We’re eight months into 2020, and despite the pandemic circumstances still throwing life as we know it upside down, the movies persist. Well, some of them. The theaters might still be closed in some states, but a small crop of films headed straight for digital or streaming releases (sometimes earlier than expected) have made their way into our quarantines over the last month. From a Charlize Theron–starring action flick from Love & Basketball director Gina Prince-Bythewood to a retro sci-fi film on Amazon Prime (The Vast of Night) to a mesmerizing portrait of a teen queen bee (Selah and the Spades), here are the best movies Vulture has seen and (for the most part) reviewed so far, according to critics Angelica Jade Bastién, Bilge Ebiri, David Edelstein, and Alison Willmore.
(A reminder about methodology: This list is restricted to films that have had their first official release in 2020 — so no Portrait of a Lady on Fire, which had a brief run in 2019 — and we will continue to update it throughout the year.)
Anime’s king of feels Makoto Shinkai conquered the world in 2016 with his body-swap romance Your Name, a massive global hit that’s (of course) set for an American remake. So it’s not a surprise that he’s stayed in similar teen-fantasy-romance territory for his follow-up, about a young runaway to Tokyo and the orphaned girl he falls in love with — a girl with the power to bring the sun out, however briefly. What is surprising is the moodiness of Weathering With You, a love story for an era of climate change that staunchly refuses the idea that the young have to sacrifice themselves on the altar of the decisions of previous generations. It’s darker and less deliriously swoony than Your Name, but its emotions are just as big — big enough to change the course of the future.
Look, all you really need to know about this trippy H.P. Lovecraft update is that Nicolas Cage stars as a husband, father, and would-be farmer who owns and does a lot of shouting about alpacas. Or maybe what’s most important is that this throwback horror freak-out is the work of filmmaker Richard Stanley, making a long-in-the-works comeback over two decades after he was famously fired from the disaster that was The Island of Dr. Moreau. Either way, rest assured that things start going very poorly for the ill-fated family at its center, not to mention their animals, when a meteor crash-lands on their rural property and starts warping reality around it.
Director Kitty Green’s scripted debut depicts a long day in the life of a low-level drone at an unnamed New York film studio not unlike the Weinstein Company. Jane (Julia Garner) takes calls and makes copy and scrubs the bodily fluids off the couch in her boss’ office, all with the same look of grim understanding that this is what she has to endure to get ahead in her dream industry. Spare and devastating, The Assistant serves up a portrait of an abusive workplace in which the behavior of the unseen man at its head trickles down to inform the power dynamics and behavior of the rest of the company. That includes HR, to which Jane pays a visit in a brutal centerpiece scene that emphasizes what it’s like when the only choices open seem to be to become complicit or to give up.
Romanian director Corneliu Porumboiu loves to play with procedure and form; he’s an ideal director for playful tales about bureaucrats, cops, and other officials in a country still wrestling with the decades-long fallout from a communist dictatorship. His movies are cosmic comedies shot through with moments of ironic tragedy, and this crime comedy-drama might be his weirdest one yet. It starts off as a bizarro tale about a policeman who has to learn a “whistling” language used by the inhabitants of one of the Canary Islands in order to help free a gangster from prison, then twists into a moving meditation on love, loyalty, and self-improvement. Best experienced without knowing anything beforehand; I’ve already said too much!
Russian director Kantemir Balagov’s soul-crushingly powerful and exquisitely mounted historical drama (which really deserved at least an Oscar nomination this year; it was short-listed but didn’t make the final five) follows two female veterans trying to reconnect with life in postwar St. Petersburg. It starts off in unspeakable tragedy — the young director is known for booby-trapping his films with the occasionally devastating image or plot development — which makes for a striking emotional and structural gambit. As the characters wrestle with their own trauma, we, too, are dealing with the consequences of what we’ve seen. What makes it all work — and work so beautifully — is Balagov’s almost supernatural command of film language: the elegance of his storytelling, the vivid, symbolic use of color, the humanism of the performances. You can bask in Beanpole’s cinematic delights while simultaneously having your heart ripped to shreds.
