#40 - #31

'The crucial function of art is to find the absolute truth.' This paraphrased belief is conveyed by Harry Gulkin, one of a dozen or so storytellers we meet in Sarah Polley's Stories We Tell, and it is at once a wise but also misguided philosophy. Yes, art strives to present the truths about our world and the human beings that inhabit it, but is there such a thing as a truth that is “absolute”? Or is the truest thing about truth that it is ethereal, fluid, and subject to the storyteller’s biases?

Polley probes these questions and her own personal history in this filmic memoir; A quietly extraordinary meta examination of how our memories shape our perceptions, and vice versa. Like the complex mysteries of Polley's past, the film itself is a complex mystery about many things at once: What defines a family, long-term causality, artistic inspiration, and the never-ending search for a “truth” that becomes less clear the more you discover about it.

Coolest award or nomination:

Writers Guild of America – Best Documentary Screenplay (Sarah Polley)

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Non-fiction filmmaking has enjoyed a grand renaissance this century, with greater access to technology providing more and more people a platform to tell their stories. Bing Liu’s Minding the Gap (2018) and Yance Ford’s Strong Island (2017) are both brave, candid, intrapersonal reflections upon familial and institutional cycles of abuse. Both are still more traditional than Polley’s knotty genealogical treasure hunt, but hers is far from the only formal experiment that challenged the definitions and broadened the horizons of non-fiction filmmaking this decade.

Other experimental documentaries (that some may disagree should be called “documentaries”) include Wim Wenders’ eye-popping 3D dance recital Pina (2011), Kirsten Johnson’s lifelong photo-diary Cameraperson (2016), and RaMell Ross’ vivid rural collage Hale County This Morning, This Evening (2018).

I had questioned early screening reports in the spring of 2010 that claimed Toy Story 3 was reducing hardened critics to tears. Needless to say, I was wrong. And despite being dented by an unneeded sequel nine years later, that landing still sticks.

What allows the Toy Story movies to continue to resonate long after the novelty of the cuddly original concept has worn off is an increasingly direct approach to bristly emotions and hefty ideas, ranging from the selfish demands we sometimes make of our families to the ramifications of mortality. Issues of neglect and abandonment rear their ugly heads once the toys are dumped. Denial and acceptance clash. Only Woody stubbornly insists on returning to Andy's house when his friends have moved on. Hey, after all he's been through in the first two movies to evade doom and return to Andy, it's unsurprising that his attachment to the kid is that strong.

But the kid isn't a kid anymore. And perhaps having the strength to let go of each other may be the most meaningful and grown up decision either of them could make. Excuse me, I have something in my eye…

Coolest award or nomination:

Cahiers du Cinéma, 2010 – Fourth place (Lee Unkrich)

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As a long-time film editor for Pixar before eventually being handed directing duties, Unkrich clearly has a well-developed intuition for how story is both influenced and sustained by rhythm. What better project for him than the musically alive Coco (2017), a dazzling feast for the eyes and ears. A touch chaotic in its plotting, sure, but not at the expense of another four-hanky ending. Like Toy Story 3 it espouses themes of family and life and death, but viewed through a much different and specific cultural lens.

Utterly captivating in its stillness and quietly moving in its emotional honesty, this heartrending diorama of a film – set almost entirely in the apartment of an elderly couple whose life together requires significant readjustment when one suffers a stroke – confronts its characters and audience with the realities of decrepitude, but always with dignity and compassion. Haneke refuses easy sentimentality as balm, just as he refuses to indulge any manner of stylistic flourish that would undercut the story he’s telling. His often static camera rarely cuts to different angles within a single scene, allowing us to fully absorb Emmanuelle Riva and Jean-Louis Trintignant's aching performances.

There are plenty who are simply allergic to the customary distantness of Haneke’s portfolio, but his austere avoidance of both syrupy passion and maudlin overtures to the cruelty of failing health enables him to posit a tougher definition of ‘true love’: One that weathers with time and strains when tested by impending loss, but never collapses.

Coolest award or nomination:

Cannes Film Festival – Palme d’Or (Michael Haneke)

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Trying to find other stories about old age told with this level of sagacity is like hunting a needle in a haystack, typical of systemic ageism in the movie industry that’s every bit as pervasive (if not as hashtag-friendly) as sexism and racism. For every Amour there are probably ten of The Bucket List or The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel or A Man Called Ove, yet some diamonds gleam in the rough. Brett Haley’s I’ll See You In My Dreams (2015) draws from the relatively untapped well of seniors seeking love in their twilight years, complicated by the grim sense that their time together may be short lived.

Or if you’re looking for an example of geriatric decline that’s a touch more ‘uplifting’ while still treating its characters with respect and generosity, Bill Condon’s cunning Mr. Holmes (2015) provides an emotionally sincere swan song for the storied sleuth, whose greatest nemesis in solving a decades-old cold case is his own failing memory.

