Monday, November 5, 2018

Eighth Grade Review

"Do I make you sad? I don't know. Sometimes I think that when I'm older, I'll have a daughter of my own or something...and I feel like if she was like me, then being her mom would make me sad all the time. I'd love her because she's my daughter, but I think if she turned out like me that being her mom would make me really sad."

There was a time in my life when I probably seemed fine to the outside world, a fun kid who tried his hardest to face each day with optimism instead of despair, but the image I portrayed to everyone around me was a fallacy. On the inside I was struggling, medicated twice daily from a recent grand mal seizure that resulted in an official epilepsy diagnosis, a subject that should seemingly be off limits to be the source of bullying but being thirteen defies all logic or sensible reason most of the time. I walked through the halls in a malaise in increasingly larger clothes than I had worn only one year earlier thanks to a rapid yet in retrospect totally predictable weight gain. I was called twitch by a certain small but vocal section of my peers that found it very fulfilling to pick the scab over my epileptic wound, each day I wondered if they would feel guilty for their words had they been there that night in that hotel room when my parents and older brother weren't sure what was wrong with me, weren't sure if I would wake up again, a vacation turned upside down with an ambulance ride and speculation of brain abnormalities. Probably wouldn't have changed a thing. 

The worst year of my life was eighth grade. I never liked school all that much, but I can still vividly remember one very specific night of my life, the night in which Christmas break ended in early January of 1998. It's one thing to dread the return of waking up early and strict class schedules and homework, that's to be expected from a vast majority of not only adolescents but from adults forced to return to work after a vacation, but my response on this one particular night was emotional to the point that it would seem irrational to an outsider looking in as I barely slept a minute due to crying for hours straight. Thousands upon thousands of nights have come and go over the years and are never recalled again, but for whatever reason I will never forget that night. I will never forget a lot of what happened during eighth grade.

Bo Burnham's debut film Eighth Grade came at a very interesting time in my life where I am young enough to still not only remember that year but still feel a touch of the pain derived from it as well, and also being that I am a father of an 11 year old girl who will be in middle school in a blink of an eye and I just have to hope she has a better experience than I did. My ability to connect to two characters in the film, the awkward and hopeful yet damaged and sad lead played wonderfully by Elsie Fisher as well as her father Mark played by Josh Hamilton, a man who loves his daughter with everything he has and always wants to be there for her but isn't 100 percent comfortable or confident in his ability to connect. Where I am more fortunate than Mark is that he is a single father in the film whereas I have an amazing wife, but that only made me more sympathetic to his character as I can't imagine having to do this alone.

I connected with Eighth Grade because the film feels so honest. It's really easy to tell a derivative and lazy story about teenagers riddled with cliches and tropes painfully fatigued from overuse but Burnham crafted something extraordinary here because it is laser focused on avoiding bullshit and not manipulating the emotions of the audience. There is one scene in particular in the film that is so harrowing and uncomfortable to watch mostly because you just know how delicate and difficult it likely is to swallow for many young girls as well as women watching who faced something similar, and the reason it hurts is because it plays out with such credible and sincere honesty. I never had to face something like that nor was I ever the person putting someone through such an experience, yet I can still say with total confidence that Burnham captured something raw and real there.

I loved Eighth Grade in part because of how much I hated eighth grade. Emotions from over twenty years ago came bubbling to the surface as I witnessed this superb piece of cinematic storytelling unfold and when the film ended I knew it was special, but over the course of the last couple of days since I have reflected on it and recognized it's even more than that. I hope parents ignore the R rating and allow their children to watch this movie when they are ready because it is important for them to consume stories that feel authentic to what they are really feeling, what they are really going through on a daily basis. My daughter has only recently began fifth grade and even though we are watching her as her eyes grow wider to the world around her and the realities of adolescence, she just isn't in Bo Burnham's wheelhouse yet with this one, but when the time is right we will sit down and watch this together. I already know she will see at least a bit of herself in Elsie. I know I did.


