soundscapes being introduced to a biopic on America’s most elusive first lady is so perfectly fit. 

Even though I brought up the Steve Jobs connection to this year’s Jackie, the comparison between the two I’ve seen in many publications still feels inappropriate. Steve Jobs crafted Jobs into a human by the use of those around him: his ex-wife, his daughter, Wozniak, and his assistant Joanna Hoffman. Jackie, on the other hand, is singularly about Jackie, and nothing or no one else. It’s on purpose that the title doesn’t include her last name, much like the other aforementioned 2016 female psyche-exploring films. Jackie Kennedy will be remembered as one of the most admired women of the 20th century for how she attached moral uplift to one of the most ugly events in American history; through her interview with White and the grand funeral procession she managed that stretched from the White House to the Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle. Jackie aims to capture her in exclusively these moments, and what shines past the spotlight is a woman, so keenly aware of her place in history, responding to grief like any other woman would.

Grade: A

From the first scene, Loving establishes itself as a period piece of human connection. A similar phrase was applied to last year’s Carol, a dramatic historical experience that most importantly documented longing between two women. Loving entirely focuses on the relationship between Richard (Joel Edgerton) and Mildred Loving (Ruth Negga), with some court cases and legality issues here and there. Director Jeff Nichols’s (Mud, Midnight Special) decision to feature a near-sighted vision is a refreshing one, because it strays away from the politics and melodrama to present a truly human story.

For those unaware, the Loving couple were involved in a landmark U.S. Supreme Court Case, Loving v. Virginia, that invalidated laws prohibiting interracial marriage. Getting to this point was not easy; the Lovings endured prison sentences, dirty looks, restraining orders, and covert operations just to live. Though it was set in just the late 1950s, the America the Lovings lived in feels far different from the one we have now. Adam Stone’s camerawork glides over the acres of land in rural Virginia and fixates on the time period’s bulky cars, manual labor construction, and large wooden estates. Such a setting makes the Loving’s relationship all the more romantic, as scenes where Richard and Mildred simply hold each other on their front porch for solidarity become some of Loving’s most memorable moments.

Really, there’s not much to say regarding Loving’s story or bold choices because it’s simply an impeccable portrayal of humanity through those sentimental moments. Loving ditches exposition and overproduction for a hushed two-hours of complex and imperfect leading characters. I argue this method hits the mark by cogently communicating the injustice of the Lovings’s situation as two developed and imperfect humans just trying to live. Not only is Loving’s delivery effective, but it’s highly accurate, as the Loving couple in real life avoided the press and even sat out their court cases to spend time with each other and their children. Though they lived quietly, their relationship made powerful strides in American history that will continue to reverberate for generations.

So it’s in those moments where the Lovings watch their mixed-race children play, or in the trailer where Richard tells his ACLU lawyer Bernie Cohen (Nick Kroll, who performs excellently in a much more serious role than he’s used to) to “tell the judge I love my wife” that Loving stunningly excels. Nichols proves that you don’t have to have manipulating scenes of four black girls in an exploding Birmingham church or a montage of slave lynchings set to Nina Simone’s “Strange Fruit” to make a statement. Edgerton and Negga deliver two of the year’s best performances, Negga especially because she even expertly captures the identity questioning that Mildred faced in real life (backstory: Mildred identified as part Indian, part black, and part white). With this in mind and the film’s heroic subject matter, Loving definitely seems like a shoo-in for the Oscar nominations, a status it absolutely deserves. Loving may not be the most entertaining film out there, but it’s compelling nuances are worth the engagement.

GRADE: B

​Covered in bruises and cowering from a guidance counselor who can’t help but push legal advice, Chiron painfully responds, “You don’t even know.”

Moonlight follows Chiron through three chapters of his life: youth where he’s miserably nicknamed “Little” (played by Alex Hibbert), adolescence (played by Ashton Sanders), and adulthood where he goes by “Black” (portrayed by Trevante Rhodes). The first time we see Little, he’s being chased and threatened by school bullies. Eventually Little runs fast enough and finds refuge in an abandoned apartment, but the yells of “faggot” and “weak” sound louder than ever when he’s hiding by himself. In a setting troubled with an unspoken masculinity complex (AKA my beautiful homeland of 18 years South Florida), Little struggles with his identity and classifying it. It’s not like Little is outwardly homosexual at his age, but his classmates make fun of his small size, his aversion to playing football and his inclination to actually express himself in dance class.

