It’s quite possible that when browsing our list, some readers may walk away asking why certain films didn’t make an appearance. The truth is, so many great films released this year that it was impossible for our staff to include each and every one. In total, our staff nominated 88 films, and we all had to make some tough choices when deciding which movies we wanted to place higher on our ballots.
Only films released theatrically and/or on VOD in North America were eligible. Apologies to Shoplifters, The Day After, Let the Sunshine In, Support the Girls, Zama and Western — all of which received nominations, but missed the cut by only one point. That said, here is our list of the best movies of 2018.
The Best Movies 2018 Part Two (15-1)
15 – The Other Side of the Wind
For Orson Welles devotees, the detritus of his final (mostly) completed feature have percolated through their minds for decades. The film, which he shot from 1970 through 1976, was first glimpsed by audiences when Welles himself played scenes he had edited for his 1975 AFI Lifetime Achievement ceremony. The tantalizing snapshots of his newest major work were supposed to inspire interest from adventurous financiers, but Welles never got a single call to fund the picture. Eventually, the negative fell out of his hands, and any chance at seeing the work completed died with Welles in 1985.
And yet it’s 2018, and there’s a movie called The Other Side of the Wind streaming on Netflix. After decades of failed negotiations, the involvement of the streaming giant and producer Frank Marshall gave the project the final push it needed. It’s a mutant beast, and viewers will always be able to question its avant-garde editing and the out-of-time title sequence, but the final product is unmistakably a major work — perhaps even a masterpiece. It deserves to stand shoulder to shoulder with all of Welles’ late-career achievements.
This quasi-autobiographical film details the final day in the life of Jake Hannaford (John Huston), a director who has seen better days. His latest film has been derailed by the sudden departure of his leading actor, and in order to secure funding to finish, he screens an excerpt for an unimpressed executive. After the failed screening, Hannaford throws one last hurrah with all of his remaining friends, including his former protégée, Brooks Otterlake (Peter Bogdanovich), a former critic who has become a celebrated young director.
The film practically grabs us by the arms and shakes us to pay attention to its autobiographical elements. Despite the cynical faux-wisdom spouted by Hannaford, The Other Side of the Wind is clearing a deeply sorrowful piece. Welles certainly hoped to finish it, but he seems weighed down by his past failures. The frenetic editing style keeps us on our toes, a necessary element that prevents it from drowning in misery. It’s a fascinating experiment from a filmmaker who never stood still. Welles may not have pushed it past the finish line, but The Other Side of the Wind is still one of his greatest successes. (Brian Marks)
14 – First Man
Filmmakers have often found the poetic in humankind’s space endeavors, with plenty of images of twirling craft floating through the cosmos or condensation glistening on instrumentation boards; there is much beauty and philosophy to be discovered beyond our Earthy bounds. Damien Chazelle’s First Man is no less contemplative in its search to explain what could drive a mild-mannered engineer named Neil Armstrong to risk his very being for a mission fraught with improbability, but it also acknowledges the sheer pain it takes to achieve such a feat as sending a man to the moon.
From the bone-rattling test flight that kicks things off, to sickening centrifuge training and the white-knuckle descent onto the lunar surface, Chazelle never lets the audience forget the visceral aspect of leaving the planet, a toll taken that is not only emotional, but incredibly physical. His cockpits are terrifying death traps, only creaking metal held together by flimsy bolts standing between pilots and an unforgiving atmosphere. Nerves of steel are required, yet his Armstrong is not some idealistic legend — he’s a very human engineer who feels that his internal struggles can only be overcome by external suffering. It’s a fascinating portrayal by Ryan Gosling, one that feels more real and grounded than any movie astronaut has before.
The land-based drama is also well-executed, but it’s when First Man takes to the skies that the film truly soars. Audiences are thrust into the same cramped spaces as those they’re watching, forced to endure sequences that simultaneously dazzle and destroy (the LEM test is breathtaking), pummeling the senses in an attempt to give some idea what is sacrificed by those who push the boundaries while reaching for the stars. (Patrick Murphy)
13 – Leave No Trace
For some people, the pressure to assimilate into society becomes an inescapable prison. Will (Ben Foster), the survivalist father in Leave No Trace, prefers isolation to society’s claustrophobic boundaries. He and his teenage daughter, Tom (exciting newcomer Thomasin McKenzie), abscond into the forest where they can live by their own rules. Perhaps Tom isn’t short for tomboy, but she can more than hold her own with dad in the wilderness. Hunkered down in a public forest near Portland, Oregon, Will and Tom live off what nature provides. Their peaceful existence is shattered when the two rugged individualists are forced back into proper society. Tom makes friends and begins dreaming of a future that doesn’t involve killing game or scavenging for mushrooms. For Will, however, there is no future. There is only the sustaining action that has become his life.
Debra Granik’s latest drama isn’t for everyone. The deliberate pacing will have many viewers squirming in their seat. Working from Peter Rock’s novel, Granik (Winter’s Bone (2010)) aims to create a world that has nothing to do with time, goals, or modern concerns. She succeeds by burying the audience in the minutiae of survival and stripping away all other distractions. We learn how to make shelters, cover our tracks, and build a fire. Nothing is left to waste, especially words, which are parsed out like precious food rations. Even the score is ditched, with the ambient rhythms of the forest serving as a soundtrack.
The standout performances by Foster (who is certainly worthy of Oscar consideration) and McKenzie are anchored in uncompromising realism. Every facial expression and subtle movement becomes an instinctual method of communication. It’s impossible to see the lines between acting and naturalistic behavior.
Building towards a devastating emotional finale, Leave No Trace becomes a powerful statement about devotion, survival, and the interconnected threads that shape a society. Granik understands that these bonds between us are broken and reshaped every day. When the willingness to repair those bonds is lost, the only refuge is a world of your own creation. (J.R. Kinnard)
12 – The Sisters Brothers
There’s nary a father to be found in Jacques Audiard’s slow-burning western The Sisters Brothers, but the entire story is driven by the fists of unseen fathers. The wicked abuse visited upon their sons created hardened survivors perfectly suited for the godless outskirts of 1850s Oregon.
Civilization encroaches on every front. Where there were once tents there are now houses, and those houses are already being replaced by general stores. None of this matters to the Sisters brothers, of course. That would be older brother Eli Sister (John C. Reilly) and his reckless younger brother, Charlie (Joaquin Phoenix). The Sisters kill people — that’s their job. It’s a job perfectly suited for Charlie, who is content to go through life with a pistol in his right hand and a whiskey bottle in his left. Eli is more contemplative; he doesn’t enjoy emulating the evil of their father, a monstrous drunk who abused them mercilessly. There’s even a girl back home that he fancies. He carries her neatly folded, perfume-scented shawl everywhere he goes, breathing her deep into his lungs before he lays down to sleep.
