THE BANSHEES OF INISHERIN

Directing: A-
Acting: A-
Writing: A-
Cinematography: A-
Editing: B+

You could say that The Banshees of Inisherin is writer-director Martin McDonagh’s return to form, or at least to his roots: his previous film set in Ireland—not native to McDonagh himself, who was born in London, but native to his parents—was the excellent, incredible debut feature film In Bruges (2008). That film also featured the same two lead actors, Irishmen Brendan Gleeson and Colin Farrell. Both films mix comedy and drama, and both go dark places. The key difference really, is that In Bruges offers more overt laughs and The Banshees of Inisherin has a singular depth of vision on its character’s tragedy.

That certainly shouldn’t dissuade you from seeing it, however: this is easily one of the best films of the year. And even though McDonagh’s previous film, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri (2017) garnered the most Oscars of any—two wins, alongside five other nominations—it quickly faced a great deal of legitimate criticism, not least of which was its centering of whiteness in a story ostensibly addressing racial injustice. The fundamental issue with McDonagh’s telling of such a story is his position widely removed from the Black, or even an American, experience. Thus, what elevates both In Bruges and especially The Banshees of Inisherin is McDonagh’s own Irish heritage, and a clear depth of knowledge of his own peoples’ history.

In fact, this film is so steeped in Irish history, set on a remote and deeply rural island off the coast of Ireland in the 1920s during the Irish Civil War, which lasted just under a year from 1922 to 1923. There are almost certainly nuances that either reference or mirror that conflict, even though the film doesn’t come any closer to directly portraying any battles than the islanders hearing gunfire or seeing smoke rising from the mainland (which is, of course, itself an island). As someone whose knowledge of this conflict basically begins and ends with this very movie, I likely missed many such nuances. That does not make the film any less great than it is.

On the surface, anyway, this is a film about a breakup, not between romantic lovers, but between good friends, who are widely known to their community as men who spend their time daily drinking at the local pub together. But there comes a point—and this is where the film begins—when Colm (Gleeson) has come to realize he’s wasting his time, needs the space to pursue his musical passions before his days are numbered, and thus declares to said friend, Pádraic (Farrell), that “I just don’t like you no more,” and he wants to be left alone.

It sounds deceptively simple as a concept, and this is where once again McDonagh proves a uniquely adept storyteller (so long as he fully understands the environment in which he’s placed his characters). Farrell has never been better than his performance as Pádraic, a simple, kind man whose simplicity skirts the border of dullness, and whose emotionally intelligence cannot comprehend such a jarring removal of affection or companionship. Colm quickly grows so frustrated with Pádraic’s persistence in speaking to him, he declares that for every time Pádraic “bothers’ him again, he will take his pair of shears and cut off one of his own fingers.

As a viewer, I really hoped it wouldn’t actually come to that. But, Pádraic makes it difficult to hold onto that hope. This is a guy who declares the young man Dominic (a stupendous Barry Keoghan, for once not playing a villain or an unsettling creep) the dumbest guy on the island, only to start seeing evidence of this guy being, if not any more emotionally intelligent, then a bit more educated than him.

The Banshees of Inisherin is the kind of movie that, where other films might hint of an uncomfortable path and then pivot, instead leans right into those paths. Colm’s and Pádraic’s story is one of cascading wrong moves, the kind that turn friends into enemies. You know, kind of like a civil war.

I must also mention Kerry Condon as Siobhan, Pádraic’s sister he lives with. She is the stealth MVP of this film’s cast, playing the local woman increasingly exasperated with both her brother and Colm. She gets a fantastic, unforgettable scene with Gleeson, as Colm complains of how boring Pádraic is, only to have Siobhan reference all the men on the island and shout, “You’re all fecking boring!” There is some irony here, given the film’s full focus on men in the story, and it barely passes the Bechdel Test (at first I thought it didn’t, but then I remembered her conversation about her main with the woman at the shop in town).