So when neighborhood drug dealer Juan (Mahershala Ali) finds Little hiding in that empty apartment, it’s like a lifesaver thrown in to save Little from the drowning expectations of manhood. Juan offers a home with warm food, clean bedsheets, and most importantly safe from judgement. It’s also got one less drug-addicted mother (Naomie Harris), who haunts Little’s nightmares all the way into his adulthood. Little avoids going home as much as possible to get away from his negligent junkie of a mother, but it’s tough when she’s the only being he really has.

So when Chiron, now in high school, struggles but finally achieves that “You don’t even know” in a whisper to his guidance counselor, it’s truly resounding. That guidance counselor, Juan, Chiron’s mother or we as an audience will never know what Chiron is going through. Director Barry Jenkins, a graduate of FSU film school with his cinematographer James Laxton and also raised in the South Florida area, has uncanny control over this idea, crafting every shot of Moonlight to be as sympathetic as the last. He not only pushes the conventions of masculinity through Chiron, but perfectly captures the absolute endeavor of crystallizing an identity, especially one that feels so unconventional. Personally, watching Chiron struggle in a setting that I endured for 18 years, where I constantly questioned my sexuality and even my personhood because I wasn’t some sexy beach go-er, where I listened to Frank Ocean’s channel Orange nonstop for some kind of retreat, where I never felt fully satisfied with my friends because I never felt understood- it struck a chord with me that no cinematic experience has ever done before.

Fast forward some years and Chiron has chiseled up to the adult man that everyone refers to as Black (it’s even on his license plate, as well as “305,” the area code for Miami). He didn’t really pick the nickname this time either; it was assigned to him by his best friend Kevin (Jaden Piner -> Jharrel Jerome -> Andre Holland) in grade school, someone he hasn’t connected with in years. When they are inevitably reunited, watching Black actually feel comfortable with someone who really knows him is a relief. Throughout Moonlight, Chiron speaks very little but so does every character, and Jenkins focuses on those silences to convey some of the film’s most powerful moments. It’s similar to last year’s Carol, where these characters aren’t given the words to express how they feel under society, and that Jenkins could achieve director Todd Haynes-level mastery by his second film is nothing short of amazing. I admittedly had a difficult time writing about Moonlight because I wanted to talk at length about it’s politics and unafraid blackness, it’s setting that I relate to so heavily, it’s main character development divided into chapters that reflect realistic growth, the incredible acting done by ALL, the gorgeous blue-hue throughout… at this point, I can only let Jenkins’s masterpiece speak for itself. 

GRADE: A+

​I guess no edition of The Birth of a Nation can be without controversy. The original 1915 silent epic drama film is a “historical representation of the Civil War and Reconstruction Period, and is not meant to reflect on any race or people of today,” as said by director D.W. Griffith in the opening credits. Despite his modest disclaimer, Griffith’s film had devastating effects on race relations that are still present today.

The Birth of a Nation (1915) is three+ hours of racist propaganda that starts with the Civil War and ends with the Ku Klux Klan riding into the South to save the whites from black rule. Griffith’s vigorous report of the Civil War and Reconstruction has been debunked as totally inaccurate; Reconstruction was a disaster, Griffith uses stereotypes to show blacks committing heinous and absurd crimes so that the KKK could swoop in and save the day. But at the time, The Birth of a Nation (1915) was presented as completely accurate, and Griffith’s film is often attributed to reigniting America’s Civil War, one that black Americans still struggle with today.

Infuriated with white supremacists having a film that documents their origins with overt pride, Nate Parker directed, wrote, produced, and starred in his own film of the same title, but with a large twist: The Birth of a Nation (2016) is an origin story of the Black Lives Matter movement. This origin doesn’t begin with the death of Michael Brown in Ferguson or Trayvon Martin in South Florida, but with Nat Turner’s slave rebellion in Southampton County, Virginia in 1831. Nat Turner’s Rebellion involved rebel slaves killing about 65 people, and holds the record for the highest number of fatalities caused by any slave uprising in the Southern United States. The Rebellion inspired black freedom from white American chains, and slaves quickly learned that the only way out was to go down fighting.

The insurgence and faith shown in The Birth of a Nation (2016) is reminiscent of “social justice warriors” today, a term coined by journalists that emanates a negative connotation for these humans who simply want equal rights for all. #BlackLivesMatter and LGBTQA+ rallies and Women’s Rights movements all represent underrepresented groups taking a stand against the treatment they’ve been told to “get used to” for centuries, and their stances are just and deserved. Nat Turner was a preacher who communicated hope to slaves that they could power through their work with Jesus Christ at their side, and The Birth of a Nation’s best aspect is how deeply Christian it is. In scenes where Parker boasts verses from the Bible with unwavering fervor, Parker skillfully proves he knows how to thrill audiences with the same kind of passion Turner had for his slave brethren. 