Based on Patrick deWitt’s 2011 novel of the same name, The Sisters Brothers begins like a traditional western, replete with good guys, bad guys, majestic vistas, and plenty of antagonistic banter between the mismatched brothers. Where it ends up, however, is quite a different matter. Director Jacques Audiard (Dheepan (2015)) is more interested in moral quandaries by the campfire than shootouts in the public square. In fact, many of the film’s showdowns happen at night or completely off screen.
The spotlight belongs to the great John C. Reilly, and he completely owns this film. Reilly has always been a lovable presence, but here he inhabits a man who can barely stand himself. Eli knows their curious vocation is coming to an end, but he can’t abandon his self-destructive brother. You hear his devotion in every tortured plea for Charlie to stop drinking, and see it in the simplest of gestures, as when he lovingly cuts Charlie’s hair. His brilliant performance, full of yearning, humor, and regret, makes The Sisters Brothers one of the best revisionist westerns in recent memory. (J.R. Kinnard)
11 – Cold War
Of the two lusciously photographed black-and-white foreign language films appearing on this list (the other being Roma), Cold War is, in this critic’s opinion, the better of the two. Oscar-winning filmmaker Pawel Pawlikowski returns with a passionate love story of two Polish musicians — Zula (Joanna Kulig), who dreams of becoming a star, and Wiktor (Tomasz Kot), a jazz musician working for a traditional folk group. Jumping back and forth across European borders and a 15-year timeframe, Cold War is set against a background of political turmoil, and details a romance as bleak as the surroundings. Cinematographer ?ukasz ?al beautifully captures every moment of monochrome intensity as the couple struggles with their on-and-off relationship that never truly finds its footing.
Running only 88 minutes, Cold War casts a spell over audiences with its incredibly charismatic cast, gorgeous visuals, and an eclectic soundtrack that ranges from traditional Soviet-era hymns to folk chorals, from cool jazz to classic rock & roll. It’s slick, sexy, and cool, and the rare film which I wish was longer. (Ricky D)
10 – Burning
A South Korean love triangle with deadly implications is explored in Burning, an enigmatic, cozy thriller that keeps the audience guessing right until its haunting final scene. Boasting stand-out performances from Ah-in Yoo as an aggrieved farmer, Steven Yeun as a rich Gatsby-esque figure, and Jong-seo Jeon as the woman between them, Burning perfectly posits these contrasting characters against each other to create a delicate investigation of class difference and social rivalry.
The mesmerizing effect of Burning is how it lingers on the mind long after the final credits have run. My initial reaction was one of pure bemusement. Nevertheless, its evocative treatment of love, jealousy, and class resentment is so finely-tuned, so open to interpretation, that Burning has slowly grown in my mind to be one of the best films of the year. Based upon the short story by Haruki Murakami, Lee Chang-dong’s adaptation perfectly expands upon the Japanese author’s enigmatic writing to create a work of art that at first is almost pure mood.
When Burning finally switches into thriller mode, it becomes a claustrophobic experience. We learn so much about these characters’ personalities that we become deeply invested in the outcome. Centering around a single anecdote which changes the entire dynamic of the film on a single tack, Burning expertly displays Chang-dong’s incredible mastery of tone. It is the simple things he gets right — whether it’s the motifs of fire throughout or the cat that never seems to be there, Burning forces the viewer to truly observe and think about what is going on. Perhaps frustrating for some in that it centers around the theme of absence itself, Burning has a beautiful negative energy that secures it as probably the best film to come out of South Korea since Old Boy. (Redmond Bacon)
9 – You Were Never Really Here
There are two Taxi Driver-inspired masterpieces so far this year — First Reformed and You Were Never Really Here. They each have their own unique pleasures, but only one comes at you with the force of a ball-peen hammer to the skull. Written and directed by Lynne Ramsey (only her fourth feature since 1999), and based on the short novel of the same name by Jonathan Ames, the film stars the famously mercurial Joaquin Phoenix at his most focused as Joe, the hammer-wielding searcher. He finds and rescues young girls who have been sex trafficked, all while dispatching their captors with his brutal brand of justice. Joe has seen and done things that flash across his brain like searing lightning bolts. He’s also a product of abuse, and part of his need to save the young girls is to spare them the trauma that he deals with on a daily basis.
You Were Never Really Here is a fascinating thriller made in a strangely effective yet disjointed manner. The story is simple: a man who saves young girls sets out to save another who is the object of desire for politically connected perverts. Yet Ramsey constantly muddles that simple story with lightning bolt flashes of Joe’s past traumas and bits of fantasy. Jonny Greenwood’s bracing score adds to our disconnection; it flits between harsh atonality and funky synthesizers at dizzying speed. We stumble through the film just as Joe stumbles through every day of his existence.
Ramsey’s film owes a great debt to classic film noir. She eschews the typical New York landmarks that might pepper an urban crime film, instead luxuriating in the gorgeous neon light that perpetually bathes the city. But more than anything else, the film is a showcase for Phoenix’s gifts. Ever since his pseudo-breakdown in I’m Still Here, Phoenix’s roles have been scrutinized for any signs of madness. He plays up those connections in order to show us a man just barely surviving on the edge. Any performance by Phoenix is electrifying, but here he invigorates the film with his manic energy, pushing it toward its white-hot conclusion. (Brian Marks)
8 – Mandy
Pantos Cosmatos’ second feature (after his criminally overlooked Beyond the Black Rainbow) is not especially easy viewing, and unquestionably not for all tastes, but Mandy is an extraordinary film no less — one touched with moments of crazed inspiration and imagery that reaches beyond language to something primal and original. And while I can’t guarantee you will like it, Mandy will no doubt blow your mind, kick your ass, and burn in your subconscious long after the credits roll.
Cosmatos has gone on record to say that his 2010 debut film, Beyond the Black Rainbow (a brilliant pastiche of 1970s sci-fi and horror), was inspired by his childhood obsession with the VHS box art of horror movies he wasn’t allowed to watch when he was a young boy. Mandy feels like a companion piece to Black Rainbow, if only more self-aware, and features a strong serving of heavy metal iconography, along with Nicolas Cage at his most unhinged. If a bloody, hallucinogenic nightmare featuring gooey practical effects and a chainsaw-wielding Nicolas Cage sounds like your cup of tea, than Mandy is a film you might want to see.