This film is far from boring, however, notwithstanding how gradually its greatness truly reveals itself. It starts as a deceptively simple story deceptively told, just two guys whose lifelong friendship has inexplicably splintered. “Inisherin” is the name of the fictional island on which they live (gorgeously shot, by cinematographer Ben Davis, on and near the stunning limestone sea cliffs of the west coast island of Inishmore), and “The Banshees of Inisherin” is the name of the music piece Colm is composing. Or, a subtle reference to the characters themselves.

It may sound like some of this is a little on the nose, but that is not at all how it plays as the story unfolds, which is often as funny as it is sad. It seems fair to warm viewers that this movie is not the least bit upbeat, and its humor is often steeped in very dark themes, but it is also undeniably compelling, some might even say entertaining.

When friends show vulnerability then their friendship is vulnerable.

Overall: A-

TRIANGLE OF SADNESS

Directing: B+
Acting: A-
Writing: A-
Cinematography: A-
Editing: B+

It is largely by chance that I wound up watching Triangle of Sadness only one day after Tár, but they make very suitable companion pieces—both of them being overlong notwithstanding. Although Tár is two hours and 38 minutes long, and Triangle of Sadness is two hours and 27 minutes long, the latter does a better job of justifying its own length. This one, at least, is edited largely like an anthology: part one focused on a young straight couple who are both models; part two on a luxury cruise to which they were given free tickets as part of the woman’s deals as a social media “influencer”; and part three on the island to which several of the passengers wind up stranded.

That’s not to say I don’t think Triangle of Sadness couldn’t also have been shortened, mind you. There is no question in my mind that this film also could have had certain scenes either cut in half or excised altogether, and left a film with the same overall effect. That said, this one has a pretty great title, to which we are treated in the opening scenes: Carl (Harris Dickinson) is a beautiful, young, blond male model going on an audition, and his beauty still won’t stop his scrutinizers from asking if he can flatten out his “triangle of sadness”—modest wrinkles between the nose and the eyebrows. One of them offers a side comment about whether it can be treated with Botox.

Triangle of Sadness is also a satire, and one which is, if not more successful than Tár, then certainly more accessible. Tár is capital-A “Art,” a commentary on separating art of the artist; whereas Triangle of Sadness tackles wealth and privilege in a much more straightforward way. I am reminded of the common scenario where it doesn’t matter how wealthy a person is, if someone else exists with a great deal more wealth, then they don’t think of themselves as wealthy. And in Part One, we get an extended scene with Lewis and his also-a-model girlfriend Yaya (Charlbi Dean), at a restaurant, devolving into a tense conversation about their respective salaries and who is typically expected to pay. Much is made of the fact that female models earn more than their male counterparts. Presumably successful models of any gender are doing fine. (Admittedly, the gap is wide.) Suddenly I’m wondering how the actor salaries for the two portraying them compares.

Carl and Yaya are but two characters in a huge ensemble cast for Triangle of Sadness—the triptych of parts also supporting its title—and yet, they are the only two who appear in all three parts. It’s as though the micro view of their two lives navigating the nuances and implications of money is broken out into a wider view once we find them on the luxury yacht, especially once we learn they were given their tickets in exchange for “influencing.”

It’s on the yacht that we meet a huge cast of characters, in a unique sort of upstairs/downstairs scenario. First we see the above-deck crew getting a pep talk: no matter what the guests asks or demand, you always say “Yes, sir!” or “Yes. ma’am!” Okay, but what if one of the many filthy rich guests becomes friendly with a young woman on the crew, and demands that she go for a swim? And further demands that the entire crew go or a swim, right this instant, including the kitchen crew, leaving the seafood being prepared for dinner left out and unattended for as long as that takes?

The best thing about the writing and direction here by Ruben Östlund (Force Majeure) is how eclectic the characters are, and how they all ring true. This applies to our model characters (are they even the protagonists, technically?) as well as the yacht guests who are far more wealthy than they are, and the leadership of the yacht crew, right down to the cleaning staff. A woman referred to multiple times as the “Toilet Manager” winds up playing a critical, deliciously subverted role on the island in Part Three.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself—I must mention Woody Harrelson, who we only see in Part Two, in maybe the least plausible part in the film: the wildly irresponsible, drunkard Marxist captain of the yacht. How the hell did this guy even get that job? Maybe it doesn’t matter. Harrelson has become a reliable go-to character actor, a surprise in retrospect considering the persona of his early career, and yet he is perfectly cast here, and provides a great deal of levity in what ultimately becomes a catastrophically tragic situation.