Receiving rave reviews since it’s premiere, winning the Audience Award and Grand Jury Prize in the U.S. Dramatic Competition at the 2016 Sundance Film Festival, and subsequently sparking a bidding war for distribution rights that set a new Sundance record of $17.5 million, Nate Parker’s The Birth of a Nation (2016) had a bright future ahead. That was, until news reports uncovered the dirty truth behind director/writer/producer/actor Nate Parker and his co-writer Jean Celestin.

It is here where I’d like to let everyone know that I strongly do not support Nate Parker. I picked up the The Birth of a Nation (2016) screening weeks before reading the news, and kept my attendance to the screening as the responsibility of a film critic.

There’s no question or doubt about whether Parker’s controversial rape happened at this point; it happened, and the female victim took her life because of it. The timing of the controversy is odd, given that this seventeen-year-old case has received new light just weeks before Parker’s nationwide debut/the height of this black man’s career. But the evidence here is quite overwhelming, and alcohol is once again brought up as a horrible, fake “excuse,” and I find it extremely difficult to defend Parker. I don’t think the timing of the controversy makes a difference, and it’s even worse that Parker still refuses to apologize for the incident, claiming he’s a “family man with daughters” now (as if that makes a difference? As if that makes the past sexual abuse go away? As if that’s any kind of consolation for the victim’s family?). Roxane Gay of the New York Times said it perfectly: “Just as I cannot compartmentalize the various markers of my identity, I cannot value a movie, no matter how good or ‘important’ it might be, over the dignity of a woman whose story should be seen as just as important, a woman who is no longer alive to speak for herself, or benefit from any measure of justice. No amount of empathy could make that possible.”

So as I review The Birth of a Nation (2016) to the best of my abilities, I urge you all to consider Gay’s quote, and that the age-old “Can you separate the art from the artist?” question will never have a clean, simple answer. Meaningful art will endure regardless of how people feel about the person who made it. The best we can do is draw our lines in the sand about what classifies someone as a “terrible person,” hold to our convictions, and go from there.

The Birth of a Nation (2016) works a stellar concept but plays too much with audience sadism; it’s exactly like if Ryan Coogler directed a Braveheart remake, from the religious iconography to the martyr climax. Parker shows slaves getting whipped, their teeth getting pulled out by their masters, the bloodied cotton stained by those whose black fingers got pricked every day for work that they have yet to get reparations for. The movie plays out clumsily, what with this being a heavy-loaded debut for Parker as a writer/actor/director/producer and the message he’s trying to spread being equally cumbersome, and it makes sense since Parker isn’t really there in the director’s chair to focus his aesthetic decisions.

Though The Birth of a Nation (2016) has no issue with it’s confidence, it’s not the same unflinching yet tactful work done by Steve McQueen in 12 Years a Slave. Where McQueen focused on showing slavery as an abhorrent part of our past and forced audiences to face that fact with uneasy restraint, Parker’s whole aim seems to be to scrape as much white guilt from his audience as possible with aforementioned sadism. It’s manipulation reminded me of 2014’s Selma, where director Ava Duvernay too often gave in to predictable and drawn-out violence scenes instead of really utilizing David Oyelowo’s stellar performance and dissecting MLK’s personality and character with more depth. Selma is really good, but it’s hardly memorable two years later, which is a shame for how relevant its topics and themes continue to be, and the same can be said of The Birth of a Nation (2016).

Parker’s poor treatment of female characters is also worth noting, as almost all of them are there to serve Parker’s character. Once Parker’s character’s wife gets raped by white slavemasters in a pivotal scene, she’s given about two additional minutes of screentime, and the essential and scary idea of how specifically black women were treated back in the day is used simply as a plot-device for Parker’s character to move forward rather than an important character trait for his wife.

​And I realized in this scene that this is what my duty as a film critic is. As a movie consumer, I feel no urgency to support Nate Parker with a paid ticket. But as a critic for NUFEC and beyond, it’s my duty to report on the intersection of culture and politics, to see if a movie like The Birth of a Nation (2016) lives up to the Sundance hype it received, and to report on what Parker has to say about sexual violence and power via how it’s depicted in the film. I didn’t have to face the moral dilemma audiences will have to when The Birth of a Nation (2016) is wide-released, but I can only hope my discourse is able to help navigate through the discomfort.