The revenge film is an over-saturated genre, but Mandy is in a class of its own; it’s safe to say that no one has ever made a revenge film quite like it. This is experimental genre filmmaking at its very best. It’s not for the faint-hearted and should be approached with caution, but if you don’t mind the copious amounts of bloodshed, you’re in for one hell of a ride. Expertly directed and superbly conceived, Mandy is an astonishing achievement that packs an unexpectedly powerful emotional punch. With only two films into his career, Cosmatos is poised to become one of the boldest filmmaking talents of his generation. (Ricky D)
7 – The Ballad of Buster Scruggs
“Things have a way of escalating out here in the west.” The same could be said of anywhere in the Coen brothers’ repertoire, but The Ballad of Buster Scruggs puts that tendency toward a fatalistic viewpoint front and center as its characters rarely suffer anything but heartache from a cold, indifferent world. Yet at the same time, this collection of western short stories is beautiful in its frankness, finding the wonderfully human moments that make life worth living, even if that life is at times unceremoniously snuffed out.
From the humorous, upbeat duels of a notorious singing gunfighter who never expected to meet his match, to a feisty, gold-mining geezer unlucky enough to strike it rich, and even a group of stagecoach passengers on their way to an unexpected destination, the people in Scruggs accept their tragic fates with an admirable understanding that the universe is bigger than themselves. They simply keep going on until they cannot anymore, appreciating the rare moments when they aren’t under siege by forces they cannot control. It may sound like gloom and doom, but while Scruggs is certainly full of poignancy, the Coen brothers never forget to counter that feeling with epic shots of natural beauty that remind us that warmth and happiness persists beyond the misery.
The brothers’ penchant for creating rich, memorable characters is on full display (the tender, polite exchanges of a man and woman on the wagon trail westward are more sweet and endearing than most movie romances), as is their particular brand of dark humor, yet it’s the images that stick the most. The pale face of a limbless bard as he resigns himself to his fate is haunting, and a wild-eyed banker personifies unpredictability. Anthology films can be hit or miss, often due to the inconsistent talents of the different filmmakers, but the brothers have written and directed everything here, masterfully weaving their collection of western short stories into one gorgeous, violent, mesmerizing whole. (Patrick Murphy)
6 – A Quiet Place
In 2018, John Krasinski mounted one of the most successful brand-flips we’ve ever seen. Between his acclaimed Amazon Prime series, Jack Ryan, and his bold, scene-stealing turn in A Quiet Place, fans of The Office likely don’t know what’s hit them. As if Krasinski’s burly, bearded turn in A Quiet Place wasn’t enough, he also showed he was more than just an actor, having also co-written and directed the film. One of 2018’s finest horror films, A Quiet Place is a high-concept story that focuses on a family trying to survive in a world invaded by sound-sensitive predators.
As the opening scene shows, this is not a movie that will play by the regular rules of horror. This shocking tone-setter marks A Quiet Place as a film that is beset by tension and suspense with every passing moment. This is a film where the biggest gasps will come based on sound rather than sight.
Whether the denizens of this lonely cabin might accidentally let out a burst of laughter or mistakenly step on a nail, every single sound in A Quiet Place may be the last. Still, it isn’t just this intensity that makes A Quiet Place stand out; the film is also remarkably full of heart, as you will genuinely find yourself rooting for the family to make it through one harrowing circumstance after another.
Easily one of the best movies of 2018, A Quiet Place might be vying for Academy gold in any other genre. Either way, this one is an absolute must-see. (Mike Worby)
5 – Hereditary
In a year already brimming with a bevy of solid horror efforts, Hereditary is the film that has garnered the most chatter and discussion by far. Even in a genre as divisive as horror, rarely has there been such a split between audience reaction and critical opinion. Of course, this isn’t necessarily without precedent, as some of A24’s other films (most notably The Witch) have drawn similar divides.
However you view Ari Aster’s directorial debut, one would be hard-pressed to find a more shockingly original horror film in 2018. Focusing on the death of the family matriarch and the ripple effects this event has on her surviving family, Hereditary dives deep almost from the outset. It’s a very deliberately paced film, which can make it frustrating at times, particularly when compared to your average genre fare. Those who are patient will be rewarded with one of the best twists in years, as well as a final half hour so relentless that you’ll find your fingernails digging into your armrest if you’re not careful.
With some truly terrifying analogies to the things that our parents can pass along to us, Hereditary is a deeply unsettling film anchored by some of the best performances of the year, particularly from relative newcomer Alex Wolff and a never-better Toni Collette. You might see a better film in 2018, but this writer doubts you’ll see one that lodges itself so firmly in your mind. (Mike Worby)
4 – Mission Impossible: Fallout
It’s debatable whether or not Mission: Impossible – Fallout is the greatest film in the series, or merely one of the best, but it’s safe to say that no other entry gets one’s adrenaline pumping quite as effectively. That’s because returning director and screenwriter Christopher McQuarrie is a master of pacing and escalating tension (even if his dialogue is occasionally not so fresh). Combine those skills with the ever-capable Tom Cruise, as well as the most extreme stunts he has ever filmed, and you’ve got a pinnacle of the M:I series.
One striking difference between Fallout and all the previous entries is that it’s a direct sequel to 2015’s Rogue Nation. The M:I films have — until now — been mostly disconnected. Characters essential to one film are usually absent in the next (except for Ving Rhames, the only actor besides Cruise to appear in all six). Here, however, the actions picks up right where it left off. The fate of the IMF is still uncertain, and Cruise’s Ethan Hunt is still inescapably tied to Rebecca Ferguson’s talented assassin and Sean Harris’ genocidal psychopath.
Some critics have detected a Nolan-esque slide toward the dark side in Fallout, both emotionally and visually — which isn’t wrong, but is still somewhat misleading. The Hunt of previous M:I films has been a cipher; we come to see him defy death — not feel sad. Fallout‘s dream sequences change that, giving us one of the first signs of an interior life for Hunt. That, coupled with the ability to further develop its cast, suggests an interesting future in which the M:I films might become something radically different. (Brian Marks)
3 – Roma
No film this year exhibited the power to transport audiences more than Alfonso Cuarón’s frank depiction of 1970s Mexico in and around his childhood neighborhood. Inspired by many of his own experiences, Roma follows a young woman named Cleo who works as a maid for an upper-class family in the titular borough. But while the events in her life are certainly of dramatic interest, Cuarón has placed Cleo in the middle of tumultuous times, and it’s the edges of the frame that contain Roma‘s real riches.
Utilizing impeccable black-and-white compositions and probing long takes, Roma is visually mesmerizing, shot on location and filled to the brim with human details and nuances, given ample time to live and breathe. City streets are abuzz with activity, a powder keg that we soon learn is ready to blow, while a seemingly tranquil home mirrors the uneasiness, with destructive tension lurking just below the surface. The director views events both large and small through the same non-judgmental lens, ignoring contrived plot points and giving as much weight to the uncomfortable end of a relationship as he does to the beginning of a new life, as much consideration to a family Christmas party as he does to the Corpus Christi massacre.