It’s no spoiler to say that the ship winds up sinking. What matters is how it happens, and the chaotic events that lead up to it, many of which aren’t even related. This mishmash of bad luck also strains plausibility, but plausibility is not what Östlund is going for here. One of the many things I loved about Triangle of Sadness is how much we see of the ship lurching back and forth over the waves of a gathering storm, an extended sequence (both darkly entertaining and deeply disgusting) that is all build-up—only for it to cut straight to the handful of survivors on an isolated beach, before we even see the ship actually sink. That part, while it probably would have been thrilling to see, is not relevant to the story being told here.

I must return again to the comparison to Tár, because it fascinates me that this film has received relatively mixed reviews while Tár is being truly fawned over by critics; I genuinely feel both of them are excellent, each with only very minor flaws. I can’t help but wonder, would the amount of critical praise be reversed had Tár been directed by Ruben Östlund starring Charlbi Dean, but Triangle of Sadness were directed by Todd Field and featured Cate Blanchett? How much does the prestigiousness of pedigree color people’s approach to these films? To me, it’s a wonderful thing that such questions are found in the overlapping pools in which both films are wading.

The acting is no less excellent in Triangle of Sadness, the difference only being that they are not as famous (not even Woody Harrelson, by far the most famous actor here, and he’s only in a third of the film). I was particularly impressed with Harris Dickinson as Carl, with his deceptively sweet and expressive face. Would I have been as impressed if he weren’t also gorgeous? In any event, Östlund deftly weaves many threads of nuance as he also impressively makes clear that none of these people are just “rich idiots”—they aren’t idiots at all, not a single one. As a rule, they even openly acknowledge their lack of basic life skills when put to the test on a deserted island, hence the “Toilet Manager” who takes easy control of the group because she is the only one who knows how to cut and clean an octopus.

All three parts of this film are as compelling as the other, for different reasons. Part Three becomes a sort of adult, psychological Lord of the Flies (it’s kind of a relief there is no onscreen violence), but one in which race and class take on new meaning based on people’s abilities, as do gender roles. In one particularly memorable scene, Yaya is giving Carl pointers on how to stroke the ego of an older person in a leadership role who has invited him to start sleeping in the life boat with her. It puts into sharp relieve what many young women have to deal with in the real world, and what most young men are oblivious to—until young Carl is forced to face it. And then, much to Östlund’s expert storytelling credit, it is some time before the rest of the group, or even us as viewers, find out exactly what is actually going on in that lifeboat.

Sitting through Triangle of Sadness, regardless of its length, is a surprising experience in richly rewarding ways. Its final moments bring things around perfectly, with just the right amount of ambiguity. Honestly, the more I think about this film the more I feel impressed by it.

Ironically, there is a perimeter of joy in observation of this triangle.

Overall: A-

TÁR

Directing: A
Acting: A
Writing: A-
Cinematography: A-
Editing: B+

Tár is the opposite of populist entertainment, by many accounts a film that succeeds at being a satirical work of staggering genius by being up its own ass about being a satirical work of staggering genius. The way I see it, this film is pretentious about its own commentary on pretension. But, that doesn’t necessarily make it any less genius.

If you wanted to hold a cinema version of a book club, Tár would be a perfect choice for watching and then discussing. Writer-producer-director Todd Field is practically begging us all to intellectualize arguments about it. This is less surprising when you consider his previous (and only other) to films: In the Bedroom in 2001, and Little Children in 2006. Both those other films were excellent in surprising and different ways, as is Tár. Field was 37 upon the first film’s release; 42 upon the second; he’s 58 now. This is a guy who takes his time, and with each film it’s clear that the time is taken to make his art even more polished than the last.