Monday, August 6, 2018

Not That Bad: Dispatches from Rape Culture Review

"It is more like carrying something really heavy, forever. You do not get to put it down: you have to carry it, and so you carry it the way you need to, however it fits best."

I have never written a book review before now. For years my focus has been on the images we see on the screen, whether it be television series or films, but while all of that time was spent on that medium I was still trying to read relatively often (not often enough, my wife would say, although I have taken steps to change that). I've had some very strong reactions to various books, especially recently as I have explored the work of Fredrik Backman, and if you have read Beartown you will likely put two and two together reading this review and recognize why that was his work I connected with the most. Even being deeply moved by other pieces of literature, like Beartown, I never felt compelled to put any words down regarding the experience.

My aforementioned wife? She loves to read. A lot. She will complain how she has barely read at all this year while I am overwhelmingly enthused about the steps I have taken to consistently keep turning the pages, and yet she has read over double what I have. She recently checked a book out of the library called Not That Bad: Dispatches from Rape Culture and as soon as I saw the cover I knew I had to read it as well. The book is an anthology of essays written by various people including actors Ally Sheedy and Gabrielle Union along with other very talented writers, with all the essays detailing in some manner a personal connection they unfortunately have with rape and rape culture.

The book is a devastating yet essential read, one of those publications many will likely avoid because it is far easier to escape the world through fiction than face it with hard to swallow facts. Don't avoid this book, read it because these are stories being told by extremely brave survivors of both their specific attacks and the culture that allows this to have happened and continue happening, and every single one of them deserves to be heard. I am always reminded of the Oscar voters who anonymously admitted that while they voted for 12 Years a Slave to win Best Picture, they did so despite never seeing the film because subjecting themselves to two hours of horrors based on what people actually had to endure was not possible for them. Why watch something so topically challenging when you can turn on whatever mindless bullshit and pretend like pain and tragedy aren't a reality to so many, past, present and future?

That's exactly why I do watch those movies or read these books. Because real people had to endure such horrific things, such heartbreak, such pain, such trauma, such tragedy, while I have been privileged enough to face so little over the course of my 34 years on this planet. I watch and read those stories because there are real voices screaming out, begging for someone to listen, and I want to listen. We all need to listen.

"The Life Ruiner alone didn't ruin me. The world that made him did - the place that continues to manufacture replicas of him and continues to create the circumstances in which he and his replicas thrive."

It's difficult to really pin down the first time I was introduced to rape culture, because lord knows I probably was surrounded by it in extremely subtle ways from the moment I was born, but I will always remember the moment I first learned of the shocking, awful crime that happened almost literally right in my backyard. One of my best friends growing up had an elderly couple that lived directly behind them and they maintained a pool in their yard and allowed all of the children in the neighborhood to come over and swim without invitation. My friend had a ladder that stayed in the same spot all summer long so that we could safely climb over and spend all day in that wonderful, refreshingly crisp water. It was a place filled with tremendous joy owned and maintained by seemingly tremendous people who were generous enough to open their home and their pocketbook to kids of no relation to them, always making sure the water was crystal clear and kept at the perfect temperature.

Then one day when I was a teenager, I heard the news: the man with the pool was caught raping his granddaughter. I couldn't comprehend it, not only the act of rape which in itself is incomprehensible but his own granddaughter? How could someone do such a thing? Had he ever hurt anyone else? The part I remember the most was a conversation I overheard between two people in the neighborhood shortly after details of exactly what had happened began to trickle out for public consumption.

"She says it had been happening for years!"

"Why didn't she say something sooner?"

There was something about that question being the instantaneous knee-jerk reaction that I found jarring and extremely troubling, not just the question itself but the tone in which it was asked. It's what, years later, I learned was called "victim blaming", a particularly disgusting and shameful practice in which the first instinctual reaction to any crime sexual in nature is to immediately question what the victim did wrong, what they must have done to deserve it. What was she wearing? What did she say? Did she say no loud enough? Why did she go to his house? She must have known this was going to happen? She was probably asking for it.