Serving as his own director of photography, Cuarón has captured life itself, filled with moments both quiet and noisy alike, and though his perspective may come off as a bit on the clinical side, he still finds time to see the beauty in the mundane. It’s these asides that can have a hypnotic effect, these weird tangents that feel the most authentic, as if the camera were simply set down in the middle of reality without anyone noticing. Firing pistols during a picnic, catching a matinee movie, a day at the beach, waking the kids for school; we are there, and it’s captivating. (Patrick Murphy)
2 – Annihilation
Alex Garland’s followup to Ex Machina may be an even more confident and thought-provoking piece of cult sci-fi. It’s certainly more terrifying, trading anxiety about human replacement by machine for human replacement by something less defined — an alien mutation of nature at the very least. Annihilation expands on the Jeff Vandermeer novel, using the basic story as an outline for an adventure into the unknown that recalls Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker, but with more automatic weapons and a feminist bent.
A team of five women are sent into the Shimmer, an alien aura surrounding a patch of Florida swamp where flora and fauna have become genetically altered. Peculiar lapses in time, Cronenbergian body growths, and bastardized versions of God’s creations (including the grizzliest “bear” ever put on film) ensue as our heroines cope with their physical and emotional defects as human beings (guilt, grief, depression, disease, and fear). The alien itself is almost like a cancer, expanding and consuming and transmogrifying every living thing it touches.
Garland attempts to do the same to his audience, recognizing that the most disturbing answer is a mirror reflected back on us — on, in this case, a rainbow colored humanoid mimic. Though the ending may be predictably opaque, it’s no less than what we want, demand, and deserve for our trippy sci-fi. (Shane Ramirez)
1 – First Reformed
You will be left feeling cold and alone by the time Paul Schrader’s latest film ends. It’s a movie that demands you go back into it and mine beneath the surface, as it’s more than just a man having a conflict of faith — it’s a man holding onto a dark past, coming to terms with a dark future, and contending with a dark present. First Reformed is a deeply moving film that wallows in its moodiness; equally atmospheric and thought-provoking, there isn’t much room for joy in Schrader’s misery — just a constant sense of personal insignificance.
Ethan Hawke delivers one of his greatest performances, and surrounded by a small, dependable cast, he burrows deep into the role of a reverend at odds with his beliefs while hurting himself and trying to guide others through their own troublesome thoughts. Hawke feels barely alive, on the verge of collapse throughout the entirety of First Reformed. Place him up against Amanda Seyfried’s Mary, and there’s a kindness to him that fluctuates between genuine and appeasing to her innocence. Put him next to her significant other, and you feel his powerlessness. Hawke runs the gamut to anchor Schrader’s exploration of despair and eternal sadness.
Schrader tackles heavy subject matter with an importance that could endure for a very long time to come. The damage we do to ourselves can be just as damaging as what we do to our planet, but it takes the love of others to give pause to that damage. And that’s just one of many ways to look at First Reformed — a movie that will undoubtedly reveal more of itself with every viewing. (Christopher Cross)
The Career of Roger Ebert
Every Film Critic Owes A Bit to Roger Ebert
I recently wrote a profile on the late, great Robert Mitchum. In the course of researching the piece, I came across the fun tidbit that Mitchum had been a favorite of film critic Roger Ebert.
The mind rarely works in a linear fashion, and I suspect mine may even be more chaotic than most. That item pinballed around the ol’ noggin, and, somewhere in all that bouncing here and there, triggered a bit of nostalgia. Probably because I was working on the piece during Oscar season, the mention of Ebert reminded me that there had been a time when this would’ve been the point in the year I’d be looking forward to the annual “If We Gave Out the Oscars” (or something like that) show done by Ebert along with his on-screen partner of nearly two dozen years, fellow film critic Gene Siskel.
That first Ebert/Siskel memory triggered others, and as they bubbled up and percolated a bit, they started to gel together and bing: Gestalt light bulb.
Roger Ebert, and the long-lasting TV presence he’s had, particularly in association with Siskel, has been such a visible part of the media landscape for so long that he’s taken for granted; viewed as an institution with a sense of was-is-and-always-will-be.
Which, as is the case with any institution, is hardly true. There was a time before, and the difference between then and what came after is so stark as… Well, you wouldn’t think it, but when Ebert and Siskel hit the air, the changes they wrought on the public face of film criticism, were – dare I say it? Yes, I dare! – nothing less than revolutionary. And if it doesn’t seem so today, that only testifies as to how some revolutions, in time, become the new long-standing status quo.
As late as the 1970s, and, arguably, even into the 1980s, the public face of movie criticism — … Well, it didn’t have a public face. Not much of one, anyway.
According to Gerald Peary’s 2009 documentary, For the Love of Movies: The Story of American Film Criticism, in which Ebert is a prominent talking head, up to that period most people didn’t know reviewers, not by name, anyway, nor did they much care what they had to say.
Not that there weren’t a number of critics out there flexing considerable intellectual muscle. Several were, in fact, among the all-time heavyweight champs of American film criticism, like Pauline Kael at The New Yorker, and her rival Andrew Sarris at The Village Voice, or Bosley Crowther over at The New York Times, to name just a few.
They were more than just reviewers. Their passion went far beyond recommending a good watch for the weekend. They appreciated film in-depth, in a way extending past what was at the movies that week. They wrote articles and essays and books which seriously contemplated the larger issues – corporate and aesthetic, and that area where they overlapped or bumped into each other – in cinema. When I took my first film study class in high school, Kael’s novella-length essay “Raising Kane” – the story behind the making and an appreciation of Citizen Kane – was our text. Later, as a film student in college, Sarris’ The American Cinema was a much-dog-eared reference work, a landmark as the first aesthetic overview of the body of all significant American directors up to that time compiled outside of the Cahiers du Cinema crowd.
They had their notable triumphs, too. Kael’s support for Bonnie & Clyde is – at least by some — considered the beginning of the commercial turn-around for that ground-breaking piece of 1960s moviemaking. She fired the first volley in a critical cannonade which turned what had been a sputtering, often panned release into one of the major commercial hits and artistic highpoints of the decade.
These were serious appreciators as well as serious students of film, writing seriously about – as often as they could – serious films and serious filmmaking. But as such – and Bonnie & Clyde notwithstanding — they had little to say to less serious Joe and Joan Average, or at least little Joe and Joan were interested in hearing…or could possibly want to make an effort to understand. Kael, for instance, managed to get herself fired from an early gig at McCall’s by – according to her editor Robert Stein – “…panning every commercial movie from Lawrence of Arabia and Dr. Zhivago to The Pawnbroker and A Hard Day’s Night.”