Is he also more self-indulgent? Perhaps. Tár is two hours and 38 minutes long, and I am not convinced it needs to be, every single scene clearly done with intention notwithstanding. Moments after the film opens, we get the first of several very long scenes, this one an interview with our title character, Lydia Tár, onstage in front of an audience, all of her answers to questions about classical music—and her contextualized place in the history of women in it—systematically lay out her slightly emotionally detached, artistic genius. One could argue this scene going on for half as long would have been just as effective.

I can tell you this much: Tár is perhaps the most highly critically acclaimed film of the year thus far, and yet it is among the least immediately compelling, narratively speaking. This may be different for, say, viewers with an education in classical music, who will know all the references of the industry and the art. (I would be very interested in such people’s take on the film and the authenticity of its portrayals, particularly in the details.) Tár almost seems to be daring us to stick it out, the aforementioned extended scene being preceded by countless opening title cards that double as extensive credits, representing maybe two thirds of what would normally have been end credits. I did a rare thing and stayed through the end credits, just to see how brief they would be as a result. Indeed they did not last long—not that that would be much comfort knowing they follow nearly three hours of time in the theater.

Which is to say, the average movie-goer is not likely to have much patience for this film. It’s too bad, because Field very much rewards any patience here. On the other hand, my expectations of Cate Blanchett as the current front-runner for the Academy Award for Best Actress are very much tempered now that I have seen the movie. Not because her performance is not extraordinary (it is), or because the film is any less than excellent (it’s not)—but because of shifts in recent years’ trends among the Oscar voting body. I’m not convinced they will award a third Oscar just yet to a woman who still has many years of a career ahead of her, for a role in a film that will be a challenge for many to sit all the way through.

In spite of all that, let’s assume that you, dear reader—especially if you are still reading thus far—have real interest, some intellectual curiosity, in Tár. For you, this movie indeed comes highly recommended. Probably unlike many other critics, I am not yet convinced that it will be among my ten favorite films of the year, but it probably would if I had to make the choices right now. This film is an odd experience, as it’s easy to spend much of its time wondering what the fuss is all about, and then it proves hard to shake in the wake of finishing it.

For instance, Tár is largely about the question of separating the art from the artist, and what is arguably a fool’s errand in considering someone’s work without considering their moral standing. Lydia Tár makes it blatantly clear that she feels that who a person is has no relevance to their work—only to wind up proven wrong in her own case. Lydia is a figure who is both subtly and deeply manipulative, something that only gradually becomes clear: I wondered how I would have taken in her as a character had I not known beforehand that (spoiler alert! this has been widely reported anyway) she gets caught up in her own version of a #metoo scandal. Nothing in the earlier scenes indicate that she is headed for any kind of downfall, or even necessarily that her artistic genius has warped her own sense of reality. These things are expertly released with slow precision by Field over the course of the film, like a very slow leak from a faucet.

This is what I keep wondering: Tár plays as though Lydia’s gender, and indeed also her sexuality as a self-described “U-Haul lesbian,” are immaterial—and yet, would the film be even half as compelling if it told the exact same story about a predatory straight man? And this question should stress that the story is told the very same way, with “predatory” in quotes, possibly maybe: we never see anything overt happening. Just subtle manipulations by a revered figure surrounded by yes-people who never dare to contradict her, allowing her get what she wants at the end of the day, every day . . . until she finally doesn’t. And she’s so used to being the oblivious center of all the attention, that it doesn’t take much for her to begin unraveling.

Tár is hardly what anyone would call a “lesbian movie,” even though the main character is one. Even with a couple of blithe references to a history of oppression (against both women and queer people), her lesbianism is portrayed as incidental. One might be tempted to think of that as forward-thinking, except that would be sidestepping what Field is doing with this film. It’s almost as though it’s a brand of satire, but one that is, for lack of a better word . . . stealth.

Does satire even work anymore? This strikes me as a valid question, as our daily reality is ever more absurd in a post-Trump world. The 1976 masterpiece Network worked brilliantly as satire because at the time there was still a shared and unspoken agreement to at least the appearance of decorum. Now, exaggeration does little for us, and instead Todd Field takes us in the opposite direction, toward extreme understatement. It goes deeper than nuance, although Tár also features plenty of that.