The plot of this sad and sensitive drama (don't be fooled by its superficial “comedy” billing) never really develops much further than its tagline, but what it does is provide a rich, culturally specific exploration of far-flung family and the pain of losing not only a loved one, but having lost a fundamental part of who you are. Repeat viewings reveal how carefully authored Wang’s screenplays is, illuminating multiple angles on how immigration and generational gaps can shape a person’s cultural identity and sense of belonging in a family and society at large. She casts a tricky aura of sorrow infused with the palest shades of humour, and she juggles her many characters masterfully.

While Awkwafina was the buzziest player in this wonderful Asian ensemble (transitioning with ease from comic rap artist to an understated portrayal of masked grief), best in show must go to Zhao Shuzhen as Nai Nai; Quick with a stern matriarchal command, issued in the most endearing way, and almost certainly more clued in to her current situation than she ever lets on.

Coolest award or nomination:

Independent Spirit Award – Best Feature

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The mutual presence of Awkwafina as breakout movie star makes for an all-too-easy throughline, but there are stronger core parallels between The Farewell and Crazy Rich Asians (2018) if you can get past their diametrically opposed tones. Jon M. Chu’s vibrant escapist rom-com – and glass-ceiling smasher for studio-backed representation – likewise sets its sights on the chasm between Eastern and Western family norms as a primary source of conflict (and comedy).

Other more overtly “prestigious” novel adaptations that explore the immigrant experience and the complex relationship they have with their mother countries can be seen in John Crowley’s romantic drama Brooklyn (2015) – a young Irish woman adjusts to her new life in 1950’s NYC – and Garth Davis’ Lion (2016) – an adoptee, now a grown man in Australian, grows obsessively compelled to track down his birth mother in India.

Love is a mystery to be explored – not solved – in this contemplative, delicate romance. Film scholars may differ on whether we should consider it a landmark of queer cinema, but it is exquisite. Working from a sensualist screenplay by James Ivory (who became the oldest competitive Oscar winner ever for sculpting the diary-like source novel into cinematic prose), Guadagnino makes lovely use of pillow shots and ambient sounds to serve as audio/visual punctuation, forcing us to sit with the emotions of each scene rather than bulldozing ahead with plot. Granted, there’s little plot to bulldoze in this largely experiential piece, where not much happens but much is felt. He's also unafraid of strange one-and-done flourishes in his camera choices, but this is still the most digestible work in his filmography*.

Many shades of Timothée Chalamet's performance are buried deep, almost maddeningly so, but they're there. Michael Stuhlbarg has just as much going on beneath the surface, but with less screen time to show us. Their final act heart-to-heart is a new classic in miniature.

Coolest award or nomination:

Academy Award – Best Adapted Screenplay (James Ivory)

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*Anyone with even one finger on the pulse of Italian cinema should know that Guadgnino’s self-indulgent brio is not every critic’s cup of espresso. He’s hit-or-miss with me: I was unphased by A Bigger Splash (2016) and recoiled from the grotesquerie of Suspiria (2018), but found the mouth-watering, epicurean melodrama of I Am Love (2010) to be more than just a delicio-gasm for foodies. At any rate, auteurs this fearless always deserve a fair look.

Together with Sicario (2015) and Wind River (2017), this taught neo-Western marks the central pillar in writer Taylor Sheridan’s thematic “New Frontier” trilogy, a trio of contemporary crime dramas that explore how the passage of centuries have eroded and warped the mythology of the Wild West. Sheridan reimagines all the tropes of Cowboys and 'Indians' and sheriffs and outlaws as they may play out in the desolate dustiness of post-Recession Texas. Needless to say, there’s nothing Romantic about this New Frontier, where even adventures that germinate from noble intentions end in violence and tragedy.

David Mackenzie’s surefooted direction (plus a quartet of clearly defined performances) ties the whole thing together. The clean editing and careful blocking of every shot allows the audience to peel back the many layers of Sheridan's keen screenplay, which functions as political parable, dissection of brotherly power dynamics, critique of oppression in its many forms, and (above all) a damn entertaining heist flick.

Coolest award or nomination:

Western Heritage Award “Bronze Wrangler” – Theatrical Motion Picture

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The cultural genocide and legacy of violence against Native Americans is only one of the thematic threads Sheridan weaves into the tapestry of Hell or High Water, but he would give the topic more direct attention the following year in his directorial debut Wind River (2017). The film itself is only moderately successful, at its best a serviceable thriller, at its worst bordering on exploitative and built around a White saviour, but there’s a crucial conversation to be started (and hopefully sustained) by its sobering epilogue.

Meanwhile, James Mangold extracted his own dust-caked, revisionist gunslinger saga from the pages of X-Men comics in Logan (2017). As ultra-violent as it is, it resonates far more deeply as a sombre elegy for the iconic mutant that made Hugh Jackman a movie star.

The calmer, more sedate uncle of Goodfellas. Scorsese wields the same masterful control over this mobster life story, but with contemplative modesty, defamiliarizing (rather than rehashing) the genre he helped popularize.

While master cutter Thelma Schoonmaker makes those 3.5 hours move more swiftly than you’d think possible, it wouldn't be quite true to say you never feel the length of its luxuriant run time. Feeling the length of it is very much the point. Its cumulative effect magnifies as the drama slowly ebbs into old age, forcing reflection on the ramifications of encroaching death, and the cost of a life wasted. The final chapter is less eventful, but its impact is staggering.

