Category: 2021

Director: Lee Isaac Chung | 1h 55mins | Drama | Languages: English, Korean

In the 1980’s, a young Korean family decide to move their life in California in order to start a farm in rural Arkansas.

The ‘American Dream’ has been played out all over cinematic history, it’s platform to attack the beaming facade of a ‘prosperous’ land is usually matched with a commentary on class struggle – best examples include Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath and Of Mice and Men. The thing about this popular tale is that it can be told in many ways, through many people. Lee Isaac Chung’s semi-autobiographical drama uses the themes of American prosperity in it’s story about a Korean family that moves to Arkansas, but what sets Minari a part is it’s undeniably personal touch. 

Like every young family the Yi’s, lead by Jacob (Steven Yeun) and his wife Monica (Yeri Han), are going through a transitional period. After making comfortable money with little space in California, Jacob wants to be able to freely provide for his family living off their own land. We see this air of opportunity for them in the early scenes as the family seemingly glides through a gorgeous backdrop of the Arkansas greenery, but Isaac Lee Chung keeps everything human – even in it’s most Malickian moments there’s a genuine deep-dive in the character’s feelings, something that’s kept up continuously. 

While the film is challenging the ‘American Dream’ it’s most touching and heart-wrenching moments come because of the family chasing it. Jacob is a driven man in search of comfort and independence but his wife, Monica, is fearful of this step they’re taking and it eventually takes its toll on the family. Add to that two children, Anne and David (who is presumably based on the director), and Monica’s Mother who eventually succumbs to a stroke, there is a plethora of family dynamics that are balanced to perfection. 

Chung’s direction is wonderfully poetic, but the punch that the film packs is created through an ensemble performance that is pitch-perfect.

David’s beautiful relationship with his Grandma is gorgeously written and despite the crushing conclusion to it, it’s part of the reason the film can be so joyous. But the standout arc is that of Jacob and Monica, which is made all the more impressive because of the semi-autobiographical story that Chung is telling us. There’s no proof that the relationship between the two main characters is the same as the Directors parents, but if it is, it’s a beautiful example of how mature the film is on all levels. Teaching us that – despite parents being the all-knowing role models in a child’s life – adults have every right to be fractured and often clueless, as long as they persevere. 

Chung’s direction is wonderfully poetic, but the punch that the film packs is created through an ensemble performance that is pitch-perfect. Steven Yeun is impeccably subdued as he carries the weight of his family’s future on his shoulders and Yeri Han shows fragility and strength in equal measure. Youn Yuh-jung is a delight and the children played by Alan Kim and Noel Cho are some of the best child performances you’ll have ever seen – but more importantly together they create a representation of the ‘American Dream’ that has a personal focus on the story of immigrants trying to make a life for themselves. 

When films overuse themes it becomes exhausting, it’s something that plagues a lot of contemporary cinema. But when the themes of a film are so genuine and personal, it’s hard not to appreciate the honesty oozing from it. Chung has taken his life and patiently waited to tell his story – one that is so impeccably human it has something for everyone to grasp onto.

Director: Kornél Mundruczó | 2h 6mins | Drama

After a home-birth ends in tragedy, Martha (Vanessa Kirby) tries to navigate her life consumed by grief. When the event continues to loom over everybody, Martha’s relationships with her family become fractured.

Mundcrudzo and Weber’s devastating drama is an acquired taste. One that captures unrelenting grief in all forms, but one that also has very little in the way of story and supporting depth. It lingers reflectively and honestly on different versions of the same pain, something that’s incredibly hard to portray in a film. We saw Lonergan and Affleck capture something special in Manchester By the Sea and, while Mundcrudzo’s attempt is poorly supported by a weak legal battle, Pieces of a Woman is fantastic at capturing the sudden impact of grief and the emptiness it leaves you. 

The opening scene is one of masterful technique, a single shot that starts with early contractions all the way to the labour itself – including the devastating event that becomes the catalyst for the film’s narrative. Many time’s single shots can be gimmicky. Sure, they’re interesting most of the time but when a film has genuine reason for it, it’s all the more impressive. What this immaculate opening does is create such an importance and engagement with both the relationship of Sean (LaBeouf) and Martha (Kirby), as well as their journey to become parents. So, when tragedy strikes and the two are left childless, their paths become excruciating to watch. 