And this is what I see as the key difference between Tár and a film like Network: a much smaller audience will watch Tár and “get it.” I barely did, although I do think my understanding and appreciation would be deepened with repeat viewings—an irony not lost on me given the film’s run time. A much smaller audience is likely to see this movie, period, whether they “get it” or not. And yet, I would still say more should see it. I merely understand that it’s an uphill battle, in the era of digital effects blockbusters, nearly all of them featuring basically the same story.

Tár, at least, is absolutely in a class of its own. Blanchett is as well, but we all knew that already; it’s Field’s achievement that needs more attention, as he gets performances nearly as memorable from the others in the large cast around her, particularly Nina Hoss as Lydia’s partner. Tár is being marketed as the Cate Blanchett Show, which it is to a large degree, but ultimately Field’s show, one that is almost too finely polished. This is the kind of film so refined that for many it will translate to “boring.” But, when you go in expecting to be rewarded for your patience, as I did, you won’t be disappointed.

If you look for humor in it, you will find a surprising lot of it.

Overall: A-

STILL WORKING 9 TO 5

Directing: B
Writing: B
Cinematography: B
Editing: B+

I have a suggestion for Hollywood: I would love to see a contemporary update on 9 to 5. Not just as an attempt at capitalizing on yet another nostalgic revisit to a classic film of the past (though that would unavoidably be part of it), but as an exercise in illustrating how, more than forty years later, so much work is left to be done. A newer film could demonstrate how misogyny in the workplace may not be as blatantly widespread as it was in 1980, but even as women’s presence in management positions has exploded in the ensuing decades, misogyny remains widespread—it’s just a lot subtler and more pernicious these days.

I don’t even care if it’s a reboot or a sequel; either could be fun. Although I don’t usually find this kind of thing necessary, I would actually vote sequel. This way, we could have a story centered on, say, the granddaughters of Violet (Lily Tomlin), who remains close friends with Judy (Jane Fonda) and Doralee (Dolly Parton) in retirement, and we could get a few, super-fun scenes with these three titans of the entertainment industry, dispensing hilarious advise to the young woman professionals about their persistent workplace problems with the men around them.

9 to 5 has already been made into a musical twice (Broadway in 2009 and the West End in 2019). This idea only makes sense! Apparently they came very close to something exactly like this sort of sequel in 2018 but it wound up not working out. Dammit! Because god knows, updating this story to highlight the issues that persist to this day would reach a hell of a lot wider audience than this pleasantly compelling but somewhat forgettable documentary, Still Working 9 to 5.

This documentary film is getting a single showing in local theaters, as part of SIFF’s “Docfest,” tomorrow (Sunday October 10) at 7:00. On the upside, SIFF is also selling virtual tickets all this week (Friday through Thursday) so you can stream the film at home. I cannot find any information on it being available later on streaming services.

So, is it worth the price of paying for a ticket to see this movie? This really depends on your relationship with the original 1980 film. The documentary is much more effective as a companion piece, offering a bit of behind the scenes information but largely contextualizing the film with how it was timed against the history of the women’s liberation movement. The thing is, though, 9 to 5 actually speaks for itself, and if you’ve never seen it, I urge you to find and watch that (currently available on HBO Max). You’ll see how it stands up incredibly well—arguably better now than it did upon its 1980 release, when reviews were decidedly mixed, largely due to most movie critics being, of course, men.

Anyone with a basic understanding of both culture and nuance would watch the original film and already see clearly how far women have come, where they are today in comparison to when women then might have expected to be in another four decades, and how far women still have to go. Plus, that film is wildly entertaining in a way this documentary could never hope to be.

But, for those of us who have already seen 9 to 5 several times and are big fans of it, Still Working 9 to 5 does have its values and insights. I think co-directors Camille Hardman and Gary Lane lean a little heavily on the film’s enduring cultural impact beyond just being a smash success (and to be clear, being the #2 movie of 1980, behind only The Empire Strikes Back, and one of only three movies to earn more than $100 million domestic that year, is deeply impressive). This documentary is kind of two films in one: a film about 9 to 5 and its unprecedented success as a film with women as the three lead roles; and a film about where women’s rights have gone in the late 20th and early 21st centuries.