I feel sick to my stomach just typing those words.

The answer to any and all of those questions, of course, is it doesn't matter. There is no justifiable reason that excuses an assault, and we need to believe women who say they were assaulted. I found myself deeply immersed in the worst clusters of humanity when a local professional hockey hero was accused of sexual assault a few years ago, and I waded too far into the depths of the ugly side of Twitter and discovered just how many people instantly declared his innocence and felt compelled to viciously attack a woman they didn't know and knew nothing about. This was just a young woman who said she was assaulted and because he is great at a sport and people loved to cheer him on she was a "lying whore". What a deeply disturbing, eye opening experience, to see such vitriol towards a stranger, and I think of it anytime a new story comes out about an assault that took place many years ago and the go to comment from so many is, why didn't she say something sooner? The very same thing I heard a member of my community say about a child victim, assaulted by her own grandfather.

Why say something at all if the natural public reflex is "lying whore"? Why speak out if no one wants to listen?

"As I listened to her, as I watched her be an encourager of other people's storytelling, an independent, smart woman and a survivor of sexual assault, I felt, finally, like maybe my story was worthy of telling, too. And maybe I was worth the telling of it."

The answer is to change our cultural response. The answer is to believe women. Have there been phony rape charges filed before? Obviously. But the vast majority of the accusations from women who do find the courage to speak up are true. I read an estimate that came from study once, and I would love to credit the work if I could remember where I saw it, that somewhere in the range of 2 to 5 percent of all rape and sexual assault accusations were "false" and even those numbers are misleading because some cases were labeled that way even though they merely lacked the evidence needed to prove they were true. Let's just take those numbers on face value though, for the sake of this argument: if 95 to 98 percent of accusations are true, shouldn't we listen? Shouldn't we believe women who say they were assaulted?

Of course, not everyone is going to suddenly shift the way they approach this topic. So many people are set in their ways, and unfortunately those ways include calling victims unspeakably awful things due to an assumption that they are lying. All I can hope is that the majority of people keep an open mind and read an outstanding and important book like Not That Bad: Dispatches from Rape Culture. Absorb every painful word from each one of these stories and appreciate how brave one must be in order to tell them in the first place. Appreciate that these victims are just asking for someone to listen. Listen to them and believe them so that more victims aren't terrified to speak up in the future. Stop questioning why they are speaking up when they are. Applaud them for having the courage to speak up at all.

"Perhaps the most horrifying thing about non-consensual sex is that, in an instant, it erases you. Your own desires, your safety and well-being, your ownership of the body that may very well have been the only thing you ever felt sure you owned - all of it becomes irrelevant, even nonexistent."

There is no such thing as "not that bad" when it comes to a sexual assault of any kind. Every single one is tragic. Those that want to tell their stories deserve to be heard. We all need to listen.

Tuesday, July 24, 2018

Thoroughbreds Review

Image result for thoroughbreds film

"What else did it say?"

"I don't know. I just threw it away."

Remarkably cinematic considering the script was originally developed as a stage play, Thoroughbreds is the work of a filmmaker in their prime and yet this is the debut feature from 29 year old playwright/director Cory Finley. In fact, Finley had never worked on a film of any kind in any facet prior to writing and directing what is thus far the best film I have seen from 2018.

The film focuses on two upper-class teenagers who were once close friends but have since drifted apart, though Finley doesn't waste any time attempting to paint every inch of his canvas with exposition (and thank goodness for that). We learn of their previous bond through subtle dialogue that hints rather than via elaborate explanations, and at a brisk 92 minute run time Thoroughbreds demonstrates that this young, shockingly inexperienced filmmaker has a natural knack for pacing. Playing the lead roles are Olivia Cooke and Anya Taylor-Joy and to say they were the perfect choices isn't being hyperbolic in even the slightest sense. It all starts with the script, but these two brilliant young actresses were crucial in bringing Finley's words to life.