Sean’s journey is a brutally self-destructive one, he can’t connect to Martha anymore and as a recovering addict he can’t help but relapse. His involvement in the film is somewhat anticlimactic, but it’s also honest. His trajectory sees him become all-consumed by the grief, unable to cope with what’s been stripped away from him. Out of the two characters this is the least complex, but Shia LeBeouf is giving his all as he has done in all of his roles of recent times, wonderfully capturing both the pain and anger of Sean. But, as the film’s title suggests, Martha’s journey is the most important. 

The film is at its best when exploring the fragmented and scattered aftermath of such a crushing loss, it’s not often we watch a film that’s so brutal in its honesty and starts with such a magnificent bang.

A takeaway that most will have from Pieces of a Woman is the performance from Vanessa Kirby. Playing a character that’s going through such complex grief demands that it be played with care. Something Kirby takes in her stride and nails with delicacy and maturity. Every inch of Martha’s journey; whether it be the frustration of her mother’s prying, the disconnect from personal relationships or the physical changes of maternity happening without her child – Vanessa Kirby carries the heavy load that her character demands. 

The problems with the film begin to mount up as it’s 2 hour plus run time begins to feel dragged out. Lingering in the background is a courtroom drama involving Martha’s last minute replacement midwife, Eva (Molly Parker), who is being blamed for the child’s death (at the insistence of her Mother played wonderfully by Ellen Burstyn). It feels completely fabricated in the face of such an emotionally driven film, and despite the narrative thread leading to quite a powerful monologue by Kirby, it still taints the emotional dissection the film is trying to project – making the end product a lot weaker because of it. 

The film is at its best when exploring the fragmented and scattered aftermath of such a crushing loss, it’s not often we watch a film that’s so brutal in its honesty and starts with such a magnificent bang. But, Mundcrudzo and Weber can’t help but try to bulk up their story with needless side characters, and an over-flashiness peaks after the first 20 minutes.

Director: Emerald Fennell | 1h 53mins | Crime, Drama, Thriller

Still traumatised by a tragic incident in her past, former Med School student Cassandra (Cary Mulligan) exacts her own justice on predatory men who take advantage of drunk women.

2020 has seen a rise in wonderful female representations. Through tender thought-provoking dramas with a contemporary setting, period pieces and even the continuation of Patty Jenkins’ emphatic Wonder Woman. Among these is Emerald Fennell’s unique and bubblegum smacking thriller Promising Young Woman – a film with the sizzling tension of a thriller and enough conviction to make lasting commentary on the abysmal behaviour of men.

The opening scene of Fennell’s thriller is pretty encompassing of the film’s thematic trajectory, as three ‘Wall Street archetype’ guys moan about female coworkers until they spot Cassandra sitting across the room. She’s so drunk that she can barely keep her head up, but it doesn’t stop one of the men (supposedly the nicer of the three) from offering to help her. Once in the taxi the man (played by Adam Brody) begins to push for a trip to his and once there, Cassandra reveals her own predatory plan to expose him for the scumbag he truly is. 

It’s a scene that suggests, much like the whole film does, that all men are bad. Sure, you may meet some that seem nice but even they turn out to be terrible. It’s a theme that drives the film’s plot without really expanding on this instant premise, but a radical opinion doesn’t always mean it’s a bad film. Promising Young Woman is telling a story that at its core, is a tragedy. One that’s all too real in a world we live in and what Cassandra does, is done because she’s justified by a haunting trauma. 

The wonderful aesthetic is closer to comic book style than anything, and while there’s a feeling that the themes struggle to reach a broader debate in among the colours and flash, it certainly gives the film its unique personality. 

As the film reveals information to us about Cassandra’s best friend Nina, a girl who she went to Med School with and eventually dropped out because of, we learn that the vengeance being exacted is the people who violated and tormented Nina until her death. Here we see academic systems, bystanding gossipers and ashamed accomplices all punished in Cassandra’s three (or four) stage plan. This is where the film is really at its strongest, not just focusing on those that committed such a vile assault but expanding it’s commentary onto those who sit idly by while things like this happen. 

