This year’s annual Oscars roundup was no small feat for old Dash. Finding the damn movies is harder than writing about them these days, with titles scattered among so many streaming services or restricted to showings at far-off art houses. The inexplicable fact that Popwell’s invitations to press screenings keep getting lost in the mail isn’t helping matters either — but why trouble you good folks with my burden? Like Hollywood itself, I’m here to enlighten and entertain.
This year’s slate boasts impressive diversity in style and substance, though on the down side, it lacks a strong audience favorite, and thus any real buzz ahead of what will likely be another low-rated Oscars telecast. Onto the reviews…
Belfast
Kenneth Branagh’s depiction of his boyhood amid the “Troubles” in Northern Ireland is kind of a white Roma, with a more focused story but less sumptuous cinematography than Alfonso Cuaron’s 2018 film about growing up in Mexico City during the same era. Belfast is told through the eyes of 9-year-old Buddy (an impressive Jude Hill), who’s blessed with a hard-working father, an attentive mother and a set of lovable grandparents. He’s got an older brother too, but that character is reduced to mute background scenery — make no mistake, this is Kenny’s show! With the family caught up in the bullying of a Protestant gang trying to drive out the neighborhood’s Catholics, Buddy’s father seemingly offers a way out when he gets a job offer in London. Buddy’s mother, however, is reluctant to leave the only home she’s known. Like John Boorman’s 1987 Hope and Glory, Belfast wants to make a statement about the resilience of childhood in times of war, while painting a nostalgic picture of a specific time and place. It does that reasonably well, but unlike Boorman’s minor classic, Branagh’s film never really takes flight, held back by its claustrophobic tension and depressing black-and-white photography. Jamie Dornan and Caitriona Balfe are excellent as the parents, and Judi Dench and Ciarán Hinds have some neat moments as the salty grandparents. But given the violence and the family’s mounting financial problems, it’s frankly inconceivable that any mother wouldn’t jump at the chance for a fresh start. Also, it must be said that Branagh the writer/director is awfully kind to Branagh the character. This film’s version of his 9-year-old self might be the world’s most perfect child, and that rose-colored view is symptomatic of the film’s limitations, which somehow leave it feeling a bit trite despite the underpinnings of sectarian violence.
CODA
This is the only nominated film I wasn’t able to see, as the terms of service for Apple TV+ are only slightly less onerous than an Uyghur prison camp. CODA stands for Children Of Deaf Adults, and the film follows a 17-year-old girl — the only hearing member of her immediate family — who must choose between helping their fishing business stay afloat and pursuing her own dreams. A remake of the 2014 French film La Famille Belier, CODA stars Emilia Jones as the torn teen in question, with key supporting roles for Troy Kotsur (the favorite for best supporting actor) and Marlee Matlin, who won a best actress Oscar for 1986’s Children of a Lesser God. That film was Hollywood’s high-water mark for depictions of deaf people, who then virtually disappeared from the screen until 2019’s Sound of Metal. Director Sian Heder’s film has earned rave reviews from others, and two friends whose opinion I respect liked it a lot, so I want to give it the benefit of the doubt, but its subject matter does remind me just a wee bit of Hollywood’s long tradition of examining racism from a white person’s point of view. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure it’s tough being a CODA, but you know who’s enjoying things even less? The DAs!
Don’t Look Up
Adam McKay’s star-studded parable about global warming is an orgy of self-congratulatory Hollywood activism and shameless overacting that virtually, and sometimes literally, screams at viewers when it’s not trying too hard to make them laugh.
Leo DiCaprio and Jennifer Lawrence are scientists who discover a giant comet about to collide with Earth in six months, wiping out humanity. They alert the president (a preening Meryl Streep) but she and her son and chief of staff (Jonah Hill, channeling every rotten performance he’s given since 2008 into one insufferable package) don’t take them seriously. Their eventual solution is to have a tech overlord and uber-campaign donor send an army of drones to break the comet into smaller pieces while also mining it for valuable minerals. In the meantime, our protagonists wage a vain campaign to convince the world to share their sense of apocalyptic urgency.
The movie has a few virtues, including a very funny bit about a 3-star general who insists on charging White House visitors for snacks. And Mark Rylance is truly inspired as a kind of douchebag savant in the vein of Elon Musk. But the script is much too oblivious to its own smugness. McKay — the writer/director whose socially conscious oeuvre also includes The Big Short and Vice — is very pleased with himself, and equally displeased with the rest of you dummies who presumably don’t share his overriding concern for the planet. His depiction of how the general public would react to an extinction-level event is all over the place, suited to the needs of each particular scene at the expense of a coherent whole. Meanwhile, the political scenes opt for cartoonish, Veep-style histrionics when more subtly skillful villainy would do the trick. The whole thing is too farcical to be taken seriously and too shrill to be very funny. It doesn’t help matters that McKay clearly instructed his cast of Very Famous Movie Stars to ratchet up their performances like there’s no tomorrow (and thus no reviews).