It’s undeniably fun to see Fonda, Tomlin and Parton in present-day interviews discussing what the movie meant both to them personally and to audiences, both then and now, alongside Dabney Coleman (who played the chauvinist boss) , producers and writers of the film, and even original members of the “9to5” activist organization of working women from whom the film got both its title and its inspiration (that being one of the several fascinating details you actually might learn from this film alone). For those unfamiliar with the original film, Still Working 9 to 5 will either just hold moderate interest or inspire a look at the movie. For the rest of us, it’s a fairly affecting companion piece.

Revisiting old friends is always a comfort, even if they tell us how much work is left to do.

Overall: B

BROS

Directing: B
Acting: B
Writing: B
Cinematography: B+
Editing: B+

I really wanted to love Bros. And I did like it—it even made me laugh more than most comedies do. And I am a genuine fan of Billy Eichner, his overt obnoxiousness on Billy on the Street being a definitive part of his brand and appeal. And Bros is made for people who love romantic comedies, and even quite knowingly moves through all the same beats as any mainstream film of the genre. This is a film made for everyone lamenting the decline of romantic comedies, and it manages to scratch that itch by being just as serviceable a specimen as any other.

I just wanted it to be better than “serviceable,” which is, admittedly, a tall order. How many “great” romantic comedies are there out there, really? When Harry Met Sally… (1989) is arguably the best ever made; Four Weddings and a Funeral (1994) seems largely lost to history and now rendered criminally underrated (seriously, if you’ve never seen that one, find it and watch it). Moonstruck (1987) is a straight up masterpiece. How long has it been since another romantic comedy came even close to the quality of these examples? Even the American Film Institute’s top 10 romantic comedies lists nothing more recent than 1993 (and Sleepless in Seattle is fun, but, if that makes the top ten of all time? this is not a genre known for most people’s best work).

How does Bros compare within a 21st-century context, then, which, frankly, lowers the bar? Four years ago Collider compiled a list of the best romantic comedies of the 21st century, and a lot of them are better films. The crucial difference with Bros is, of course, that it centers a same-sex couple instead of a straight one. And a whole lot has been made of how that breaks new ground, this being “the first American gay romantic comedy from a major studio featuring an entirely LGBTQ principal cast”—which is, it must be said, a lot of qualifiers. After all, Fire Island was already released this past spring, and it fits all but one of those same qualifiers, the only difference being it was released on Hulu. And that movie is certainly as good as Bros; some might say it’s better (on average I liked them about the same, for slightly different reasons) and they would have solid arguments to stand on. Hell, that one stars Bowen Yang as one of the principal characters, and he’s also in this movie.

And not for nothing, but Fire Island has a leg up on Bros in that its principal characters are mostly people of color. Bros is a little self-conscious about its “diversity casting” (a loaded term if ever there was one) while never directly addressing how it still centers white characters—which in itself is not necessarily something to criticize it for, except for how it quite blatantly “checks all the boxes,” or at least all the boxes it can, in its supporting cast. Eichner’s Bobby character is the Executive Director of an LGBTQ+ museum (was it absolutely necessary for him to the the Executive Director?), but the rest of his Board consists of two trans women (one White and one Black), a Black non-binary person, a White bisexual man, and a White lesbian. This is a knowing nod to the obsession with “covering all the bases,” like the self-conscious diversity of models on a college brochure, while still managing to actually check a lot of the boxes. (Incidentally, this Board does not include any people of color who aren’t Black, nor does it have any intersex or asexual people—which, I would bet anything, it would if the movie were made another ten years from now.)

The museum itself is a clear way for the film to “educate” viewers on queer history, which I have mixed feelings about. On the one hand, this aspect of Bros did not teach me anything I didn’t already know, which made it feel kind of like a movie made to educate straight people. On the other hand, plenty of queer people also don’t know their own history, and if this movie teaches them anything at all, I’m not going to complain about that. That said, Eichner has so many extensive monologues in this movie—this guy talks, and talks—that a lot of the time, in the museum scenes, he’s throwing out so much information so fast that it often feels, again, like checking off boxes.

