The Rider

It's established early in Chloé Zhao's The Rider that Brady Blackburn (Brady Jandreau) is recovering from a debilitating rodeo accident. Because of his injuries, everyone around him figures that his days in the rodeo circuit are over. (One of his friends became permanently disabled from a similar accident.) But Brady is the stubborn type.

In many ways, The Rider is more of an ode to the westerns of decades passed. It focuses on the hardscrabble life of those in rustic locales, how the horse trade is how they eke out a living. Granted, things have changed since the days of John Wayne and Clint Eastwood but the point still stands.

Wonder why The Rider feels so authentic? That's because it's based on Jandreau's own life. (Hell, his own sister and father are alongside him.) Zhao had met him when she was making Songs My Brother Taught Me and what later happened to Jandreau compelled her to dramatize his story. And boy, does it work

Also of note in The Rider is the cinematography from Joshua James Richards. Gorgeously capturing the South Dakota Badlands, he has the outdoors play as much of a role as Jandreau himself. Very rarely does the scenery tell the story in a similar vein to the screenplay but Richards does just that.

The Rider is a very human story, one about those trying to achieve the American dream with varying success. Sometimes they get to the point where they want to be, other times life throws them a curveball (or several). Still, more often than not, they manage to find a way to make everything work for themselves. And that's where we find Brady as the film wears on.

My Rating: ****1/2

Let the Sunshine In

Claire Denis' Let the Sunshine In opens with Isabelle (Juliette Binoche) having sex with her married lover Vincent (Xavier Beauvois). He comes off as rather brutish during the act, even asking if she's this way with other men. (This earns him a slap in the face.) It's this scene that sets the precedent for what Isabelle goes through in the film.

And what's established in Let the Sunshine In is that Isabelle is looking for love in all the wrong places. (She's divorced with a daughter.) The men she encounters tend to meet her emotional needs initially but not so much in the long run. (Vincent, in particular, won't leave his wife for Isabelle.) Hey, no one ever said life would work out for everyone.

A common theme in various women-directed films is a better grasp of the female psyche. (Takes one to know one.) They're more likely to explore how women behave beyond the usual Freudian explanations. Sometimes it's something that happened when they were young (again, not pertaining to their family), other times it could be an event from their recent past. Either way, these depictions differ greatly from those by male directors.

Binoche has always been a radiant presence in cinema, and Let the Sunshine In is no exception. Her Isabelle may have a stormy personal life but when it comes to her career, she's thriving. She's emotionally clingy but otherwise very put together. Again, this is something more commonly found in works made by women.

Let the Sunshine In serves as more of a commentary towards the general dating scene and how convoluted it can towards some people. But with Denis' touch, it has a beating heart to it. And it's in the form of Binoche.

My Rating: ****

BOOK VS MOVIE: Lean on Pete

Many times in fiction we often see adolescents dealing with the brunt of everyday life beyond high school and puberty. Sometimes they lose a close family member, often by unnatural means. Other times their responsibilities in life increase greatly. But what differs from these depictions is how the teens handle their new situations.

With Lean on Pete, it follows Charley Thompson after his supposedly comfortable home life slips through his fingers. He decides to find his aunt but there's one problem: he's in Oregon, she lives in Wyoming (at least that's where he remember where she lives), and he has no means of getting there. With the titular ailing racehorse as his companion, he ventures out to find a place he can call home.

Willy Vlautin's novel is simplistic in its writing (it's told from Charley's point of view) but its storytelling speaks volumes in the narrative. In a style reminiscent of John Steinbeck's work, the matter-of-fact perspective from Charley shows innocence becoming aware of the hardscrabble nature of everyday life. (No one ever said life itself would be forgiving.)

Andrew Haigh's adaptation condenses Vlautin's novel to a certain degree but otherwise stays true to the source material. As his earlier films Weekend and 45 Years showed, he prefers depicting the small things that happen in one's day and Lean on Pete is no exception. And like his previous entries, Haigh shows how the little things can lead to something big.

So which is better: Vlautin's book or Haigh's movie? Both capture the modesty of everyday life, how one's usual routine can be a change of pace for another. And they also depict something else, something most fiction rarely chronicles and often eschews: the world we're a part of is both fascinating and frightening.

What's worth checking out?: Both.

Chappaquiddick

July 18, 1969. That was the evening that left permanent damage on the career of Massachusetts Senator Ted Kennedy. That was the night that cost an innocent woman her life. That was the night of the Chappaquiddick incident.

Now nearly fifty years since the accident, John Curran dramatizes the days following the death of Mary Jo Kopechne (Kate Mara) with his film Chappaquiddick, What he depicts is how after the accident, Kennedy (Jason Clarke) and his legal team tried their damnedest to save both his own and his family's reputations. But often lost in this scramble of public relations is the fact a woman died involuntarily by his hand.