At first blush it’s easy to dismiss Birds of Prey. But this feverish spectacle directed by Cathy Yan and scripted by Christina Hodson is a triumph that takes the typically limp superhero genre and injects it with life and bravado as it traces Harley Quinn’s (played by a brilliant Margot Robbie) emancipation from the shadow of her relationship to the Joker. What could have been a trifle turns out to be a rich reimagining of Gotham City into a glittery haven for criminals like Ewan McGregor’s prancing Black Mask and his right hand, Victor Zsasz (Chris Messina stealthily turning in one of the best performances in the film), who are nipping at Harley’s heels over a lost diamond. The plot is besides the point. What matters is the visceral experience. The costume design by Erin Benach is iconoclastic, drenching Harley in a confetti-and-caution-tape aesthetic. The supporting actors give surprisingly realized turns, especially Mary Elizabeth Winstead as the awkward but committed assassin Huntress on a mission of vengeance, and Jurnee Smollett-Bell’s high-kicking fearsome Black Canary. What makes the film sing at the right register of pleasure is its commitment to crafting some of the most audacious, eye-catching, and bone-crunching action set pieces that brim with humor and complication thanks to stunt coordination and fight choreography by Chad Stahelski. We got to see the film four times in theaters before all of this happened, and with each viewing our hearts burst with more appreciation for this scrappy, wild, bombastic film.
We wish we could have been a fly on the wall when Ken Loach — Britain’s foremost cinematic chronicler of working-class angst and quotidian humanism — first learned about the gig economy. The concept fits right in with the veteran director’s moral vision of a world in which ordinary humans regularly think they can outsmart a system designed to destroy them. In this infuriating, heartbreaking drama, a middle-aged former builder starts driving a truck making e-commerce deliveries and discovers that his dream of being his own boss is the cruelest of illusions. Meanwhile, his wife, a home health-aide worker, struggles with her own corner of a so-called growth industry. What makes this one of Loach’s best isn’t just its rage (which is plentiful) but its compassion (which is overwhelming). It offers a touching cross section of humanity, in which everybody is caught inside a giant machine that discards the weak, feeds on the strong, and perpetuates itself.
Exhilaratingly political but unfailingly intimate, Eliza Hittman’s third film is a thriller whose antagonist isn’t a person, but a society bent on treating the bodies of the main characters as common property. Never Rarely Sometimes Always takes place over the course of a few days in which a pregnant teenager travels with her cousin to New York City to obtain the abortion that restrictions have made unavailable to her in their home state of Pennsylvania. The precariousness of their situation, which soon stretches beyond the capacity of their meager resources, is counterbalanced by the strength of their bond. Newcomers Sidney Flanigan and Talia Ryder aren’t just magnetic — they convey, often without words, what it means to have someone to really rely on.
The rhythms of Kelly Reichardt’s hardscrabble 19th-century Pacific Northwest frontier drama are idiosyncratic if not inscrutable, which is why you’re unprepared for sudden revelations or flashes of connection. Her focus (after some throat-clearing) is the bond between two criminally endearing men: a mild-mannered baker (John Magaro) and an enterprising Chinese immigrant (Orion Lee), who hatches a plan to squeeze milk every night from the region’s lone bovine (owned by the county’s wealthiest man). The doughnuts they fry up make them gobs of money while leaving them open to mob justice, and you’re torn between elation (take that, rich ass!) and dread. It opens with a line from Blake: “The bird, a nest, the spider, a web, man friendship” — an assertion that home isn’t a place or thing but a connection to someone not you. This haunting movie transports you to another world — and redefines home.
Ben Affleck gets one of his greatest (and most personally resonant) roles as an alcoholic former high-school basketball star who gets a chance at redemption when he’s hired to coach his alma mater’s hopeless hoops team. This could easily become mired in clichés, but director Gavin O’Connor and writer Brad Ingelsby strike a fine balance between delivering the promised underdog sports drama and presenting a portrait of trauma and grief that resists easy solutions. At the center of it all is the star’s tense, restrained performance as an emotionally distant man whose considerable demons can’t really be vanquished with a few wins.
Haley Bennett is absurdly good as a Hudson Valley housewife who’s sleepwalking through a controlling marriage until a psychological disorder forces her into awareness. Carlo Mirabella-Davis’s psychological drama is an exploration of domestic oppression and unexamined expectations of motherhood — but it’s also its own kind of body-horror story, as its heroine finds herself indulging in the urge to swallow things that were never intended for human consumption. These increasingly disturbing spectacles are enfolded in a movie that’s otherwise mesmerizingly beautiful, like a dream that gives way to a nightmare before dumping you, abruptly, back into the land of the living.