Bros opens with one of Eichner’s monologues, by the way, his being a podcast host (of course) offering an excuse for an introduction consisting of a large amount of voiceover. This opening bit kind of goes hard, though, which Eichner’s delivery that’s both rapid and extensive, and I got a little stuck on the idea that a solo podcast host, who evidently doesn’t even have guests on, would be a wildly popular one with a million subscribers. Bros barely gives an indication of the basic premise of his podcast (again, queer history), then mostly shows him waxing poetic about his frustrating sex life, what it’s like being gay these days, or answering live listener calls. Why the hell would so many people be listening to this?

It should be noted that Bros may be a gay story in which all the queer characters are (quite pointedly) played by queer actors, and all of that is indeed stuff to be proud of. But the director, Nicholas Stoller, is not gay, and I think this actually makes a difference, Eichnier having co-written the script with him notwithstanding. (Side note: Fire Island was directed by Andrew Ahn, an openly gay Asian American man.) There’s been an element of a lot of the press and buzz for Bros that feels a lot like straight guys patting themselves on the back for helping their queer friends get their movie made. And it’s not to say they have no reason to be proud of this movie, but there has been this widespread industry expectation that the movie will be a hit, and its opening weekend earned 40% less than projected. There is already hand-wringing about whether this means audiences aren’t “ready” for a movie like this, but there remains the possibility that the film just isn’t as great as everyone who made it thought it was.

And I know I’ve spent a lot of time picking it apart here, but I must stress that I did enjoy this movie. The more salient point is, I enjoyed it about as much as any average romantic comedy—the key word here being “average,” although I would even say this was above average, not that there’s a high bar there either; it doesn’t take much for a romantic comedy to rise just slightly above mediocrity. And to be fair, there’s a lot of things I did love about Bros, not least of which was its acknowledgment of how gay relationships are actually different from straight ones (yet no less valid); its sex scenes just as frank as any in a romantic comedy about straight people; and its unusually honest depiction of day to day queer life. (Although, and I’m sorry for constantly making the comparison in spite of its inevitability, Fire Island has a lot more casual drug use. Bros does depict the use of poppers in a sex scene, though, treating it as just a normal part of it, which for many it is.)

Plus, Bros does have a lot of very effective punch lines, and I laughed a good amount at it—albeit a little further into the film than I would have preferred; that opening sequence with the podcast-host voiceover really had me worried the movie would be actively bad. Thankfully, although there are many valid criticisms, the movie is actively good. And to be fair, it’s not trying to be anything it isn’t, either; the film itself doesn’t seem to think it’s any paragon of cinema, and only tries to offer what fans of romantic comedies want. And by and large, what those fans want is something of a specific formula, which this very much is.

Eichner’s love interest is Aaron, played by Luke Macfarlane, a guy largely known for Hallmark Channel romantic comedies—so, another example of slightly in-joke casting. Eichner plays a character I would likely find insufferable in real life, but these two men have genuine chemistry, which alone goes a long way toward making Bros work overall. It’s heartening to see even two perfectly attractive men (granted, one is much “hunkier” than the other) struggling to overcome very different insecurities, and sort of tentatively succeeding. Honestly, I would happily watch Bros again, and would likely enjoy it even more a second time, having already gotten the criticisms out of my system and allowing myself just to give into it without intellectualizing what is just meant to be a fun time at the movies. Which, to be fair, is exactly what this is in the end.

It’s unapologetically queer, unapologetically romantic, and unapologetically formulaic.

Overall: B

2009'S AVATAR IN 2022

Directing: B-
Acting: B
Writing: C+
Cinematography: A-
Editing: A
Special Effects: A-

When I first saw Avatar in 2009, I was impressed enough with it that not only did I give it an A-, by the end of the year I put it on my annual top 10, placing it at #10.