Throughout Chappaquiddick, Kennedy is depicted as someone who's more concerned about his image than the people he's supposed to be representing. Now obviously this can be viewed as far from the truth (Kennedy was haunted by Kopechne's death until his dying day forty years later) or an attempt to depict politicians -- real or fictional -- as arrogant. (His wearing an unnecessary neck brace to Kopechne's funeral certainly did not help his mounting troubles.)

The depiction of the aftermath may be on shaky ground but Clarke's portrayal of Kennedy is particularly noteworthy. He plays the late senator as a man under the weight of expectation from both his father and his country. (The shadows of his brothers loom over him throughout Chappaquiddick.) Now if this was also true in real life is hard to say but Clarke is excellent.

Chappaquiddick ends up raising more questions than answering them. What caused Kennedy to drive off the bridge? Was it really an accident or was it deliberate? Was was the extent of his connection with Kopechne? The real answers went to the grave with Kopechne and Kennedy, so we may never know the truth.

My Rating: ****

Married to the Mob

Angela de Marco (Michelle Pfeiffer) should be happy about her initial situation in Jonathan Demme's Married to the Mob. She lives in absolute luxury thanks to her husband Frank's (Alec Baldwin) line of work: organized crime. But he gets whacked by his boss "Tony the Tiger" Russo (Dean Stockwell) -- who's desperate to get Angela as his mistress -- so she and her son go into hiding...which is much easier said than done.

In stark contrast to some of her work earlier in the decade (hell, she did Dangerous Liaisons the same year), Married to the Mob allows Pfeiffer to be in a lighter role and expand on her comedic abilities. (Worth mentioning that Demme's follow-up film to this was The Silence of the Lambs, again another decided career change-up.)

By this point in American history, the public was more than aware of the mafia's existence. (John Gotti as the head of the Gambino family really did not help the other four families in keeping a low profile.) There were a number of films during the 1980s alone that either made a mockery of or enforced the status of the Italian mob. Regardless of the depiction, people were fascinated by this organization.

Pfeiffer may headline the film but she's not the only actor of note in Married to the Mob. Stockwell and Mercedes Ruehl (she plays Tony's easily jealous wife Connie) steals scenes left and right. It's no wonder that they were the more recognized performers of the film come awards season (with Stockwell earning a long-overdue Oscar nomination).

Married to the Mob is further testament to Demme's worth as a filmmaker. (Being one of Roger Corman's protégés clear had some perks.) His death last year marked the end of an esteemed career of varying genres, and it's unlikely that we'll see another storyteller like him.

My Rating: ****

The Death of Stalin

If there's one thing Armando Iannucci will be forever associated with, it's the political satire. Having found immense success with The Thick of It and Veep, he serves as a polar opposite to what Aaron Sorkin did with The West Wing. (But in light of recent events, the need for such depictions has waned significantly.)

That said, his latest film The Death of Stalin still remains welcome amid these trying times. (It's nice to see something politically focused and actually laugh about it.) And surprisingly, amid the frustrated swearing and constant backstabbing, it's pretty accurate historically. (See? Truth can be stranger than fiction.)

Now because of the political world during the last two years, one would shy away from such stories in fear of ruining their day. (Hell, some of them make websites like The Onion redundant.) But Iannucci makes sure with The Death of Stalin that concerns for the current state of things are forgotten in favor of his film. (Those who say movies aren't a good escape from life clearly haven't seen any.)

Anyway, there's one thing very much proven in The Death of Stalin: have your matters in order when you shuffle off this mortal coil lest you want pandemonium to follow suit once you're in the ground. And this being an Iannucci work, there's anxiety everywhere. (No wonder they're all at each other's throats.)

The Death of Stalin may make one's head spin trying to keep up with who's betraying who but that aside, Iannucci provides an anecdote to today's political woes. Instead of dreading the outcome of the politicians' impulsivity, we can actually laugh at them in the knowledge that they're long-dead. But as George Santayana wrote, those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

My Rating: ****1/2

BOOK VS MOVIE: You Were Never Really Here

There's a real ugliness to humanity, no question about it. Some people are more than willing to throw others under the bus for their own selfish needs. But how far will these figures go as they slip further into immoral depravity?

When fiction depicts such corruption, more often than not police officers and politicians are the ones put under the microscope. But that's not to say the average person is immune from such a sensation, far from it. What seems to be the case is that the allure of money and power is too strong for them to resist, falling prey to that for control soon after. (Maybe John Dalberg-Acton was onto something...)

Jonathan Ames' You Were Never Really Here depicts a man trying to hide from such a dehumanizing society, both figuratively and literally. Having endured numerous traumas in his life, Joe now serves as a hired gun tasked with saving girls forced into sex work. But with his latest assignment, he delves into a world darker than his own demons.

Lynne Ramsay's adaptation tweaks the details of Ames' novella considerably but that in itself provides a new perspective. Joaquin Phoenix is great (as he so often is) but special mention goes to the sound mixing and Jonny Greenwood's score. That combination captures the damaged frame of mind Joe deals with every waking moment. (Hopefully awards voters will remember them by year's end.)