We film students – a rather serious lot, too, or so we considered ourselves — knew who many of these critical leading lights were, read their work, argued about what they had to say, but beyond that… Not a lot of echo out there with all those Joes and Joans who were only looking for a fun movie for date night. Kael and Sarris and that crowd wrote and mused in something of an intellectual bubble, and it was easy to imagine they were really only talking to each other; their true – and possibly only – peers.
There were a few reviewers who did manage to connect with the general public, and I suspect that some in the critical community at that time wished they hadn’t.
Like Rex Reed. Reed, who still writes for The New York Observer, was a semi-regular guest on the talk show circuit back in those days. Draped lazily in a chair opposite Johnny or Merv, wallowing in an air of boredom and bare tolerance, he was colorful as hell, a real-life Waldo Lydecker – a professional snob. He vindicated every suspicion the general public had of film critics as something vastly removed from themselves, coming off, as he did, as effete, arrogant, condescending, and skewering most movies and the general public who enjoyed them with volleys of acid-tipped bon mots.
Still more public and recognized was NBC’s resident film reviewer, Gene Shallit, who presented as something of a cross between a kiddy party clown and a bad Borscht Belt comic. He wore goggle-sized eyeglasses and garish bowties, had an electro-shocked head of hair with a face-bisecting mustache to match. His one-two minute reviews, delivered with a frozen grin and a tone of malicious delight, were line after line of groan-inducing puns and corny one-liners. I recall times when it seemed Shallit had been so committed to being funny, in his groan-inducing corny way, that I hadn’t been able to tell if he’d ever actually gotten around to saying if the movie he’d been reviewing had been any good or not.
But that was the thing with Reed and Shallit and others like them. They weren’t there to inform or edify as much as entertain. I’ve always fancied people were more interested in watching them “perform” than in hearing if they had anything of value to say. And the way they entertained was with a flair for a well-honed but gratuitous bitchiness in their reviews, an edge sometimes bordering on a nastiness and cruelty simply for the fun of being nasty and cruel.
The Artful Roger Ebert
And this was, more or less, the lay of the land – at least as I remember it — when, in 1975, a Chicago PBS affiliate teamed up the film critics from the city’s two leading newspapers on a movie review show: Roger Ebert – the first, and I believe, only film critic to win a Pulitzer Prize — from The Chicago Sun-Times, and, from the competing The Chicago Tribune, Gene Siskel.
The format of what was then called Sneak Previews was staggeringly simple. The two men, seated in a mock cinema balcony (remember movie house balconies anyone?), would screen clips of the week’s releases, opinionate on each movie and conclude with a recommended/not recommended vote of thumbs-up/down.
It was also staggeringly effective. In 1978, PBS picked the show up for national telecast. Come 1982, the duo would leave PBS for the still-larger audience – and more lucrative paychecks – of syndication with At the Movies with Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert, and then later, in 1986, come out with yet another incarnation in Siskel and Ebert and the Movies. The show would be nominated seven times for prime time Emmys, and the two critics would become so recognizable they graduated to the tier of talk show-worthy guests. In 2005, Ebert received what must be considered the ultimate recognition of his prominent standing in the movie universe: a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Try to find another film critic there.
Pairing up the critics did something for the public that stand-alone reviews by stand-alone reviewers didn’t do: it gave viewers the ability to compare and contrast two sensibilities as the reviewers argued the merits – or lack thereof – of recent releases. It seems simple enough now, but that kind of back-and-forth was unique at the time.
It helped that they were accessible. Ebert and Siskel didn’t talk over viewers’ heads, but didn’t talk down to them either. Their passion for movies was obvious, especially when they found one they liked, and, more particularly one they both liked.
Conversely, as much as they might hate a particular title to the point of denouncing it with scalpel-sharp sarcasm, they still lacked the bitchy cruel-for-cruelty’s sake of a Reed or Shallit. For Ebert and Siskel, it wasn’t about showcasing their wit as much as it was about making a point.
Whether they were arguing or in rare communion, in the back-and-forthing the show also displayed what any successful TV show has: that ephemeral, unpredictable, often accidental, yet essential quality called chemistry.
Ebert and Siskel were perfect for each other. They were intellectual peers, so it was always a fair fight and, frankly, when the sparks flew was when the show was at its best…well, at least at its most fun. I know some people watched the show waiting for a spat the way some NASCAR freaks watch races hoping for the excitement of a crash. There were times the dueling duo were so impassioned in their clash of opinions it seemed they were just a hair’s breadth from “Jackass!” “Pinhead!” and throwing Milk Duds at each other.
They even looked great together. People who couldn’t remember their names still remembered them, even if it was by the rather politically incorrect labels of The Skinny One and The Fat One. They were the Stan & Ollie of film criticism; iconic.
Stephen Whitty, film critic for New Jersey’s The Star-Ledger, understands the nature of the lightning in a bottle Roger and Gene caught. Asked about it, he says they “…did more than anyone to popularize (film) criticism, and show people just what fun arguing about movies could be…”
And, I suppose, that was the thing. They were fun to watch, but they weren’t entertainers. They sometimes stumbled when they talked, they weren’t always particularly glib; it wasn’t about them. It was about movies. The fun in watching them sometimes go at each other was knowing it came from the absolute cocksure commitment on each of their parts that they thought the other one – on this one, particular occasion – had his head up his ass. I think that honesty was what people connected with, and what they responded to, and why the show – combined with their unique chemistry – was such a success.
I suspect Ebert – and I’m only guessing here – probably had more mainstream fans than Siskel because he approached movie reviewing from a different perspective. Siskel more or less judged movies against an absolute, whereas Ebert understood some movies were, well, they were what they were…and that was ok. It wasn’t about an absolute good or absolute bad, but whether or not a movie did what it set out to do. He explained his philosophy in a 2004 review of Shaolin Soccer:
“When you ask a friend if Hellboy is any good, you’re not asking if it’s any good compared to Mystic River, you’re asking if it’s any good compared to The Punisher. And my answer would be, on a scale of one to four, if Superman is four, then Hellboy is three and The Punisher is two. In the same way, if American Beauty gets four stars, then The United States of Leland clocks in at about two.”
As the show grew in popularity and became more entrenched in the media landscape, the two critics used it as a bully pulpit to regularly bring attention to the small, low-profile art house flicks most average moviegoers didn’t even know were out there. Better, they tried to make the case for those movies expressly to that average moviegoer; to demystify for Joe and Joan out-of-the-mainstream flicks, and show they could be just as entertaining, if not more so, than the star-filled big releases taking up three and four screens at the multiplex.
