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Movie Reviews

2024 Best Picture Nominees Ranked

This year’s ranking of the 2024 Best Picture field is here—see the list below with links to full reviews for each film. Afterward, see my writeup for general commentary on the nominees.

 

10. Maestro (full review)

9. Barbie (full review)

8. Past Lives (full review)

7. Poor Things (full review)

6. American Fiction (full review)

5. The Holdovers (full review)

4. Killers of the Flower Moon (full review)

3. Anatomy of a Fall (full review)

2. Oppenheimer (full review)

1. The Zone of Interest (full review)

Commentary

In the half-decade that I’ve been compiling these rankings, this is the most impressive Best Picture slate that I’ve reviewed. Four of these ten are excellent movies, and at least one of the four is a masterpiece. Add Asteroid City from Wes Anderson, whose mounting pile of snubs will one day haunt the Academy, and you have five valuable additions to twenty-first century cinema.

Among some of these, I detect a common thread: humanity’s paralysis in the face of violent horrors. How timely. Oppenheimer, Killers of the Flower Moon, and The Zone of Interest all contribute important nuance to what amounts to a masterly cinematic discussion. Perhaps the order in which I’ve ranked them reflects the degree to which their protagonists confront the evil of their inaction: Ernest from Killers remains totally unwilling to do so, while Rudolph from Zone looks straight into the abyss and sees… well, I won’t spoil it for you.

Some may feel that I’ve shortchanged Barbie, the year’s top grossing movie. But to them and those who feel that Margot Robbie and Greta Gerwig were snubbed: I entreat you to watch the other films. Barbie operates on a meta level, calling for change in media and institutions. The other films, though, are way ahead of it: they answer that call. Anatomy of a Fall sympathetically portrays an imperfect woman. The Holdovers chronicles and validates a vulnerable masculinity. No grand speeches or recited thinkpieces are necessary for these superior films because they, like all good art, serve as counterpoints to mainstream narratives. They prove their dislike of commercial ideas by leaving them behind. Barbie, meanwhile, produced as it is by the multibillion dollar Mattel corporation, is chained to those ideas, so, to satisfy feminist discoursers, it spends its runtime merely telling us what it dislikes. But lodging complaints is superficial; only charting a new path is authentic. Today’s admirers of the movie may yet come to recognize it as just another guise of the ultimate chameleon, who’s always changing outfits—but always the same underneath.

Outside of the Oscar field, this year was notable for the decline of Disney as a dominant box office force. Marvel films are getting more boring by the week (even from, in my view, an impressively boring foundation), Star Wars may never recover from its last installment, and the animated studio outputs are regressing to 70s/80s-level blandness. Maybe that’s why this was such a good year for big studio films like Oppenheimer: the end of a monopoly is always good for the customer. Let’s see if the empire strikes back in 2024.

 

–Jim Andersen

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Movie Reviews

Movie Review: Poor Things

Poor Things is a celebration of sexual adventurousness, empathy for the poor, traveling the world, higher education, and belief in the scientific method—in other words, of being a Democrat. I’m one myself, so I don’t mind the pat on the back. But after two-and-a half-hours, one’s back gets a little worn out.

A comedy that flatters isn’t likely to be very original in concept, and indeed, although director Yorgos Lanthimos’ audiovisual effort at quirkiness is formidable, the substance of Poor Things is of a conventional mold. Emma Stone manifests various shades of a cliched character: the clueless outsider wreaking havoc on social norms. Tarzan. Borat. Big. Coneheads. You’ve seen them; you know what kind of jokes this movie has in store. Fifteen years after Borat, Stone deadpans: “Shall we touch each other’s genital pieces?” Twenty-five years after “Spongebob Squarepants,” Mark Ruffalo hams it up as a chauvinist Squidward.

The movie’s premise, too, for all its sci-fi gloss, is decades too late to be interesting. In 1989, a naïve mermaid wondered at a kitchen fork and dreamt of exploring the world. Poor Things, released thirty-five years later, uses the same concept (employing, even, quasi-animated backgrounds), modified only by the fact that—of no little emphasis throughout—Bella Baxter has a vagina. This will strike you as an innovation only if you’ve managed to miss, for example, every HBO show ever made.

British humor. It seemingly always comes back to sex, to the uproarious lifting of naughty taboos. But who, nowadays, is imposing these taboos? Poor Things, like Lanthimos’ previous feature, The Favourite, takes place in older times, the better to supply a parade of stunned prudes to gape at women talking about their clitorises. That Lanthimos must reach backward to enable these situations says something about how stale they are. Today, even the leader of the Republican Party discusses pussies in casual conversation. So, again, who among us are these frowning, stuffy villains?

Or are we all heroes? If we are, then my feature-length pat on the back, in addition to being tiresome, has no meaning. Because, to quote Syndrome: when everyone’s super, no one will be.

 

-Jim Andersen

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Movie Reviews

Movie Review: Anatomy of a Fall

An ingenious subversion of the courtroom drama, Anatomy of a Fall dives into modern society’s fractured, confused ethical landscape with the goal of salvaging something useful, and it succeeds.