Liz Garbus’s grim Netflix drama is based on Robert Kolker’s powerfully empathetic book about the victims of a still-at-large Long Island serial killer believed to have butchered between 10 and 16 female sex workers — whose bodies lay for years on a stretch of Gilgo Beach. Garbus focuses on the conflict between a working-class mother (Amy Ryan) whose oldest daughter has disappeared and the Suffolk County Police — led by a grave, empty suit (Gabriel Byrne) — who don’t exactly put themselves out for missing “hookers.” The film lacks the scope of Kolker’s book, but in tracing a link between murderous misogyny and patriarchal indifference it leaves you bereft (Why aren’t they acting like committed TV cops?) and then outraged. It’s an anti-police procedural.
Blow the Man Down
This one didn’t open theatrically, so once upon a time it probably wouldn’t have qualified for this list. But screw it, we live in extraordinary times — and besides, this atmospheric murder thriller set in a small New England fishing village is the kind of artfully mounted, suspenseful little charmer they don’t really make anymore, so it feels extra special. Two cash-strapped sisters, struggling to hold onto their house in the wake of their mom’s death, find themselves in the middle of what appears to be an elaborate, twisted conspiracy involving the town brothel and a gaggle of old-timers with some dark secrets. The central mystery itself is interesting, but the main attractions here are the colorful cast of characters and the compelling sense of place established by writer-directors Bridget Savage Cole and Danielle Krudy.
A rural village in the sertão comes under attack in this film from Juliano Dornelles and Kleber Mendonça Filho. To say more about the culprits would constitute a spoiler, but rest assured that Udo Kier is involved. Bacurau is a blood-pumping exploitation riff and a ferocious anti-colonialist protest, a movie in which a ragtag, uniquely Brazilian settlement proves itself to be more resilient than any corrupt politician or rapacious outsider. As an inadvertent coronavirus-era release, it also offers a message that’s the perfect mix of encouraging and unsettling — that communities can pull together where governments fail, but that a sense of community has to be earned.
The second feature to go out under the aegis of Barack and Michelle Obama as part of their Higher Ground series for Netflix, it’s an inspirational civil-rights documentary that sounds as if it’s going to be Good for You rather than good but turns out to be both. Directed by Nicole Newnham and Jim LeBrecht (who was born with spina bifida and appears onscreen), the film begins in 1971 in the Catskills’ Camp Jened, where teen and 20-something “cripples” (a word then used) are elated by the freedom to shed their defenses and feel at home. Their camp experience lays the foundation for a seminal demonstration in which disabled people (among them the commanding Judy Heumann) occupy HEW headquarters for more than a week. It’s both a profile of people determined not to be invisible — merely getting to the point where they could make themselves seen required a psychological revolution — and a rousing celebration of the activist counterculture that inspired and sustained them.
In its rough outlines, Neasa Hardiman’s film isn’t all that different from any number of unspeakable-menace-at-sea horror flicks, but this chiller — about an Irish fishing trawler that is attacked by disease-baring parasites secreted by a mysterious deep-sea creature — also has a fully realized, lived-in quality: You can smell the oil, sweat, and salt, and hear the grind of motors and murmur of sailors. That enhances both our terror as well as the film’s eerie, unintentional resonance: It will feel uncomfortably familiar to an audience newly obsessed with the anxious mechanics of infection and exposure and quarantine. Still, the movie works not because it was released during a pandemic, but because Hardiman wisely builds suspense from uncertainty, as our heroes are terrorized by the agonizing solitude of the open sea and a nemesis that is practically invisible.
The tony Pennsylvania prep school in which Tayarisha Poe’s nimble debut takes place might bring to mind mean-rich-kid chronicles like Cruel Intentions — but it has more in common with Rian Johnson’s 2005 baby-faced neo-noir Brick. Selah and the Spades is a teen drama in which the line between social clique and mob family feels incidental, taking place in a boarding-school bubble that’s enthralling and insular, privilege serving as a kind of leveling agent that makes day-to-day skirmishes for dominance the only thing that matters. And at the still center of this surprisingly tumultuous world is Selah (Lovie Simone), a character whose desire for a successor wars with her instinct to destroy anyone who challenges her place — even when it’s someone of her own choosing. It’s a compelling portrait of someone who, having made herself the queen of this limited kingdom, finds herself terrified of life when she leaves.