Drive My Car
For most of its punishing 3-hour run time, Drive My Car hearkens to the days of cinema’s New Wave in the late 1950s and early ’60s, when overpraised French and Italian films like L’Avventura and Breathless gave new meaning to the term naval-gazing (Hiroshima, Mon Amour? More like ”Hiroshima, What a Bore!” … am I right, folks?)
Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s modern-day drama concerns actor and theater director Yusuke Kafuku, who scores an out-of-town gig mounting an adaptation of Uncle Vanya, an assignment that presumably will aid his ongoing recovery from losing his wife to a sudden aneurysm. Yusuke’s interaction with the taciturn 20-year-old woman assigned as his chauffeur, and his delayed reckoning with an actor in the cast who had an affair with his late wife, provide Drive My Car with its dramatic pull, but that only revs up after we’re well into the second hour of this thing, by which time many viewers will no doubt be out of gas. Substantial chunks of this film are no more than long, largely silent shots of Yusuke’s car driving down a road, as seen from above, or behind — the equivalent of watching an hour’s worth of Saab commercials in one sitting. Both the Los Angeles and New York film critics’ groups — which rarely agree on these things — chose Drive My Car as the year’s best film, which goes to show that film criticism has come a very short way from the days when writers slobbered over the likes of Goddard and Antonioni.
Dune
David Lynch’s 1984 original has been widely ridiculed as one of Hollywood’s most expensive turkeys, yet that film had real value — mainly as something to screen with the sound off when you’re coming down from an LSD trip. Sad to report that Denis Villeneuve’s 2021 version dials down that immersive wackiness in favor of a less interesting fealty to the source material, a 1960s Frank Herbert novel worshiped over the years by certain strains of brain-damaged hippies and sci-fi nerds. Lynch’s wild, bucket-of-paint visuals and excessive makeup effects were a real turn-on if you just ignored the mind-numbing story — some impossibly complicated tripe about sand worms, a planet full of spice, emperors, feudal lords, family drama, the future, blah, blah, blah. Herbert wrote this thing in 1965, so who knows what he was smoking, but it makes Lord of the Rings look like Boy Meets Girl. Timothy Chalamet steps in for Kyle MacLachlan as the protagonist here, and if you find Chalamet cute in the way one enjoys looking at kittens or stuffed animals (and who doesn’t?), then I suppose you could try muting your TV and dosing up. But you’d better keep some Pink Floyd records handy just in case.
King Richard
Framing the rise of tennis’ Williams sisters as a tribute to the dogged greatness of Richard Williams sure is on-brand for Will Smith, a man whose three-decade obsession with never being unlikable on screen has made him one of the biggest and least interesting movie stars ever. To be fair, the movie tells you right there in the title it’s not really the girls’ story. But the real Richard Williams is by all accounts a complex and difficult character, and this movie — and Smith’s characterization — glosses over all that, like it mostly glosses over the racism the girls faced on the way up. We do get plenty of people doubting King Richard and standing in his way — from neighborhood gang bangers to agents and corporate executives dangling endorsement deals. But Smith merely cleaves to his preordained mantra that Father Knows Best, rarely losing his temper and reducing one of the most remarkable origin stories in sports to a series of cutesy opportunities to do his Will Smith thing.
That’s a shame, because underneath Smith’s all-consuming ego is a pretty good movie struggling to breathe. The film’s biggest strengths are Saniyya Sidney and Demi Singleton as Venus and Serena. They look the part, and their impressive acting chops really convey the twin challenges of having such unique talent and such a demanding father — all while navigating the more familiar waters of teenage angst. I also liked the film’s mostly non-judgmental depiction of the youth tennis scene, where prodigies are groomed, pushed and pampered to maximize their games and monetize their off-court earning potential. It might not be the healthiest environment for young athletes, but King Richard seems to understand that NOT pushing a talented child too hard just might be its own kind of abuse. That brings us to the tennis scenes themselves, which are as on-point as one of Serena’s ground strokes. Sports movies have gotten a lot better in recent decades at staging believable action scenes, even as they largely remain mired in the narrative tropes that trap the genre in a sub-strata of cinematic mediocrity. Despite its considerable virtues, King Richard is ultimately no exception.