Grade: C

​The Arab-Israeli Wars are barely taught in secondary schools; it’s actually more likely that they’re not mentioned at all. The Israeli-Palestinian Conflict is one of the world’s major sources of instability, and most Americans are unaware that the U.S. is providing Israel with at least $10.2 million per day in military aid during the fiscal year 2016. Focused on the time around the First Arab-Israeli War (1948) against the backdrop of the last days of the Mandatory Palestine in Jerusalem, Natalie Portman’s directorial debut A Tale of Love and Darkness has a whole lot of Portman’s heart dedicated to the material, but too much of a self-conscious somberness hangs over the film, holding it back from the real emotional poignancy it so needs.

Based on the acclaimed memoir of the same name by Amos Oz, A Tale of Love and Darkness follows narrator Amos (Amir Tessler) recounting stories about growing up post World War II in an attempt to dissect his mother’s unsolvable, mystery malaise. Portman focuses less on the setting and time period, and instead on the setting and time period’s effect on Fania (Natalie Portman), Amos’s mother who would certainly be classified with clinical depression today (it’s timely accurate that the word “depression” is never mentioned throughout the movie, since that was a disorder not properly classified or taken seriously at the time). Fania is often found staring broodily out the window in muted grey dresses, sitting in the rain like it’s her natural habitat, and doesn’t say much to her child or husband regarding her condition. She is constantly haunted by her memories of living carefree with her sisters in Ukraine, a land that is not so caught up in conflict and confusion as Jerusalem.

Scenes with her bring the movie and audience down, as they should given the mental disorder being shown on screen. Fania’s dreams of moving to Israel involved marrying a handsome farmer or soldier, but she instead feels suffocated by the normalcy and nerdiness of Amos’s father, a Lithuanian literary critic. The stability and happiness of Amos’s father and Amos is a dream itself, but a dream come true is inevitably a disappointment, which is a common Zionist idea. In his book, Oz often speaks on how Israel as a place for Jewish people was more of a hopeful dream than a reality, and would just eventually lead to disappointment as dreams too-good-to-be-true eventually end up. Portman attempts to play out this idea with Fania and the supporting characters, but there’s not enough material there for the message to be properly conveyed, and instead Fania’s depression is shown in melodramatic visual cliches.

With the pulling source material and important setting/time period, it’s a slight disappointment that Portman couldn’t do more with what she was given. A Tale of Love and Darkness does have hints of promise in Portman’s work, and I’m eager to see where she goes next. Her decision to adapt Oz’s memoir because of her Israeli pride is one of genuine compassion, and I’m interested to see what other films of this ilk she can produce in the future. The Israeli-Palestine conflict is topic not often covered in classrooms, films, and mass-media news, but films like A Tale of Love and Darkness are necessary reminders of the harsh realities and absolute dreariness that reside there every day.

GRADE: C-

​Propelling its way into the summer 2016 blockbuster canon, Ghostbusters reworks the franchise’s original charm and goofiness with an insinuating all-female cast. Why this matriarchal cast was so newsworthy is beyond me- director Paul Feig has made Bridesmaids and Spy in the past, both female-driven comedies, with no noticeable uproar from misogynist internet trolls. So it’s safe to assume that because Feig knowingly chose Ghostbusters to remake, the entertaining 1984 comedy that can best be described as the perfect B-movie, the trolls went ape-shit and backlashed against Feig for “ruining” such a “classic” with, uh, women.

I want to start by saying that I still don’t really understand why Feig chose Ghostbusters to remake. It wasn’t asking for an all-female cast, it’s all-female cast doesn’t make me rethink third-wave feminism, and the original Ghostbusters honestly isn’t that good or bad to deserve a remake. It baffles me more that the backlash of it was from rabid fans (mostly male!) that find the original Ghostbusters, a joking, charming comedy with endearingly bad CGI ghosts and fart noises, to be such a sacred text open to ruination. Show me an all-female Ocean’s Eleven or The Goonies to better demonstrate how the larger representation of females in film can greatly assist the population in viewing females as fellow humans and not objects, and then I’ll excuse the gimmick.

But for now, we just have Feig’s Ghostbusters, an unfortunately trite gimmick at best. The four leading ladies are fantastic, and their charisma together is what really makes Ghostbusters a generally good time, but the gender-swap is really the only thing the movie has going for it. Ghostbusters is otherwise an exact rehash of its original, even containing word-for-word quotes, the same set pieces, and the same character personalities, including good ol’ Stay Puft marshmallow man. My point still remains: what’s Ghostbusters (2016) worth if it doesn’t make it’s old ideas feel new again, even with an all-female cast? It’s existence is such a fraudulently progressive stance, considering that the movie does nothing new to cater to it’s power-packed cast, and that the original content isn’t malleable enough to create something truly innovative.