There’s an air of tongue and cheek to Fennell’s tone, one that is able to navigate style and humour into such a heavy topic. The sets are plastered in a juvenile candy pink shade (a link to the immaturity that Cassandra is accused of having), the chapters are broken up in bold pastille roman numerals and the final outfit that Cassandra dons is a punk-ish wink to the female standards set by a sexist system. This wonderful aesthetic is closer to comic book style than anything, and while there’s a feeling that the themes struggle to reach a broader debate in among the colours and flash, it certainly gives the film its unique personality. 

Leading the charge as Cassandra is Carey Mulligan, an actress who very often has sensational taste in her roles. While she’s no stranger to roles embedded with feminism (she starred in The Suffragette [2015]), her role as Cassandra may be one of her best. Mulligan plays Cassandra with such command and surface level charm while never losing that bottled up anger and ferocity that fuels the film’s fires. She flutters between sarcasm, rage and sadness like the flick of a switch, and despite having such a great supporting cast alongside her (Bo Burnham is particularly charming and cowardly in equal measures), Mulligan stays front and centre to channel the films theme effectively. 

Promising Young Woman is astonishingly well balanced as a debut feature, it flaunts it’s wildly unique style with zero apology all while in the furious pursuit against misogyny and abuse. To balance such contrast however means the film often sacrifices the chance to go deeper – but even with its flaws the film can hold its head high as a statement against, not just those who commit such awful abuse, but to those who allow it to go unpunished. Important, stylish and often funny – it seems Mulligan can add another film to her list of fantastic career choices. 

Director: Chloé Zhao | 1h 48mins | Drama

After losing her husband and the town she once lived, Fern (Frances McDormand) packs up her belongings and starts living out of a van. On long the road, she meets numerous people who also live the “Nomad” lifestyle.

Other than her recently call up to the blockbuster landscape, Chloé Zhao has been working and thriving in the world of independent cinema – making films with distinct personality and a unique definition. Much like her 2017 film The Rider, Nomadland is working on a semi-fictional basis that effortlessly flows real people into a story that is poetically built on soul, understanding and a true American reality. 

The film is about Fern, a woman from a town called Empire in Nevada that unfortunately became a “ghost town” because of its economy wasting away. It’s the place in which she lived happily with her husband until he passed away, and in the opening scene we see Fern packing up a van and saying goodbye to any goods she can’t take with her. What follows is a gorgeous road movie, one that allows us to experience the “Nomad” lifestyle in its fullest capacity, a life that is constantly on the move but allows for such an open connection to the people you meet. 

On the road Fern goes to a sort of meet-and-greet for fellow “van-dwellers” where she learns the ins and outs of independent survival. They trade, eat and exchange laughs. But the crucial moment is when they all begin to share stories while sitting around a campfire, sharing the reason why they now live such an open and ever-moving lifestyle. While all varied, the common denominator among their stories is an escape from loss, something that’s soul-crushing to listen to when you understand the reality in each character. 

The fictional side of the film is woven delicately into the film’s realistic core, and it’s expressed through an authenticity that you’re likely not to see again. 

What makes Nomadland so rich with quality is how it balances reality with fiction. The real people give substance to Fern’s journey, and her arc is made all the more deeply effective because of the real story it’s portraying. Fern seems happy in a new life, but as she meets fellow traveller Dave (David Strathairn) she realises exactly what she’s running from; coming to terms with the loss of her husband and the place that she called home. The fictional side of the film is woven delicately into the film’s realistic core, and it’s expressed through an authenticity that you’re likely not to see again. 

The tenderness and understanding seeping through this film is channeled through the wonderful central performance by Frances McDormand. While most of her performances usually excel beyond measure, what she’s doing here is a little more complex than it first seems. She captures all the nuance and personality of her character, but more importantly she acts as a fly on the wall in the midst of the authentic people and events. She acts as a student and friend of the people she meets, and the camaraderie they share benefits from a genuine sense of understanding she has continuously. It’s difficult to compare the performance with any 2 of her previous Oscar-winning performances, but it’s safe to say her hat is firmly in the mix for the 2021 Best Actress Award. 