Hugh Jackman is as good as he’s ever been in the second film from Thoroughbreds director Cory Finley, a based-on-a-true-story drama about an early aughts embezzlement scandal in an upscale Long Island public-school district. As Frank Tassone, Jackman plays a liar, a showman, a consummate politician, and, actually, a pretty good superintendent, if you don’t mind the crimes. It’s a role that makes enjoyable use of the innate theatrical flare that can sometimes make the actor read as phony in more scaled-down roles. Bad Education is slyly grounded in regional details, the most delightful of them having to do with Allison Janney as fellow administrator, co-conspirator, and reluctant fall gal Pam Gluckin. But it’s ultimately as tragic as it is funny, a story about the fundamental contradictions of public schools that generate and benefit vastly from local dollars, all the while paying lip service to education as a higher calling.
The uninitiated see bull riding as the ultimate demonstration of senseless, pointless risk, while the initiated see it pretty much the same way. There’s just no sane reason for attempting to hold on with one hand to a creature that has been reduced to pure rage and sinew and hates you with the fire of a thousand suns — unless you think that life is like that already, and there’s nowhere else you can go to be simultaneously trampled into dust and cheered. Nonetheless, the prospect of an inspirational, “Go for it” movie centering on a 14-year-old girl’s attempt to escape her horrible homelife by apprenticing with a mangled ex–bull rider seemed perverse in the extreme — until I saw the film, which isn’t that at all. Annie Silverstein’s Bull doesn’t jerk you around. It doesn’t go for it. It’s quieter and more pensive than a glib summation (or a trailer) would suggest, but it never goes soft.
The Guatemala of the grim drama Our Mothers (Nuestras Madres) sits on top of a boneyard whose bones date back to the country’s 36-year civil war, when army and paramilitary units escalated the torture, rape, and “extrajudicial” execution of civilians suspected of aiding left-wing guerrillas. The film is set long after the war, in 2018, when the current government began to hold former soldiers to account; and as the trial is broadcast on radio and TV, a young forensic archaeologist, Ernesto (Armando Espitia), emerges from sundry desolate excavation sites and begins the task of connecting hip bones to thigh bones, etc. When an indigenous woman, Nicolasa (Aurelia Caal), pressures Ernesto to return with her to her village to help dig up her own husband’s remains (“I want him to be in a place where I can speak to him,” she says), he demurs and then relents. What follows is the sort of movie that gets lost in the U.S. when life is normal. It’s a good one to see when you’re anxious, in pain, hypersensitized, uncertain of the ground beneath you, and thinking — maybe for the first time — that you ought to start digging.
After 15 years without a film, Alice Wu returns with this charming romantic comedy — yet another variation on Cyrano de Bergerac — in which a closeted, straight-A student (Leah Lewis) living in a Pacific Northwest backwater is hired by a dim-bulb football player (Daniel Diemer) to help him write letters to woo the most beautiful girl in school (Alexxis Lemire). The premise may not be original, but what Wu does with it is. As the duplicitous correspondence develops and the screen lights up with words, text messages, and pictures, we are presented with a precocious teen’s dream of a better world. In most good rom-coms, you fall in love with the characters; in The Half of It, you fall in love with their sheer longing.
Benjamin Ree’s deliciously satisfying documentary begins like a true-crime tale and then transforms into a kind of sublimated love story. Its subjects are Barbora Kysilkova, a Czech artist, and Karl Bertil-Nordland, a Norwegian junkie who steals some of Barbora’s work from an Oslo gallery while on a bender. When Bertil is caught, Barbora seeks him out and finds in the petty criminal an unexpected muse. The Painter and the Thief is a strange, tender film about the extraordinary intimacy that develops between these two people — both passionate and both prone to streaks of self-destruction — who might very well be soul mates.
A retro sci-fi movie with a thoroughly modern sense of style, Andrew Patterson’s directorial debut takes place over the course of an evening in a small Southwestern town that may be the site of an extraterrestrial visitation. If that setup sounds familiar, the look and feel of this film are anything but, with dazzling tracking shots and scenes in which the screen goes dark and leaves the viewer to focus on the crackling audio of a radio caller talking about secret military projects. It’s a mix of the throwback and the new that’s anchored by strong performances by Sierra McCormick and Jake Horowitz as a pair of teenagers who find themselves investigating the strange goings-on.