They expanded the format of the show to include occasional one-offs, like their annual Oscar show, or focusing on films of a particular actor, genre, etc. A personal favorite I’ve always remembered was a compare-and-contrast show they did between the films of Woody Allen and Mel Brooks, then the two kings of the movie comedy heap. It was a great layman’s lesson in the evolution of two ultimately opposite comedic sensibilities; the kind of opportunity to broaden mass audience sensibilities TV and TV pundits rarely take.
Gene Siskel died in 1999 of complications from surgery for a cancerous brain tumor. Ebert continued on, first with a rotating series of co-hosts before settling on his Chicago Sun-Times colleague Richard Roeper. Roeper was – and is – a capable enough critic, but Siskel’s absence showed just how much of the show’s charm had been about the spark between he and Ebert. One only had to look at their PBS replacements – Neal Gabler and Jeffrey Lyons (Gabler would leave in 1985 and be replaced by Michael Medved) – to see that as easily as the Ebert/Siskel format was to reproduce, the Ebert/Siskel dynamic was one of a kind. The PBS show was finally cancelled in 1996 while Roger and Gene were still a syndication staple.
And if it proved impossible to follow their act, they still opened a door, making talking about movies something of popular interest. As it happens, while working on this piece, I heard an interview with actor Topher Grace on a New York radio station. Grace knew Bosley Crowther; the critic had introduced Grace’s parents. Grace unknowingly told me the difference between pre-E&S and today: “There were, like, a billion less critics in those days.”
Everything from Robert Osborne’s one-on-one chats on TMC to Rotten Tomatoes, Peter Bart and Peter Guber dissecting the current state of Hollywood on AMC to the bazillion websites devoted to movies (including this one) are all branches of the family tree first planted by Roger and Gene on Sneak Previews.
Between 2002 and 2006, Roger Ebert underwent several surgeries for cancer in his thyroid, salivary glands, and jaw. Complications from the surgeries robbed him of his voice, his ability to eat and drink forcing him to be nourished through a feeding tube, and left him seriously scarred. He no longer regularly appeared on TV. But, as he once said, though he may not be able to speak, he can still write.
It is the paradox of our visually-driven age, Roger Ebert will probably always be known – most for his TV presence. But before then and during the remainder of his career, he was first and foremost a journalist, a chronicler of movies and the business of movies. He may be famous for being on TV, but his reviews, essays, and many books are probably his more substantive contribution, and one he amazingly continued despite his travails. He’s put out at least a half-dozen books over the years. It’s impossible – even for those who question his taste – not to be impressed by Ebert’s choice to follow the passion that so obviously drove him. “I’m still in awe of his work ethic even into his last days,” says Steven Whitty. “The only thing more remarkable than Roger Ebert’s influence…was his indomitability. It’s not just that he kept at it, after more than forty years and a host of ailments worthy of Job – it’s that he worked harder and with more enthusiasm than writers half his age. He was an inspiration to everyone.”
Bad Boy Robert Mitchum and the Soul of a Poet
A Look Back at the Career of Robert Mitchum
The title of Lee Server’s acclaimed 2002 biography, Robert Mitchum: Baby I Don’t Care (MacMillan), offers a perfect encapsulation of the eponymous actor: a hard-partying Hollywood Bad Boy who didn’t give a damn what moralizing finger-waggers thought of him, or what his peers in the movie business thought, or the press, or even the public. He was going to go his own way and to hell with you, and anyone positioning themselves to make strong objection was just as likely to get a punch in the nose as shown the actor’s broad back. He worked hardest at conveying the idea that the thing he did for a living – acting – was also the thing he cared least about; an impression that may have been his most convincing performance.
The Bad Boy part of Mitchum’s reputation was honestly come by. As a youth, he’d been booted from more than one school, hoboed around the country, boxed (thus his distinctive battered pug’s profile), and even done time on a southern chain gang. It was a background which left him with a rebellious, take-no-guff streak he never lost, even as a movie star. Two years after his star-making turn in Out of the Past (1947), he was famously busted for marijuana possession and even did a few months at a California prison farm (the conviction was eventually overturned although this wasn’t the same thing as Mitchum being innocent; he did smoke grass and continued to do so well into his AARP years). On 1955’s Blood Alley, he threw a crew member into San Francisco Bay. In 1968, as public opinion swung against the Vietnam War, Mitchum was advocating a policy of, “Nuke ‘em all.” In 1983, promoting the miniseries The Winds of War, Mitchum got into hot water for making anti-Semitic remarks, then refused to apologize even though they were made in jest and the actor had a number of close Jewish friends. According to Server’s book, the actor smoked to his dying day—literally — although he was suffering from emphysema and lung cancer.
Sometimes his rebelliousness could take on a noble hue according to Jean Simmons, his co-star on 1952’s Angel Face, and her then-husband, Stewart Granger, both of whom told the tale in the 1987 documentary series, Hollywood, the Golden Years: The RKO Story.
Mitchum had a scene calling for him to slap Simmons across the face. The actor — who was often quite courtly around his female co-stars — tried to fake the slap. Autocratic director Otto Preminger demanded Mitchum slap Simmons for real, then called for take after take. As Simmons’ face began to swell from the repeated blows, Mitchum decided enough was enough, turned and gave Preminger a how-does-it-feel slap across his face. The infuriated director stormed up to RKO’s executive offices and demanded Mitchum be fired from the picture. At the time, Mitchum was the closest thing the floundering RKO had to an honest-to-God marquee-value star and it was explained to the director that if anybody was going to leave the picture, it was going to be Preminger.
But the actor had a softer side as well, one few saw. He wrote – and recorded — a variety of music including an oratorio produced by Orson Welles at the Hollywood Bowl. He collected quarter horses. His four-time leading lady Deborah Kerr told of Mitchum reciting self-penned poetry to her during the shooting of The Sundowners (1960). Dwight Whitney, in a 1969 TV Guide piece, sensed this something else buried behind the actor’s defiantly disinterested front, writing that somewhere inside Mitchum “…lies imprisoned the soul of a poet.”
As for the indolence Mitchum affected and often bragged about, and his feigned indifference to his profession (“Movies bore me, especially my own”), this, too, was true – Sidney Pollock, his director on The Yakuza (1974) compared him to “an extremely powerful but lazy workhorse” — but only to a point. In his tenure at RKO from the mid-1940s well into the 1950s, this “lazy” actor was a studio reliable, often pumping out several films each year, once even working on three films simultaneously. Despite making noises several times in his later years about retiring, he kept appearing on either the big or little screen nearly every year of his life.