Cooke plays Amanda, a teenage sociopath who commits a horrific act of violence on a horse during the opening moments of the film (it occurs off screen, for those who may be turned off by seeing such things) and thus is relegated to spending much of her time seeing shrinks and kept far away from the stables. Taylor-Joy plays Lily, seemingly happier and more stable than Amanda but there is a darkness residing underneath her clean, aesthetically pleasing exterior presentation. They are reunited years after their friendship fell apart because Amanda's mother thinks her daughter needs to socialize more, and a generous financial offer is extended to Lily in exchange for some one on one SAT tutoring. It's during this time that Amanda learns of Lily's awful stepfather Mark (Paul Sparks), which leads to Amanda asking a sinister question with zero emotion or concern:

"Do you ever think about just killing him?"

Thoroughbreds is a film about privilege and affluence and how those things ultimately are only able to mask who you truly are underneath. It's also about how fucking terrifying it is to witness the moment someone becomes self-aware of their status and how it can be utilized to quite literally get away with murder. It's also a film that is darkly comedic and in an odd way a lot of fun thanks to every terrific performance, including one I haven't mentioned yet from the late great Anton Yelchin, who tragically died in a freak accident in June of 2016 at the age of 27. He had finished filming all of his scenes prior to his death and his turn in Thoroughbreds serves as a bittersweet reminder of what an extraordinary talent he was.

Featuring the note-perfect screenplay from Finley who also directs the hell out of the film, along with some really inspired camerawork from cinematographer Lyle Vincent and an essential musical score from Erik Friedlander, Thoroughbreds is one of those pieces of cinema that comes along and reminds me of exactly what it is that lead to me falling in love with the medium. I look forward to revisiting this one, I've got a feeling my admiration will continue to flourish down the road, and I can't wait to see what else Cory Finley is capable of.


Wednesday, May 16, 2018

M Review




Friday, April 20, 2018





I need to make her smile.

"I will be true to you. Whatever comes."



"Love is smiling through all things."




Thursday, April 5, 2018

My 50 Favorite Films of 2017 - #10 through #1


10. Logan


9. Lady Bird


8. The Big Sick


7. Thor: Ragnarok


6. The Florida Project


5. Get Out


4. Personal Shopper


3. Dunkirk


2. A Ghost Story



1. Star Wars: The Last Jedi


Tuesday, March 6, 2018

My 50 Favorite Films of 2017 - #20 through #11


20. Gerald's Game


Gerald's Game is streaming on Netflix now.

19. Split


18. Icarus


Icarus is streaming on Netflix now.

17. Wind River


16. Phantom Thread


15. The Disaster Artist


14. It

13. Blade Runner 2049


12. Wonder Woman


11. Baby Driver


Wednesday, February 28, 2018

My 50 Favorite Films of 2017 - #30 through #21


30. City of Ghosts


City of Ghosts is available on Amazon Prime now.

29. John Wick: Chapter 2


28. The Meyerowitz Stories


The Meyerowitz Stories is available on Netflix now.

27. Eagles of Death Metal: Nos Amis


26. It Comes At Night


It Comes At Night is available on Amazon Prime now.

25. Landline


Landline is available on Amazon Prime now.

24. Strong Island


Strong Island is available on Netflix now.

23. Molly's Game


22. The Beguiled


21. Princess Cyd


Princess Cyd is available on Netflix now.

My 50 Favorite Films of 2017 - #40 through #31


40. Long Shot


Long Shot is available now on Netflix.

39. I, Tonya


38. Guardians of the Galaxy Volume 2



37. Last Flag Flying


36. Alien: Covenant


35. Atomic Blonde


34. War for the Planet of the Apes


33. Okja


32. Good Time


Good Time is available now on Amazon Prime.

31. The Breadwinner


The Breadwinner is available now on Netflix.