We sense throughout The Trip to Greece, the fourth and final installment of the film and TV series following Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon as they make their way around the hotels and tourist spots and fine-dining establishments of the world, that reality is catching up to our heroes. Coogan and Brydon play fictional, heightened variations on themselves; their onscreen personae, filled with petty jealousies, are constantly looking to one-up one another like an old couple. The imitations they roll out are familiar ones — Anthony Hopkins, Sean Connery, Robert De Niro, Ray Winstone — and while those are fun, what makes the whole thing work so well is the fact that these grown men with their dueling impressions continue to be so wildly competitive with each other. Still, it’s hard to escape the sadness in this film, set amid both global and personal tragedy. What remains at the end are not the jokes or the food but the sense that the past is never quite done with us, that today’s heartbreaks and passions and tragedies are variations on ancient patterns.
In this pensive, plangent film, Ulises (Juan Daniel Garcia “Derek”), a cumbia-obsessed 17-year-old “Cholombiano” from the working-class outskirts of Monterrey, Mexico, flees to the U.S. and tries to make a life for himself in New York. Back home, he was the leader of a small gang/dance crew known as Los Terkos. They had elaborately gelled hairstyles, wore vibrant, baggy clothes, and whiled away the hours hanging and dancing to cumbia music and occasionally causing chaos. The film moves along the two timelines as the lonely, destitute boy makes his way (and occasionally dances) through New York while flashing back to his life in Mexico and the grisly circumstances that led to his having to leave. Director Fernando Frias de la Parra proves himself a master visual storyteller, but he’s also not one to hand-hold us through a narrative. Elements of costuming or background — Ulises’s clothes, his hair, a telltale subway platform — are often all we have to locate ourselves in the film’s somewhat intricate flashback structure. This may prove difficult for some viewers. I’m No Longer Here demands your attention, and it merits your attention. And the music and the dancing — gradually becoming more mournful, expressing a profound homesickness — are lovely to behold.
Is this … a comedy? A thriller? A heartwarming drama about an eccentric old lady? A gangster picture? Sasie Sealy’s Lucky Grandma, about a scowling, take-no-shit widow (Tsai Chin) who winds up with a bag full of cash that may or may not belong to some Chinatown gangsters, has elements of all of these genres. Throughout, Sealy balances genuine danger with poker-faced playfulness; the director’s tonal control feels like a throwback to the deadpan indie comedies of the 1980s and ’90s, of films by the likes of Hal Hartley and Jim Jarmusch and Susan Seidelman. But what ultimately makes it all work so well is Tsai Chin’s endearingly gruff performance. The actress is probably best known stateside for her scene-stealing turn as Auntie Lindo in 1993’s The Joy Luck Club, but she’s had an absurdly distinguished career on at least three continents. Actress and director build a symphony out of Grandma Wong’s grimaces and her glares.
There can be a very fine line between a movie that is delicate and understated and a movie that is lazy and undernourished. Director Andrew Ahn is slowly perfecting the former. In the gentle, understated Driveways, he follows a single mom (Hong Chau) and her young son who temporarily move in next door to a quiet, lonely Korean War vet and widower (played by the late Brian Dennehy in one of the finest performances of his long, storied career). Ahn lets ideas and emotions linger but never underlines them and never tries to lead the viewer along. Instead, he lets his actors — and hence their characters — just be. Watching Brian Dennehy eat is like staring at a great, big novel; you can tell there’s a whole universe in there, but you also know that it would take some effort to understand it. The title may well be a metaphor for the elusive human connections we make before we go into our own little worlds, the interiors of which others rarely see.
The Ghost of Peter Sellers
In the early 1970s, Peter Medak — a young director with a string of acclaimed films to his name — was approached by his friend Peter Sellers to make a pirate comedy called “Ghost in the Noonday Sun.” What ensued was one of the most catastrophic shoots in film history, as the temperamental and unpredictable Sellers nearly brought down the entire production and alienated the rest of the cast and crew with his erratic behavior. Constantly rewritten and nearly aborted multiple times, the film was never properly released. Now, Medak returns to the scene of the crime with this fascinating documentary — hilarious and heartbreaking in equal measure — about his experiences on the film.