Alas, Ghostbusters (2016) does exist now, and it adds to the inclusivity we’ve seen in recent years like in The Force Awakens and Mad Max: Fury Road. There’s some difference in the humor, like how the women defeat the final boss by shooting it in the crotch region, but it mostly acts like a blatant middle finger to the backlashers who really don’t deserve attention anyways. Kate McKinnon is a standout as tech-junkie Jillian Holtzmann, as she twitches in the background of every scene and *licks* her gun before destroying every ghost in sight in a slow-motion, brazen scene in the third act (it’s so badass). Kristen Wiig and Melissa McCarthy seem to reprise their typical selves in their roles, and Leslie Jones is also an added delight, though I was slightly bothered at how her character is shooed in near the middle and is given no scholarly experience compared to her other educated and *ahem* white coworkers. For what it’s worth, Ghostbusters will deliver a good time to all, and for once I hope it does produce a sequel so that it *can* generate something truly fresh and radical. And with that: all my ladies say booyah! (emphasis on the “boo”) ;-)

GRADE: C+

​P.S. don’t stick around for the post-credits scene. It’s grossly bad. It’s basically a shirtless Chris Hemsworth sexy-dancing, which like, what does *that* have to do with a movie whose marketing campaign is it’s liberalness? Way to really pinpoint your audience as *just* heterosexual females, Mr. Feig.

​Made by those behind the multi-billion dollar atrocity that is the Despicable Me minions, The Secret Life of Pets begins by imagining what domestic animals in New York City do when their owners leave for work every day. It’s main storyline is an exact ripoff of Toy Story, replacing the toys with pets: owner loves pet, owner brings in competition, competition and original pet get lost and have to find their way home but also find friendship between them in the interim. The initial trailer with comedian-voiced dogs (Louis C.K, Hannibal Buress, Kevin Hart, Bobby Moynihan, Dana Carvey, etc) blasting System of a Down and barking incessantly at squirrels showed promise and ingenuity despite it’s hugely unoriginal plot.

For the movie’s Saturday at 10am screening, my hungover state of being was not fit for this theater full of children’s laughter and bright images, but through all of my nausea I could tell that The Secret Life of Pets was nothing but spoon-fed entertainment with all promises properly fabricated by movie trailer-makers. The funny trailer turns out to be an opening montage that lays the groundwork for a bland retread of Toy Story’s “how do you know what happens if you’re not there?” gimmick, but barely scrapes the barrel with this idea like Toy Story did with a much more engaging and pleasing reality.

Boisterous young terrier Max (the OG pet, voiced by Louis C.K.) and wooly Newfoundland Duke (Eric Stonestreet) find themselves swallowed by the dangerous New York City streets and sewer systems, and their adventures don’t lack in energy. They fall into a sausage factory and sing a Grease-inspired “We Go Together” rendition vis-à-vis sausages, run into trouble with a group of rejected sewer pets led by a vicious but adorably animated bunny (Kevin Hart), and are constantly being chased by a goofy pair of human animal control workers whose fruitless attempts at capture are silent-film reminiscent. All the while, other household pets (also all voiced by comedians) are on the search for Max and Duke, and this litter of pet personalities provides a variety of entertainment for the children, while references to films like The Fugitive and Some Like it Hot are enough to produce an adult chuckle here and there.

I’ve been trying to avoid sounding as ADD as the movie itself, but The Secret Life of Pets is overstuffed with dancing wiener sequences and butt-sniffing gags that it leaves no room for emotional payoff or character investment. All of it’s quick jokes seem to go against the calculated nature of it’s stand-up comedian cast, and it’s endless jests will have it’s audience leaving the theater with no recollection of substantive material. I hate to make the Pixar comparison here, but if you’re going to the theater to see an animated movie this weekend, I do suggest Finding Dory over this one.

Unlike similarly animal-centric like this year’s Zootopia (which is magnitudes better), The Secret Life of Pets is a void of entertainment that avoids all sharp turns into actual topics like the domestication of pets and the inhumanity of abandoning them to deliver an ending with no heartfelt message to send the kids home with. It’s excessive marketing through television airtime, Snapchat filters, and train car posters gives me PTSD flashbacks to last year’s Minions appearing on, and consequently destroying, everything I loved, but at least these animals are cutely animated with their fluff that just begs to be petted. The most amusing time I had with The Secret Life of Pets was walking home post-screening and strolling alongside real-life dogs on leashes, being led by their owners with loyalty. I imagined what they would be saying and laughed to myself as I pictured the tiny lap dogs having thoughts of violent world domination. If only.

Grade: D