He would say he only made movies for the money, or to meet sexy women, or to score pot, and certainly bland time-killers like Young Billy Young (1969), The Good Guys and the Bad Guys (1969), The Wrath of God (1972), The Amsterdam Kill (1977), and Breakthrough (1979) – to name just a very few – seemed to substantiate his point. But despite claiming he just “took what came and made the best of it,” he also regularly gravitated to artistically ambitious projects and their demanding directors i.e. The Night of the Hunter (1955) and Charles Laughton; Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison (1957) and John Huston; The Sundowners and Fred Zinneman; Ryan’s Daughter (1970) and David Lean. The Blood Alley incident notwithstanding, more typically he was a no-fuss-no-muss performer, on time, not only knowing all his lines but usually the lines of everyone else. “I’ve survived,” he once said, “because I work cheap and don’t take up too much time.”
Stylistically, he was, in many ways, the first “modern” movie actor which is why his performances still hold up decades later. He didn’t look like other actors of his time and certainly not like those of the generation before, didn’t sound like them, didn’t move like them. What one actor did with a sob, he did with a small sigh; where another actor needed a few lines, Mitchum could give the same sense with a slight shrug. Look at his breakthrough performance in The Story of G.I. Joe (1945) as a WW II infantry officer during the meat grinder Italian campaign. Sitting over the letters he’s writing to families on behalf of the dead, his broad shoulders sag just a little, his deep, slow voice gets a fraction deeper and slower — “I know it ain’t my fault that they get killed,” he tells war correspondent Ernie Pyle (Burgess Meredith), “but it makes me feel like a murderer” — and that’s all it takes to convey a man both bone-weary and heartsick over the letters he’s written today, and the letters he knows he’ll be writing tomorrow, and the day after that and on and on.
His battered boxer’s looks, a voice that could seductively purr or fall into a thick, liquory rasp, his hooded eyes looking down from atop a massive chest combined to give him an intimidating physical presence more lithely athletic actors – Fairbanks, Gable, Flynn, Lancaster – didn’t have. He was threatening in a way they weren’t, and, more than that, there was something unmistakably carnal about him. The sight of Mitchum, his bare skin gleaming with swamp water, shot in a severe up-angle by director J. Lee Thompson in Cape Fear (1962), his lazy eyes gleaming as he stalks Gregory Peck’s daughter in the Georgia backwoods is a portrait of something primordial, of a walking, lusting, unrestrained id.
“Up there on the screen,” he once said, “you’re thirty feet wide, your eyeball is six feet high…” That in mind, few actors of his time understood, as he did, the value of stillness on the screen. He seemed fully aware of how much presence he radiated, how little he had to do to pull focus: a nod of the head, a raised eyebrow accompanied by the slightest dip in his voice. He walked off with Cape Fear, taking it away from star (and producer) Gregory Peck; not an inconsiderable feat considering Peck would win the Best Actor Oscar the next year for To Kill a Mockingbird (1962). Mitchum has a scene in a bar sitting across from Peck as he explains the why and how behind his vindictive campaign to destroy Peck and his family. The heart of the scene is two long, almost uninterrupted takes – a near-monologue done in close-ups. Watch his puffy eyes switch from sadistic glee to ice-cold hate, the lazy drawl of his voice slide from malicious amusement to blatant threat. The adjustments are incredibly small, yet laser-focused enough to burn a hole through the screen. In the light-hearted Western El Dorado (1966), using the same economical style, he was one of the few actors who could hold the screen against the iconic John Wayne. He found the humor in Leigh Brackett’s spry script without ever overtly playing to the joke. In a scene largely crafted by himself, he plays against his own he-man lady killer image as he sits in a bath embarrassed by the woman friend who must pass through the room, pulling a hat down low over his head, covering his face with his hands and muttering, “I’ll close my eyes.”
Throughout his career, he worked across the spectrum of genres, although never as prolifically as he did during his years at RKO: Westerns both period (Blood on the Moon, 1948) and contemporary (The Lusty Men, 1952), war movies (One Minute to Zero, 1952), dramas (Till the End of Time, 1946), romantic comedies (A Holiday Affair, 1949), but making his biggest impression in a series of film noirs which, in the late 1940s/early 1950s, had become the troubled studio’s mainstay.
Characteristically, Mitchum talked them down, saying, “RKO made the same film with me for ten years. They were so alike I wore the same suit in six of them and the same Burberry trench coat.” Nevertheless, he was anointed a leading man – and created a never-forgotten noir icon – in Out of the Past (1947). That would be how the young Mitchum would be remembered, in his fedora and trench coat, a smoldering cigarette dangling from his lips. There had been noirs before Mitchum, and there’d be a long parade of noirs with and without Mitchum after Out of the Past, but the movie and Mitchum’s Jeff Bailey became the genre’s gold standard. Addicted to one of noir’s most toxic femme fatales (Jane Greer), Bailey is doomed and knows it, is resigned to it, scratches around for whatever little triumph he can find amidst his ruination. When Greer frets, “I don’t want to die!” Mitchum’s Bailey replies in that resigned, prosaic way only Mitchum could, “Neither do I, baby, but if I have to, I’m gonna die last.”
Because he made so many indifferent movies, and his style was so minimalist, the precision of his work was often missed; Mitchum bios often use the words “underrated” and “underappreciated.” But he never walked through a film (though he would often say otherwise), and in even some of his weaker movies he showed a depth he was rarely given credit for. Not as a Stranger (1955) was a forgettable Noble Young Doctor sudser, but Mitchum still has his moments. In his best one, he stands over an operating table, having failed to save the life of the older doctor (Charles Bickford) who has been his doting father-like mentor. Cloaked in a surgeon’s cap and mask, Mitchum has nothing to work with but his eyes, but he offers up two, bottomless abyssals of heartbreak.
In the first years after he left the RKO stable, he produced a gallery of solid work ranging from “merely” entertaining (The Enemy Below, 1957) to notable (The Sundowners; Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison; Home from the Hill, 1960), but chief among them were two Villain-Hall-of-Fame-caliber performances in The Night of the Hunter and Cape Fear.
Mitchum would often say his Reverend Harry Powell in Night of the Hunter was his favorite role, and understandably so. To truly understand his performance is to be impressed with its deftness for Charles Laughton, in his only directorial effort, is not rendering reality, but a child’s fairy tale complete with guardian angel (Lillian Gish) and boogie man. Mitchum smoothly morphs from fire-and-brimstone preacher showing the battle between Good and Evil with locked fingers tattooed “Love” and “Hate,” to something less than human skulking in the shadows of Gish’s yard as he stalks two children in her charge, howling like a wounded animal when he’s sent running by a blast from feisty Gish’s shotgun.