Licorice Pizza
Director Paul Thomas Anderson proved himself a master of late ’70s nostalgia with 1997’s Boogie Nights, and a quarter-century later he’s returned to that halcyon decade, this time examining its first half. That earlier film possessed an epic scale with its theme of a prodigal son in the porn business, while Licorice Pizza concerns itself with the far lower stakes of a teen crush. That crush is held by 15-year-old Gary Valentine (played by Cooper Hoffman, son of the late Phillip Seymour Hoffman, who made his first big splash in Boogie Nights), and the object of his affection is 25-year-old Alana Kane (Alana Haim of the titular rock band). The film’s unique conceit is to make Gary unusually mature for his age, with the desultory, unsure Alana clearly envious of his ambition and confidence — thus blunting an age difference that would otherwise border on creepy (although no sex takes place). If you didn’t know better, it’s even plausible to think Gary is the adult and Alana the teenager. When the youthful angst threatens to bog down the film, Anderson — who also wrote the screenplay — weaves in multiple subplots drawn from such 1973 ephemera as the waterbed craze, the gas crisis, pinball machines and the Los Angeles mayoral campaign of closeted City Councilman Joel Wachs. These have varying degrees of effectiveness, with the best part involving a scenery-chewing Bradley Cooper as real-life Hollywood hairdresser/producer Jon Peters. But this is really the Alana and Gary show — or Haim and Hoffman, to be precise. They’re both preternaturally gifted in their film debuts, and the love story Anderson has crafted is undeniably winsome. Unlike many films and TV shows set in the era (including Boogie Nights), Anderson isn’t hitting you over the head this time with garish wardrobe and production design that scream “1970s,” opting instead to emphasize an unlikely romance that just happens to take place in that most romanticized of decades. The details are there, but like the songs chosen for the film’s soundtrack, they’re shunted nicely to the background in a supporting role. Nevertheless, like any of the countless great record albums from that era (hence the title), it’s easy to throw this film on and lose yourself in its immersive vibe.
Nightmare Alley
Guillermo Del Toro’s lush, full-color remake of 1947’s noir classic about a smooth-talking hustler who yearns to escape the seedy carnival life has an awful lot going for it: a great story courtesy of William Lindsay Gresham’s novel, a visionary director, a seemingly unlimited budget and a dizzying cast of top-tier actors.
Bradley Cooper takes over the role of the doomed hustler formerly played by Tyrone Power, a down-on-his luck drifter at the tail end of the depression who stumbles into a job at a traveling carnival. He learns how to con a crowd, a skill that leads him and a pretty carny girl (Rooney Mara) to leave the troupe and start their own high-end nightclub act. Things go well until Cooper meets a rich psychiatrist played by Cate Blanchett and tries to play her for a sap without realizing he’s in over his head.
Despite its longer-than-usual running time for a film noir, just about everything in Del Toro’s film works, starting with Cooper, who delivers what might be his best performance. The only false notes for me were a backstory absent in the 1947 version that did little to illuminate the lead character’s motivation, and the usually marvelous Blanchett, whose portrayal of the femme fatale is too showy and on-the-nose, somehow less effective than Helen Walker’s more subtle work in the original.
Besides swapping Edmond Goulding’s basic noir B&W for Del Toro’s imaginative color palette, the other major change from 1947 is that the new version was able to scrap the tacked-on happy ending imposed by the studio. Thank god for that, because this is a story that needs that wallop of a climax, when Cooper hits rock bottom like few protagonists ever have. I’ll leave it at that to avoid too much of a spoiler, but suffice to say that Cooper’s performance in that wrenching final scene will stay with you, as will the rest of this finely etched tale of American greed gone wrong.
The Power of the Dog
Director Jane Campion’s brooding drama might be getting a bit too much credit for deconstructing the toxic masculinity underpinning our Western mythology, but it’s an affecting tale nonetheless. This isn’t the first major film about gay cowboys — Brokeback Mountain broke that barrier way back in 2005. Nor is it the first Western with a complex psychological bully as a protagonist — 1948’s Red River, 1956’s The Searchers and 2007’s There Will Be Blood all got there first. What Power of the Dog does have, however, is Benedict Cumberbatch, an actor who can seemingly rise to any challenge. He’s playing against type here as a macho rancher with a closely guarded secret, but he absolutely nails his character’s inner tension like he nails the Montana accent. The discordant score by Radiohead’s Jonny Greenwood lends the film an emotional depth only hinted at in the screenplay, much as the guitarist did for Paul Thomas Anderson’s There Will Be Blood (which should have won 2007’s best picture prize).