Miss Juneteenth is an evocative portrait of Black life in Forth Worth, Texas, seen through the lens of Turquoise Jones (Nicole Beharie), a single mother trying desperately to make ends meet as she encourages her teenage daughter to participate in a pageant that she won herself in her youth. In her feature debut, writer-director Channing Godfrey Peoples deftly charts the emotional bramble and inner yearnings of not just Turquoise and her daughter, but the family and loved ones that surround them in a way that makes no grand proclamations about Black identity, instead choosing to revel in the tender considerations of this minor-key film. Issues of class, alcoholism, personal failure, and secret wishes run through the film. With gentle cinematography shot through with amber light and an intelligently wrought script, Miss Juneteenth has many pleasures. But its crowning jewel is the performance by Beharie. She’s simply magnificent, burnishing the quietest moments with a striking complexity and empathy that has stayed with me in the weeks after seeing the film originally.
In Agnieszka Holland’s gripping historical drama, a British journalist and erstwhile diplomat travels to Stalin’s Soviet Union in the 1930s to find out just where all the country’s economic growth is coming from, and discovers one of the great crimes of the 20th century — the mass starvation of Ukrainians, a holocaust that killed millions and was largely covered up by the press at the time. What starts as a kind of staid period piece gradually dissolves into a harrowing nightmare with images of unspeakable brutality. Director Holland never quite gets the credit she deserves — she made several masterful films in her native Poland before fleeing communism in the 1980s. Her work since has been equally powerful, and Mr. Jones is a fine addition to her impressive body of work.
A terminally ill teenage girl becomes besotted with a 20-something junkie in Shannon Murphy’s feature debut, which puts The Fault in Our Stars to shame with its razor-edged exploration of what it’s like to be voraciously falling in love for the first (and possibly last) time. Australian acting royalty Essie Davis and Ben Mendelsohn are very good as middle-class parents struggling to unclutch their pearls for the sake of their daughter’s happiness, but the film is really a showcase for up-and-comer Eliza Scanlen, late of Sharp Objects and Little Women, who’ll hopefully get to play a character in the full flush of health soon.
The nominal story line of Spike Lee’s latest, about a group of Black vets returning to present-day Vietnam to recover a massive stash of CIA gold, has all the typical beats of a Hollywood adventure — in part because it originated as one. But Lee takes the familiar template and turns it into a thrilling, agonizing, highly referential, deliriously overloaded, and ultimately deeply human treatise on racism, imperialism, Black patriotism, and about how the past never goes away. But the director is also not above having fun with a high concept. He clearly enjoys all the action and epic spectacle and occasional flashes of gallows humor. The result is one of the greatest films he has ever made.
Will Ferrell and Rachel McAdams play two hapless Icelandic contestants at the annual European competition of kitschy disco music. The real attraction here, however, is how accurately and lovingly the filmmakers have re-created the world of Eurovision, complete with hilarious pop songs. The heightened melodramatic atmosphere of emotional, go-for-broke performance helps sell Ferrell’s comic antics as well as the protagonists’ sure-to-be-thwarted big dreams. The result is surprisingly moving, with a soundtrack that will surely become a karaoke favorite — if we ever have karaoke again.
This fractured, semi-feral portrait of The Haunting of Hill House author Shirley Jackson is about a thousand miles from a staid biopic. Director Josephine Decker, whose last film was the brilliant Madeline’s Madeline, picks up with Jackson a few years after the controversial 1948 publication of “The Lottery,” when she’s settled into life as the wife of an academic and a woman in an unhappy marriage. Elisabeth Moss, our reigning lady of the onscreen breakdown, has had an incredible streak of deeply committed performances lately, and this one may be the finest of them to date.
This dive-bar elegy from the Ross brothers would be a work of bittersweet nostalgia in normal times. But the pandemic made it into something unbearably wistful — an ode to crowding into a cozily shambolic space with a bunch of drinking buddies for the evening, an act that would feel as distant as the moon by the time the movie came out. Not quite fiction and not quite a documentary, Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets casts actors and seasoned barflies as regulars in a Vegas hole-in-the-wall that’s about to close, and sets them off on a marathon day and night together in which the set-up is synthetic but the emotions — and the booze — are very real. The result is a funny, rowdy, and melancholy movie about the temporary intimacies that alcohol can enable.
One of the underdiscussed pleasures of this ebullient romantic comedy from Max Barbakow is that it knows exactly when to cut away from a joke. A montage of time-loop hookups becomes uproarious because of the precise windows we get on each; a night spent doing cocaine with a stranger is summed up in perfect snapshots of druggy mischief and maudlin obliteration. Andy Samberg and Cristin Milioti are wonderful together as a pair of wedding guests stuck in time, doomed to loop the same day over and over again, Groundhog Day style. But what makes the movie work so well, apart from the comedic charms of its leads, is that it’s fleet on its feet, darting nimbly through a minimum of exposition in order to get to the fun and scary parts — which is to say, what happens when people are freed from consequences because everything resets once they go to sleep.