The Night of the Hunter has always had more artistic stature than Cape Fear, but the latter is surely the more viscerally delicious watch. The best way to measure Mitchum’s portrayal of total depravity as vengeful convicted rapist Max Cady is to run it up against Robert De Niro’s take on the same character in Martin Scorsese’s 1991 remake. Brilliant though De Niro can be, his busy performance, his spindly form, his cartoonish southern accent are outgunned by Mitchum’s stillness, his Tiger tank massiveness, his lazy, raspy drawl: “I got somethin’ planned for your wife and kid that they ain’t nevah gonna forget. They ain’t nevah gonna forget it…and neither will you, Counseluh! Nevah!” One IMDB poster commenting on both performances put it best: “Robert De Niro acted scary, Robert Mitchum was scary. Makes all the difference in the world.”
By the 1960s, a middle-aged Mitchum was getting saggier in the jaw line and thick in the middle, and the memorable roles now came few and far between. Though he’d continue to appear in film and TV shows into the year of his death, his best late-career performances came in the 1970s with three aces in a row: The Friends of Eddie Coyle (1973), The Yakuza, and Farewell, My Lovely (1975). The paunchy Mitchum was perfect for the rumpled Philip Marlowe in Farewell; he could’ve been playing a worn-out, older version of one of his 1950s noir characters. And director Sidney Pollock managed to get the best out of his lazy workhorse in the Japan-set Yakuza, with Mitchum as a man caught between conflicting loyalties and cultures, his still broad shoulders sagging under the weight of the unintended damage he inflicted on a Japanese family during the post-WW II occupation. Mitchum’s Harry Kilmer is nearly broken by the wrongs he cannot right, and the despair of trying to find an honorable end to a tragedy which seems only to compound with each attempt to do so.
But the best of the lot – and one of his all-time great performances – was as Eddie “Fingers” Coyle, a bottom-tier Boston hood who has spent most of his life “…watchin’ other people go off to Florida while I’m sweatin’ out how I’m gonna pay the plumber.” There may be no better portrait of life at the lowest levels of organized crime, and his Eddie Coyle is at once reprehensible yet pitiable, a small-timer victimized by big-timers, double-dealing Feds, and his own bad luck.
Mitchum worked so long – over a half-century – and made so many movies that even after stripping out the misfires and the duds, one is still left with a sizable body of impressive work representing every stage of his career, and a gallery of some of the most memorable characters in the American film canon. Not bad for an actor who never claimed more than minimal talent or interest in his profession, pretending he’d more-or-less walked through his career, a 50-odd year journey of which he said, “I never changed anything, except my socks and my underwear.”
- Bill Mesce
‘Weathering With You’ Isn’t Quite the Storm It Wanted to Be
Makoto Shinkai’s Weathering With You delivers a gorgeous film that doesn’t quite resonate as much as it wanted to.
Climate change and global warming have been topics of concern and discussion for years now, with melting ice caps and rising ocean temperatures being some of many signs. Director Makoto Shinkai — acclaimed the world over for his 2016 work Your Name — aims to show just how at the mercy humans are to the weather with his newest animated film, Weathering With You. Although he presents a visually stunning depiction of Mother Nature in all her various moods, Weathering With You ultimately lacks the storming power it seeks to bear upon its audience.
Tokyo has been having a particularly rainy year, seeing precipitation almost every day and nary a sight of the sun or clear blue skies. It’s during this unusual time that high school boy Hodaka arrives in the metropolis seeking escape from the suffocating life he had on his island. The young teenager naturally has trouble finding his bearings on his own in the oftentimes unforgiving hustle and bustle of the city. It’s in these early scenes that Weathering With You has some of its strongest moments, depicting the uglier side of Japanese society not often seen in anime, while also highlighting Hodaka’s strength of character to make it on his own.
As Hodaka gradually carves out his own place in the city, he eventually has an encounter with a young girl named Hina. Matching her sunny and cheerful disposition, Hina has the ability to make it stop raining and have the sunshine in very localized spots by praying to the sky. In a place where the rain never ceases, it’s easy to see why Hodaka latches onto Hina to use for the greater good (while also making a little pocket change along the way).
“The hand-drawn rain is downright mesmerizing in all its forms — fierce and calm — while the sunshine that follows seems to hang in the air caught by the leftover humidity.”
Gloomy skies and damp grounds can take their toll on one’s mood and psyche, which someone who lives in such a climate can surely relate to. Even the briefest moments of sunshine revitalize us and give a glimpse of the “light at the end of the tunnel.” Hodaka and Hina’s “100% Sunshine Girl” services to those in need of that light boldly underscore that fact, and make for a strong argument for how the weather affects us all beyond its objective physicality, along with providing some much-appreciated levity to the story.
That power of weather is beautifully illustrated by CoMix Wave Films’ stupendous animation efforts. The hand-drawn rain is downright mesmerizing in all its forms — fierce and calm — while the sunshine that follows seems to hang in the air, caught by the leftover humidity. Tokyo itself isn’t to be outdone either, with its streets running the gamut between peaceful neighborhoods to grimy and dark back alleys with dilapidated buildings. The animation is punctuated by the return of Japanese band RADWIMPS, who create numerous memorable tracks to complement the wild swings in mood that weather can elicit.
That makes it all the more unfortunate, however, that the greater narrative is so weak.
The progression of Weathering With You is made painfully obvious right from the outset of the story — so much so that it’s hard to wonder if it’s actually the set-up for a bait-and-switch. As a result, much of the first half of the film is simply waiting for the other shoe to drop, making it difficult to really settle in and become intimate with its characters.
This would be less of an issue if the cast had smaller interactions that were a delight to watch, but they fall short in that regard as well. All of the characters have a charm to them for sure — with Hina’s younger elementary school brother, Nagi, putting modern playboys to shame being a particular standout — but the story never quite makes a compelling case as to why they are as close as they are, especially Hina and Hodaka. They’re fun enough to watch be together, but don’t quite make that emotional attachment with the viewer that the story wants to create.
That lack of an emotional connection is distinctly felt in Weathering With You’s second act, when unnecessary confrontations and bizarre plot directions converge to create an artificial sense of stakes amidst a central conflict that would have been fine on its own. What’s meant to strengthen the impression of the characters’ bonds instead cheapens it, undermining the already faulty progress the first half did make. The result is a narrative that’s hard to care about, although its ending does leave the viewer with some potentially interesting questions to ponder.
Weathering With You is far from a bad movie, however. It has a clear direction and vision with a message to say about our climate crisis. The characters are endearing enough, and there are a handful of heartfelt scenes because of that. It also cannot be understated just how drop-dead gorgeous the animation is. The story, however, is simply too straightforward for its own good, resulting in an experience that is at times enjoyable, and at others plain boring.
And that’s only when being judged in a vacuum on the movie’s own merits. When compared to Shinkai’s recent masterpiece that is Your Name, it’s hard to see Weathering With You as anything but a disappointing follow-up. That’s perhaps the film’s greatest weakness, but fortunately, it’s one that Shinkai’s next work won’t have, and we can still look forward to it because of that fact.
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