The film’s soundtrack is made of a collection of songs by the legendary Ludovico Einaudi, and it’s a soundtrack that profoundly changes every scene it accompanies. The simplest of shots are turned into deep reflective frames; casual conversation transformed into poetic commentary on the surrounding world and the film’s questions bubble to the surface with every melodic touch of the piano keys. The film’s strengths are far more vast than just it’s soundtrack, but Einaudi’s exquisite touch to each scene gives it much more gravitas and meaning.

Chloé Zhao is currently working on Marvel’s The Eternals, making the transition we’ve seen so many indie filmmakers make. But, before she makes the big budget jump, we can be forever grateful that she has given us another film with her distinct taste and style. With another class performance from Frances McDormand anchoring the film’s fiction, it’s Nomadland’s ability to weave in a documentary-style that makes it truly one of a kind.

Director: George C. Wolfe | 1h 34mins | Drama, Music

On a hot summers day in 1927 Chicago Illinois, Ma Rainey (Viola Davis) and her band begin a recording session. Things get heated when her ambitious trumpet player, Levee (Chadwick Boseman), challenges the way in which they play.

In 2016’s adaptation of August Wilson’s Fences we once again saw the true power of the stage play adjusted ever so slightly to create something cinematic. Film’s that take their story and setting from the stage are unique in a way, often keeping the camera muted when necessary in order to amplify the words being spoken, as well as allowing the acting firepower to flourish with the emotional range of their roles – and Wolfe’s Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom is no different. Adapting another August Wilson play of the same name, the film bolsters fiery monologues oozing with passion and symbolism, but gives us some beautiful cinematography to match. 

This is no more apparent than the opening scenes, as Ma Rainey’s band make their way through a sweaty Chicago in the peak of summertime, dodging the disgusted looks they are met with until they get to the recording studio. Once put into the ‘band room’, they start chewing the fat and the monologuing begins. But, in very August Wilson fashion, the symbolic implications of each speech is much greater than the casual demeanour of it’s characters. 

The band members are Toledo (Glynn Turman); Slow Drag (Michael Potts); Culter (Colman Domingo) and Levee. The four of them spend the majority of the film riffing and arguing, and even becoming a little violent towards one another. But their conversations are important, Toledo tells a story about a man selling his soul to the devil which comes extremely close to Levee’s plans to sell music to the white man. All four performers are great, but it has to be said that Boseman is in his element. Levee is a character with high hopes and strong afflictions, a man made up of so much inner anger, and Boseman captures it with flare and such a raw presence. 

When the older members of the group shrug at Levee’s hopes and dreams, accusing him of not understanding what the white people take from black people, Boseman delivers a devastating monologue about his Mother, who was raped by a group of white men. It’s a lengthy speech, but Boseman is in full control. Much like the men he’s delivering it too, you can’t help but stare wide-eyed at the performance he’s giving. But, there’s a speech of his that hits home a little too much. Boseman’s passing is a devastating loss of talent and of a person, so when Levee begins to scream with uncontrollable rage about God turning his back on him we as an audience become overwhelmed outside of the film’s narrative. 

As you’d expect from Davis, Ma Rainey is played with a demanding and overpowering presence and although Davis is a little more caricature than she was in Fences, she’s still on top form.

This isn’t just about rising tensions and throwaway conversations though, it’s about the exploitation of Black talent carried out by white people – this is where real-life character Ma Rainey comes in. As you’d expect from Davis, Ma Rainey is played with a demanding and overpowering presence and although Davis is a little more caricature than she was in Fences, she’s still on top form. Ma Rainey at first comes across as a Diva, incapable of completing the simplest of tasks until they’re done to her exact vision (she refuses to sing the first song until she’s had a bottle of Coca-Cola). But in reality this is a Black superstar that is just maintaining her power for as long as possible. 

For all the good and ‘bending over backwards’ that her manager and the stage manager are doing for her, they are doing it out of selfish means. She is nothing to them but money, and Ma Rainey’s powerful presence and star power are merely an obstacle they have to endure until the recording is done. Stories like this, as well as Fences, are the reason that August Wilson is so acclaimed as a writer, and what George C. Wolfe and screenwriter Ruben Santiago-Hudson have done is create a similar importance in their adaptation, one that feels cinematically relevant even today.