This slow-burn of a film can border on the frustratingly elliptical at times, but it all comes together in a beautifully spare final scene. Believe me, it’s no easy thing for old Dash to recommend a film that kills not one but TWO rabbits, not to mention a whole slew of cows (so help me Mel Brooks, there’s even a scene where the villain beats up a horse!) But I think this is a film that gets better with a second viewing, and will probably age as nicely as a pair of old cowboy boots.
West Side Story
There was really no compelling reason to remake 1961’s best picture winner, save for Steven Spielberg’s desire to plug one of the few gaps in his resume and direct a big-budget musical. Once a colossal tent pole in pop culture, West Side Story‘s inventive choreography seemed as bold and fresh as its liberal social politics when the original Broadway play was conceived in the 1940s and premiered in the ’50s. Now, however, its themes and staging seem as dated as a Sha Na Na revival. And though the greatness of Leonard Bernstein and Stephen Sondheim’s songs have kept the play viable in countless revivals large and small, time has not been as kind to Robert Wise’s film and its notoriously problematic ethnic politics.
Aside from swapping a Jewish male shopkeeper character for a Puerto Rican woman played by Rita Moreno, Speilberg doesn’t change much except for the casting — but even correcting that famous faux pas proves surprisingly complicated. The lead role of Maria, a Puerto Rican played by the very white Natalie Wood in 1961, now goes to Rachel Zegler, who’s of Colombian and Polish descent. (Baby steps, I guess.) As the male lead Tony, Ansel Elgort is a vast improvement over the black hole of screen presence that was Richard Beymer in the original film, yet I still found his hulking frame compared to the petite Zegler and seven-year age difference at least as distracting as Wood’s unbearable whiteness. Beyond that, the actors playing the Sharks and Jets are still far too old to be teenage gangsters, and though the dance numbers still look great, their staging — particularly the clunky “Gee Officer Krupke” number — don’t exactly move the needle in a post-Step Up world. Perhaps the most anachronistic thing about Spielberg’s film is the mixed-race romance at the core of the story, which in today’s world is neither shocking, controversial or even noteworthy.
Now that’s progress.
Notable Snubs and Other Thoughts
I’m surprised The Last Duel didn’t make the cut. I think it’s one of Ridley Scott’s best films, which is saying something. It’s got a great story, timely message, top-notch cast, exquisite period details, and despite its grimy medieval setting and heavy subject matter, it somehow managed to be downright funny. What more did voters want? The exhilarating tick, tick…BOOM! deserved a best picture nod as well. It was a fresher, more uplifting musical than West Side Story. (My own list would probably be Nightmare Alley, The Last Duel, Licorice Pizza and tick, tick…BOOM! in that order.)
I haven’t seen Cyrano, but from the generous clips and trailers I’ve caught, and based on his previous body of work, it seems like Peter Dinklage might have been screwed out of a best actor nomination. Ditto Cooper for Nightmare Alley.
Bucking the trend of #MeToo reckoning, 2021 was not a particularly good year for female roles. That’s evident in the fact that three of the best actress nominees played real-life famous people — low-hanging fruit for any actor. Aside from Olivia Colman’s wrenching turn in actress Maggie Gyllenhaal’ directing debut The Lost Daughter and Penelope Cruz’ work in the ever-reliable Pedro Almodovar’s Parallel Mothers, it’s hard to think of another award-worthy female performance from last year.
And the Winner Is…
CODA. Just a few days ago, The Power of the Dog was a 3-to-1 favorite, with CODA a 1-to-4 underdog and Belfast lagging at 1-to-9. Campion’s been making interesting films since the 1970s, so a win would carry the added benefit of honoring her lifetime achievement — something Oscar voters love to do. And her film is achingly “of our time” — a revisionist western with a lot to say about homophobia and male vanity. But things change fast in Oscarland these days, since the actual voting period doesn’t begin until March 17. CODA‘s been closing fast for weeks, and its victory at Saturday night’s Producers Guild of America awards would appear to make it the new favorite, setting up the kind of feel-good scene the Academy no doubt craves, as The Little Movie That Could triumphs over adversity, makes Sam Elliott’s night, and writes a happy ending for all — except for Campion and the suckers who bet the early line.
A final note … if you’ll permit me my own little Oscars speech … I’d like to thank the Academy for not making me sit through House of Gucci or The French Dispatch.
See you next year.
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