Movies
Not a biopic so much as the use of Jackie Kennedy's life as an excuse to explore ideas about the creation of history through narrative and media, which is really interesting, but given how distracted I was with the film's meticulous recreation of Jackie Kennedy, the figure known to history through narrative and media (Portman's Oscar nomination is richly deserved, as is the one for Costume Design), I should probably watch it again with its more philosophical themes in mind. As it is, I found the movie more clinical and "interesting" than anything close to emotionally engaging (even given the film's focus on Jackie in the hours, days, and weeks surrounding her husband's assassination). But as far as clinical goes, it's pretty striking. Grade: B+
Using James Baldwin's unfinished Remember This House as a jumping off point for an ambitious and genre-expanding documentary that's as much poetry and montage as history, I Am Not Your Negro is the graceful and vital Important Movie that's absolutely riveting to watch—this is nothing resembling eating your vegetables. The film's genius lies in the way it marries Baldwin's elegant, confident prose (rendered convincingly in voiceover via Samuel L. Jackson) to some truly potent political and historical imagery by way of precisely chosen footage that ranges from interviews of Baldwin himself to familiar historical moments of the Watts Riots and Rodney King beating to contemporary videos of Ferguson, Eric Garner, and more. It's a fiery and thoughtful look at American racial identity and race relations that's a worthy inheritor to Baldwin's brilliance. Grade: A
There's not a lot to the movie beyond the title: over the course of 115 languorous minutes (and 15 days of movie-world time), we watch Louis the Great slowly wither from the most powerful man in the Western world into the pale, deflated shell we all inevitably become as we approach Death's door. The film's cool, medically obsessed point of view (doctors are constantly prodding and examining, and we're even "treated" to a post-death autopsy) makes this for one of the more bracing depictions of death I've seen in a movie, while the psychology of the king himself from frustration to resignation to oblivion is a startling mirror to what I've seen among those I've personally watched in their last days. But what strikes me most about this movie is the way it treats the hollow courtesy of those who talk with the dying; you know what I mean: the soft, tragic irony in the way they refer to the increasingly further gone man as "Sire" and applaud at the smallest bit of food he manages to consume and continue, with grave faces, to talk continually of the possibility for "hope" and "recovery," as if such a fate is actually avoidable. As if we all don't stare down this exact unavoidable end, unsure of which end of the binoculars we're squinting through. Grade: A-
A disappointingly pedestrian treatment of a topic (the reclaiming of art stolen by Nazi Germany) I find fascinating. While there are good touches here—mostly in the flashback portions involving the actual Nazi occupation and especially in scenes involving the always-great Tatiana Maslany (speaking fluent French, no less—is there anything she can't do?)—the majority of the film is choked with prestige-film tropes. Ryan Reynolds wears glasses, so you know he's serious; Katie Holmes is a nagging wife, so you know Reynolds is playing a Great Man because she's holding him back. Etc. The photography is handsome, and, as I said earlier, the WWII-era flashbacks have an emotional urgency and Maslany. But on the whole, I didn't find this very interesting. Grade: C+
In a film whose litany of offenses includes rampant misanthropy, juvenile psychologizing of grief and sex, explicit genital mutilation, and a fox that howls "Chaos reigns!" in an unapologetically Optimus-Prime voice, the sharpest slap to the face is the end-of-film title card that dedicates this rat pit of a movie to Andrei Tarkovsky. Yes, Lars von Trier, your leering salute to sadism, sophomoric philosophizing, and nature as "the church of Satan" is, on a purely imagistic level, tremendously beautiful in a way that recalls the pristine severity of a Tarkovsky picture. But Tarkovky was one of the most profoundly religious filmmakers we've ever had, capable of infusing his images with an unspeakable meaning of what it's like to yearn for the transcendent, whereas your film, Mr. von Trier, is merely an ode to the aforementioned obscenities and trendy nihilisms. Clever. Grade: D
Television
As inconsistent as it can be (and it is mighty inconsistent, often not working for multiple episodes at a time), The Last Man on Earth continues to be one of the strangest, most ambitious sitcoms in what is shaping up to be sort of a golden age of network sitcoms right now. It mostly manages this through a combination of its winsome love of silly puns and situational humor and a willingness to take its apocalyptic setting dead-seriously—for real: main characters die! And not infrequently! The tandem goofiness and astounding cruelty of this show's world makes for some strange tonal tightrope walks that the show doesn't always manage, but when it does (as in a standout episode starring Kristin Wiig), it's gold. And even at its worst, it's no exaggeration to say that this is like no other show on TV right now. Grade: B+
It's always a pleasure to see a promising show find its voice, and that's exactly what's happened with Superstore in its second season. The character dynamics have been ironed out and optimized, the writing has gotten more consistent, and the deep ensemble bench has figured out how to make their characters feel lived-in and familiar without broadening them beyond what is recognizably human. The result is a show that feels something like a gentler version of the early couple seasons of America's The Office mixed with a more traditional workplace sitcom a la Cheers, a light satire of American consumerist mundanity and corporate oppression with a sometimes startling commitment to sharp character development. Those of you who've been on the fence with this show, now's probably the time to jump in. Grade: A-
Music
Released out of the blue last month, it's hard to call Hope, Shamir's followup to 2015's excellent Ratchet, a "disappointment," exactly, given that there was no expectation or buildup. And given the album's hyper-low-fi, indie-rock/R&B-ish vibes, it's also hard to complain that it's left behind the infectious disco production of Ratchet, since it's clear that Shamir is trying something of a palate-cleanser here. It's admirable that he's trying something this tossed-off and different. I'm all for artists pushing themselves in new directions. But darn it all, Hope just isn't as good as Ratchet: the lo-fi production doesn't really accommodate Shamir's style, and the songwriting is clearly suffering from the quickness of the recording. It's not terrible, but it's got little of the promise or go-get-'em excitement of what Shamir's done in the past. These are exactly the sort of comparisons Shamir was hoping to dispel by releasing something this off-the-cuff and stripped back, and I respect that. But I can't help it. Grade: C+