Being set during the infancy of Blues gives the film such a fast-paced and stylised soundtrack, one that’s essential to breaking up the film’s often constant rise. But it’s the cinematography that’s also incredibly important. Wolfe and Cinematographer Tobias Schliessler make the dusty sound studio feel like the centre of everything, it feels incredibly authentic against the streets of Chicago, and it creates an invigorating backdrop for the many monologues and scenes that come from this film. 

There’s a running device in this film of Levee trying to open a door for himself in the sweltering conditions of the claustrophobic ‘band room’. The symbolism, while being a little obvious, is an incredibly poignant reminder of the true power this film has. Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom isn’t just a film about a condensed studio session, it’s a symbol of the oppressive struggle still being tackled today. A reminder that for a lot of people, breaking down a door is usually followed by a brick wall. It’s powerfully performed, and it’s with a heavy heart that we say Chadwick Boseman gives the best performance of his career, continuously amplifying the film that is sadly his last. 

Director: Darius Marder | 2h | Drama

Ruben (Riz Ahmed), a drummer in a Heavy Metal band, must deal with his new life when he loses his hearing. After spending time at a centre for Deaf People, he must decide whether or not to have a surgery in order to get his life back to normal.

Some things in life we take for granted, the ability to walk, to see and also to hear. They are a part of the human function, but what’s so abrupt about Marder’s Drama is how instantaneous it takes that away from it’s central character. It’s not about the gradual decline or the search to retain it, but the harsh reality of coming to grips with the new life thrust upon you, and how to adjust yourself when the music stops.

The film opens on Ruben in the zone behind his drum kit as him and his girlfriend rile up a modest-sized crowd. They’re clearly a group on the up and up but haven’t quite reached the pinnacle of success yet. As Ruben is setting out merch for the next show on their tour his hearing becomes blocked, as if everything is being listened to through a glass on the wall. Marder makes such a wonderful distinction between Ruben’s thought-process and the world he’s lost, and it’s performed beautifully by Riz Ahmed.

As an actor Ahmed is a very reserved performer, he doesn’t allow himself to go for big bursts of emotion (except for in the most desperate of scenes) and his performances benefit from it. Interestingly it’s not the only performance of his this year about a musician losing his ability to function (the other is Mogul Mowgli) and what’s abundantly clear is that Ahmed is endlessly passionate about his roles, and he’s the driving force behind Sound of Metal‘s heartbreaking core.

The sound work is crucial in the films storytelling, it drifts fluidly from crisp to impaired, really emphasising the difference in both.

After a few days of intense frustration for Ruben, even causing him to consider relapsing into drugs again, he has to stay at a rehabilitation of sorts. It’s a place for Deaf people to become accustom to the world they now live in, and it’s such an intriguing part to the film because for the most part, it’s done in silence. These are people that communicate through sign language, and silence isn’t something that affects them. But a stroke of genius is that Marder allows us to channel the experience through Ruben’s eyes, allowing us to really exist in his shoes all the way through the process of learning sign language and being able to create a sense of purpose in the new world in front of him.

The sound work is crucial in the films storytelling, it drifts fluidly from crisp to impaired, really emphasising the difference in both. It’s essential to bringing us into the story, using it is a divide between Ruben and the world he was once flourishing in. But the crucial part of the film is when Ruben is forced to make a choice, to accept the new world around him or to chase after the world that’s about to leave him behind.

He decides to have a surgery that allows sound to bypass his eardrums in order to hear again. Despite his new life having meaning in the form of community and teaching, he can’t escape the fact that he’s left his girlfriend behind and can’t return to his life, but when the implants create a barbaric canned noise to everything there is a sense that a mistake has been made. But Marder is much more about the personal relationships in Rubens life, and it leads to a devastating ending that’s both heartbreaking and serene.

There is an argument that the film misses the odd opportunity to create even more reality using it’s sound, but it’s a fleeting gripe considering the wonderful job it’s already doing. Riz Ahmed is great once again, and the film is unbelievably heart-wrenching when it wants to be – but in those situations where we feel completely lost, Sound of Metal‘s ending is a quiet reminder to find the moments where we don’t feel left behind.