There’s always something exciting (and more than a little nerve-racking) about a director with a distinctive voice taking on a new film genre. So while Gina Prince-Bythewood, previously best known for the sublimely romantic Love & Basketball and Beyond the Lights, might not be the first name you’d think of for a comic-book movie about a group of immortal superheroes who’ve been fighting evil for centuries, she turns out to be an inspired choice. Adapted by Greg Rucka, who created the original 2017 comic along with illustrator Leandro Fernández, The Old Guard runs over with genuinely human moments — quiet reveries, declarations of love, dreams about eternity, regrets over families and loves left behind and lost forever — but it also remembers to kick all sorts of ass in the ways it’s supposed to. The combat is creatively choreographed, and these men and women really do fight with the kind of speed, fluidity, and inventiveness you might expect from people who’ve been doing so for a long, long time. It’s enormously fun, and sad, and rousing, and breathtaking, but it won’t give you the kind of candy headache so many other comic-book movies do nowadays.
Real-world and supernatural terrors are deftly entwined in Natalie Erika James’s directorial debut, a film set in a cluttered country house an hour and a half outside Melbourne, where 80-something Edna (Robyn Nevi) has been living alone since the death of her husband. A scare brings her daughter (Emily Mortimer) and granddaughter (Bella Heathcote) out to see her, where they’re confronted with evidence of her cognitive decline — or, maybe, something more otherworldly and ominous. Relic is filled with slow-simmering dread about dementia and the impossible choices that accompany wanting to do right by aging parents, but it’s also the rare horror film capable of bringing a tear to the eye, segueing from a ghoul-driven freakout to a moment of dark tenderness that’s one of the most audacious cinematic pivots of the year.
Marjane Satrapi’s latest, adapted from a book by Lauren Redniss, initially plays like a standard biopic about physicist and chemist Marie Curie, played with equal parts prickliness and passion by Rosamund Pike. Born Maria Skłodowska in Poland, Marie comes to Paris to work, changing her name to show her willingness to assimilate in her new country, and meeting an eventual collaborator and husband in Pierre Curie. But while Radioactive begins as a slog through the milestones of a famous life, it gradually transforms into something kaleidoscopic and strange, courtesy of Satrapi and screenwriter Jack Thorne’s choice to insert flashes of what the Curies’ discoveries will eventually lead to. A child with cancer in Cleveland in 1957 gets proposed for an experimental treatment; a group of gawkers and government agents watch an atomic-bomb test in Nevada in 1961; a group of firemen rush to the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant in 1986. Marie’s battle to be recognized for her work is intercut with the good and the bad that will come from it, rippling out unknowably into the future.
The immediacy with which the student state-government program at the center of this movie becomes a microcosm of American politics would feel on the nose if it weren’t a documentary. But it is, in fact, an enthralling exercise in nonfiction from filmmakers Amanda McBaine and Jesse Moss, who seem to have cameras everywhere over the course of a weeklong exercise for Texas teens. They also have excellent taste in subjects, following a quartet of young men who together represent a wide array of stances on political issues and on idealism versus cynicism when it comes to elections. The result is an examination, alternately amusing and upsetting, of the lessons Gen Z is taking from its elders with regard to how the country should be run — as well as the ones it’s trying, not always successfully, to leave behind.
French-Senegalese director Maïmouna Doucouré’s touching, observant coming-of-age drama, about an 11-year-old Muslim girl from a devout background who joins an all-girl dance group, recently found itself at the center of controversy when a poster seemed to sexualize its young characters. But the movie itself is not exploitative in the least. To our hero, Amy (Fathia Youssouf Abdillahi), the “Cuties” — a quartet of popular girls at school who strut through the corridors in age-inappropriate clothing, act like grown-ups, and practice their dance moves for an upcoming competition — represent liberation and belonging. Of course, this new world Amy is entering is just as stifling and patriarchal in its own way as the traditional one she thinks she’s fleeing. It would have been easy for Doucouré to use a broad brush to paint the different extremes of Amy’s experience (“stifling tradition bad, dancing good”), but Cuties is not a blunt screed or a finger-wagging cautionary tale in either direction. Doucouré appears to be a far too sensitive director for that kind of polemic. Her film is subtle, complex, and honest.