So which is better: Ames' take on the story or Ramsay's? The author maintains a more visceral perspective for You Were Never Really Here while the director focuses more on Joe's fractured mental state. They obviously take different approaches to the same story but that's not generally a bad thing. If anything, it shows there are two sides to every story.

What's worth checking out?: Both.

Isle of Dogs

Within the last twenty-plus years, Wes Anderson has established himself as a unique presence in the world of film. (He's certainly doing something right if Martin Scorsese's praising him.) With all but one of his films being original works (with Fantastic Mr. Fox being the lone exception), it's no wonder that he's prone to stand out amongst bloated sequels and big-budget spectacles.

So where does his latest film Isle of Dogs stand? His second foray into animation (again, the first being Fantastic Mr. Fox), it bolsters the expected mix of Anderson regulars and some surprising inclusions (Yoko Ono!) as well as that display of eccentricity. But some might be crying foul at the predominately white roster of actors amid the film's setting.

But let's focus on that, shall we? For those concerned, no, there aren't any white actors voicing Japanese characters (Tilda Swinton and Scarlett Johansson have dealt with the brunt of those previous casting decisions enough for several lifetimes.) Most of them voice the titular dogs, and the beginning of the film specifies that the Japanese dialogue remains untranslated save for a few scenes. So no stereotypes here, right? Well, not quite.

Some might view Greta Gerwig's character bordering on white savior (she sort of does) and what many perceive as Japanese culture is on display throughout Isle of Dogs. If anything, it's not so much racially insensitive as it is more along the lines of cultural tourism on Anderson's part. (Hopefully he'll learn from his mistakes here so as not to affect later works.)

Anyway, Isle of Dogs continues to show Anderson's worth as a storyteller. A few bumps towards Japanese culture aside, he possesses an imagination unlike anyone before him. Will he surpass his current cinematic streak? Only time will tell.

My Rating: ****1/2

Julieta

Life in itself often isn't fair to most people. Sure, there can be periods of good fortune but those are usually achieved by sheer coincidence. What's more likely to happen are moments of self-awakening, knowing that your existence won't go off without a hitch.

Pedro Almodóvar's Julieta in particular follows this belief. The titular character (Emma Suárez) is haunted by her past actions, wanting to understand why her daughter abandoned her all those years ago. To do so, she needs to delve into key moments she endured when she was younger. Will Julieta find the answers she's looking for?

As Almodóvar has shown before, he's compelled by complicated women of a certain age. (If only Hollywood felt the same.) He doesn't deny that we're a flawed species, how our emotions tend to get the better of us. And more often than not, those emotions are brought on by what life throws at us.

It isn't much of a surprise that Almodóvar had Suárez and Adriana Ugarte (who plays a younger Julieta) read Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking to better understand the story of Julieta. (He also had Suárez watch Elevator to the Gallows and The Hours for preparation.) It's those works that can best capture how women in difficult circumstances behave, be it for better or for worse in the long run. (As Frank Sinatra once sang, that's life.)

Julieta continues to prove that Almodóvar is the Douglas Sirk of the new century. The matter of melodrama can be rather fickle in general, and only a few properly capture its essence. And as the Spanish-born director has proven since his debut in 1980, he is one of those select few.

My Rating: ****

Hold Back the Dawn

Mitchell Leisen's Hold Back the Dawn opens with a bit of fourth wall breakage, perhaps not a surprise with Charles Brackett and Billy Wilder as the film's writers. In an attempt to earn some quick money, Georges Iscovescu (Charles Boyer) tries to sell his story to film director Dwight Saxon (Leisen). But what is his story?

Stuck in a Mexican hotel full of fellow immigrants, Georges waits impatiently for the paperwork needed to get into the United States legally. He learns from his former dancing partner Anita Dixon (Paulette Goddard) that she found a quicker solution; she simply married and quickly divorced an American to citizenship. Inspired by this, he finds a potential mark in visiting schoolteacher Emmy Brown (Olivia de Havilland). Will he succeed?

This being a work penned by Brackett and Wilder, there is cynicism all over the place in Hold Back the Dawn. (Certainly a stark contrast to some of Leisen's previous films.) Like their later works The Lost Weekend and Sunset Boulevard, the only reason their embittered protagonist is still existing is that of an idealistic woman in their life.

And much like what she would later do for Leisen with To Each His Own, de Havilland enters into an atmosphere that would test her usual bright-eyed image. Having her in a project that makes her character fully aware the world she's a part of isn't made for someone like her shows audiences that there's more to de Havilland than being swept up by Errol Flynn's roguish charm. (Thankfully the years to come would continue to bolster this.)

Hold Back the Dawn is one of the overlooked titles from the 1940s, which says a lot since the decade is chock full of noted films. The trio of leads are solid (has Goddard done similar roles?), and Leisen is one of the more underappreciated directors of Hollywood's Golden Age. (Only a matter of time before he gets his due.)

My Rating: ****1/2