With the film’s first sequel finally coming to theaters this December, the first film is once again in theaters now, this time only available in 3D—in 2009, I went to see it first in 3D, then again in 2D, and very much preferred the latter. I suspect I would feel the same way now, even though I must say, when viewed superficially as nothing more than blockbuster entertainment, that film remains a spectacular specimen. I cannot deny that I was wowed by the effects, the visual inventiveness, and how imaginative it was—possibly even more than I was thirteen years ago, when I spent an inordinate amount of time discussing the uselessness of 3D in my review.

And now, I am doing something I never did before: re-reviewing a movie in re-release many years later. My rule has always been against this because, well, I already reviewed it. Except in this case, there is the unusual burning question of how well the film holds up after all this time, both because of the amount of time that has passed, and the massive cultural shifts in the zeitgeist in that time, particularly when it comes to race.

There is no question that the “white savior” concept came up in criticism of this film in 2009, but I am somewhat disappointed in myself not to have mentioned it at all in my original review. In the year 2022, for anyone with any concerns about social justice at all, James Cameron’s narrative in this film certainly sits uncomfortably—and for many white people, less comfortably now than it did in 2009.

James Cameron is another massively successful straight white man, after all, and certainly there will be some who read my commentary now as just shitting on straight white men. It cannot be denied, however, that his gender and race informs the story he is telling here, about a white man (Jake Sully, played by Sam Worthington) who enters the “indigenous humanoid” population of a moon called Pandora, gets accepted as one of them, and then leads them in successful resistance to the “white people.” A lot of the problematic characterizations of this indigenous population are more glaring now, and further reading comes recommended. There is plenty out there about this if you make the slightest effort to look for it; I am hardly alone in thinking about these things.

One wonders whether Cameron will take any of these frankly fair criticisms to heart in the upcoming sequel. I have my doubts, but also I suppose it’s not impossible. The internal struggle I have with the original Avatar now is how much I genuinely enjoyed it. And surely, plenty of people might sensibly ask why we can’t just give ourselves over to blockbuster entertainment and simply be entertained. I can tell you this much: if you do that with Avatar, you absolutely will not be disappointed. Cameron’s script may be packed with stereotypes and tropes, but it is also incredibly tightly constructed, and the film is riveting from beginning to end. I just also had the space in my head for recognition of its many faults, some more subtle than others. I wasn’t even as bothered by the 3D this time around; the film is so wildly entertaining that you quickly forget about the sometimes awkward visual experience.

Would I recommend that you see this in the theater now, again? Only if you are a purist regarding the cinema experience: there is no question the stunning visuals work better in a theater, no matter how big your home TV screen is.

Also, there has been regular mention over the years that Avatar has the distinction of being the only film ever to become the biggest box office earner of all time which people don’t really still talk about, and no one can even remember what the characters names were. Sigourney Weaver plays Grace, the doctor who heads the “Avatar” program that links humans to hybrid Na’vi that can breathe and function in the local environment. Zoe Saldana plays Neytiri, the Na’vi woman Jake falls in love with. Michelle Rodriguez plays Trudy, a rebellious company employee. Stephen Lang plays Colonel Miles Quaritch, the man who becomes the very Cameronian villain of the film. Giovanni Ribisi is Parker, the corporate shill intent on ruining the Na’vi land in pursuit of the idiotically named “unobtanium.” Very seldom are any of these people’s names actually said onscreen.

Setting the problematic narrative aside, the reason to see Avatar remains its groundbreaking special effects. The Na’vi are CGI rendered in a way that precludes any genuine photorealism, and yet their environment on Pandora is so colorful and inventive, it is an unusually immersive experience. It feels very much like a fully realized world, wholly separate from the one we live in. Cameron simply grafts a very Dances with Wolves story onto it. I spent a lot of time not minding that so much, thinking maybe I should mind it more, and escaping into a science fiction fantasy. That descriptor can be applied in more ways than one, and which angle you take on it is really up to you. But, even the most spectacular entertainment is not above a more deeply critical look.

A Series of Unfortunate Events, Rendered Spectacularly

Overall: B+