Innovative de-ageing vfx from ILM allowed legends Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, and Joe Pesci (the latter playing against type to softly intimidating effect) to embody younger versions of their characters. The efficacy of the illusion is debatable, but to have achieved this digital enhancement without the use of tracking dots is a noteworthy feat.

Coolest award or nomination:

Academy Award [nomination] – Best Visual Effects (Pablo Helman, Leandro Estebecorena, Nelson Sepulveda, Stephane Grabli)

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If The Irishman typifies Scorsese’s mellow mode, then so too does Silence (2016), his languorous, challenging meditation on faith as depicted through the ordeals of Jesuit missionaries in 17th century Japan, where the act of a single step bears symbolic weight as painful as any physical brutality. Like The Irishman, it is glacially paced but never boring; It’s an epic of introspection with much to unpack, offering lovely frames (composed with painterly precision by Rodrigo Prieto) but no easy answers in its quandaries on religion and imperialism.

This stylish and slow-boiling thriller could be described as Unforgiven set in modern Los Angeles, at least in how it pertains to the central character's noble attempt (but tragic failure) to suppress his violent sting. Ryan Gosling delivers a mesmerizing, deeply internalized take on this archetypal antihero, with penetrating blue eyes to rival Paul Newman's, and an understated demeanour offering only the slightest clues of his inner scorpion. Other strong turns come via Carey Mulligan, Brian Cranston, and Albert Brooks (cleverly cast in a juicy villain role).

Refn uses every tool at his disposal – especially the deep, glaring colours of city lights at night – to further develop the language for 21st century film noir, whereby luminous neon and hot pinks are used to frame the darkness of the soul, pulsating with the disquieting rhythms of Clint Martinez’s 80’s-inspired synth score. Pure, distilled cinema.

Coolest award or nomination:

Cannes Film Festival – Best Director (Nicholas Winding Refn)

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Refn would go on to gain further notoriety as a sinister purveyor of moral corruption seen through a glass darkly with his follow-ups Only God Forgives (2013) and The Neon Demon (2016). Criticisms of ‘style over substance’ have started coming out of the woodwork, perhaps rightly so, but OOOOH such style!

The verbosity of Aaron Sorkin's authorial voice and the ardor of Boyle's visual collage compliment each other perfectly. Together with a stellar cast orbiting Michael Fassbender – delivering a performance that should have netted him an Oscar, despite lack of grunting (sorrynotsorry, Leo) – they shatter the dusty biopic mold with an artful interpretation of Jobs' life and work, and the tenuous relationships therein.

Sorkin himself best described the film as a “portrait, not a photograph”, pithily summarizing his tidy three-act structure and pageant of fictionalized dialogue. Watching Fassbender duet with the likes of Kate Winslet, Jeff Daniels, Seth Rogen et.al. in triplicate, anticipating how the dynamics may have mellowed or soured throughout the intervening years, is a unique, inimitable pleasure (even if it may irk ‘historical accuracy’ nitpickers to know that none of these scorching conversations ever really happened).

Coolest award or nomination:

Golden Globe – Best Supporting Actress (Kate Winslet)

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To follow up a crossover smash hit as big as Slumdog Millionaire (2008) must have been a daunting prospect, but Boyle continued to confidently assert his visionary signature with the cramped survival drama 127 Hours (2010), which despite its confined setting (literally stuck between a rock and a hard place) maintains a surprising energy throughout thanks to his creative camera and editing choices.

The Syrian conflict as been fodder for dozens of harrowing documentaries this decade; Many of them excellent, all of them invaluable, but few as exposed and touching as Al-kateab's deeply personal video diary, shot over five years as she and her husband Hamza fight to simultaneously run a hospital and raise their infant daughter amid daily shelling in war-ravaged Aleppo.

At once a gripping tale of survival, a mournful ode to a city lost, and ultimately a sober yet hopeful dedication to the future, its rough edges do not dull the raw power of the stories – and people – to which it pays tribute. Waad's courage as a journalist and as a mother in a time of war, alongside Hamza’s courage as a father and a saver of lives, cannot be overstated. For a chronicle as precious as theirs to even exist is more than a miracle; It's an act of heroism. PBS Frontline has made the full film available to watch for free on YouTube and other platforms. See it.

Coolest award or nomination:

International Documentary Association – Courage Under Fire Award (Waad Al-kateab)

Also worth checking out:

Ossama Mohammed & Wiam Simav Bedirxan’s Silvered Water (2014), Orlando von Einsiedel’s The White Helmets (2016), Ferras Fayad’s Last Men in Aleppo (2017) and The Cave (2019) all shine an unflickering spotlight on grassroots heroes in Syria – artists, civilian rescue crews, underground hospital workers, activists all – while unveiling the mounting cost of this war on a global stage. And that’s just scratching the surface. These storytellers have risked all (and in many cases, sacrificed all) to bring us urgent artifacts of atrocious history being written in real time. Their work should be mandatory viewing.