Samuel Meleski (Samuel Theis) has fallen to his death under strange circumstances. His wife, Sandra (Sandra Huller) is suspected of murdering him, but complexities abound. After the review of painstaking forensic analysis; changing stories from Sandra and her blind son, Daniel (Milo Machado-Graner); and a recording of a ferocious argument between Sandra and her husband; Sandra remains, in the court’s view, the likely culprit, but her guilt hasn’t been proven with certainty. Plus, a competing narrative emerges that Samuel was depressed and may have killed himself (although Sandra herself initially disbelieves this).

Thus, our favorite sources of knowledge fail to yield conclusive results. Scientific evidence, eyewitness accounts, professional expertise, and even taped dialogue leave us in doubt. Is Sandra guilty? Is she merely the victim of sexism? Of poor representation by her defense lawyer (Swann Arlaud), who lacks the fiery eloquence of his prosecutorial counterpart (Antoine Reinartz)? Of the murkiness of marriage, which defies the kind of easy answers that the jury seeks? Or, finally, is she simply a victim of the very notion of truth, which, despite its pretenses, is never ironclad—vulnerable, especially, to the convergence of unfortunate coincidences?

In summary, Triet has shuttled us into the epistemological crisis that, arguably, has characterized much of the 21st century. Truth is a lie, the thinking goes, and cases like Sandra’s prove it. Why even try to parse facts, when so many of them are suspect? (After all, they were gathered by humans, who are prone to error.) Why attempt to form conclusions, when our interpretations rely on inference and, sometimes, prejudice?

But one witness has yet to come forward. Daniel may not have been able to see the tragedy, but his experiences have lent him a perspective on the case. Torn whether to share it, he shrieks for help, realizing that there’s no perfect solution: if he provides testimony beneficial to his mother, he may well aid in freeing his father’s murderer. His cries, however, are in vain: there’s no help on the way. He, on the verge of adulthood, must for the first time reckon with the ambiguity of life, making a decision with mighty consequences while possessing only incomplete information. Such is life. We’re all blind, metaphorically, yet we forge a way forward.

So, again: is Sandra guilty? No, she isn’t. Do I know this for sure? That’s the mischievous question. I suppose I don’t, but shall we dismantle society on the basis of our limitations, rather than hoisting it on the basis of our strengths? Triet, with this virtuosic picture, says that we shall not. Because for us humans, nothing is ever certain—unlike for Snoop, the family dog, who, upon Sandra’s return, snuggles up to her, never having doubted: acquainted, maybe, with some means of unshakable, irrefutable knowledge, forever elusive to us.

 

–Jim Andersen

 

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Movie Reviews

Movie Review: Maestro

There’s always one.

Every year, I watch all ten nominees for the Best Picture Oscar, which means that every year, I have to spend a whole evening watching somebody impersonate a musician. Maestro, this year, was my dutiful sacrifice to the Academy.

As with Bohemian Rhapsody and Elvis, I can only spend my review questioning why this movie was made. Musicians, after all, hardly need films: their work speaks so loudly for itself, and we can access it any time we want. Of what importance, really, are their private lives? This is an especially pressing quandary for this picture, since Leonard Bernstein wasn’t a wild man like Freddy Mercury or Elvis, both of whom, as characters, at least promise a spectacle (even in their faded, Oscar-tailored iterations). Rather, he was a focused composer who mixed in high society and partook in affairs. The movie, therefore, has nothing to depict. Its runtime consists of light, uninteresting banter—as if, instead of aiming to portray older times, it means to copy older cinematic aesthetics: in particular the penchant for sniggering, martini-sipping remarks, which don’t pack a tremendous punch these days.

Bradley Cooper wears a prosthetic nose for this role. He has to, because he doesn’t look a lot like Leonard Bernstein. Truth be told, he doesn’t sound a lot like him, either. It was a stroke of good fortune for his casting prospects, however, that the director, co-writer, and co-producer of this movie were all… Bradley Cooper.

(Said dryly between martini sips): The audition must have been a breeze.

 

–Jim Andersen

 

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Movie Reviews

Movie Review: The Zone of Interest

The Zone of Interest is the kind of once-in-a-blue-moon achievement that makes very good films seem paltry and pointless by comparison. In a year of troubled pictures that reckon with twentieth century evils—searching, clearly, for the secret to averting their twenty-first century recurrences—Jonathan Glazer’s Holocaust drama stands apart for its supreme daring, originality, and, most importantly, wisdom.

Allow me to explain my reverence for The Zone of Interest.

The film follows a Nazi family presiding over unspeakable suffering. Directly over the wall of their property lies Auschwitz, where father Rudolph Hoss has made a name for himself as an efficient and levelheaded manager of Jewish extermination. He isn’t a crazed maniac, though—at least not outwardly—unlike the cinematic villains of Schindler’s List and Inglourious Basterds. In fact, he wife, Hedwig, are, from what we can see, quite dull. They dodder around the house and act out a boring family drama: Rudolph has to leave town for a new post while Hedwig stays behind and cares for the kids.

An unremarkable tale. The film’s titular “interest,” though, lies in the way that the characters go through their daily motions without acknowledging the gunshots and cries of torture that pour steadily into their yard from the camp. These noises are easily audible to us, which means that the Hosses can hear them, as well. How, then, do they go about their day? How do they live with themselves?

Because of the remarkable dissonance on display, The Zone of Interest has been repeatedly linked to Hannah Arendt’s notorious formulation of “the banality of evil.” But I think the comparison is misguided. In Arendt’s argument, Nazis were guilty of substituting official commands—the “law”—for the truer law of Kant’s categorical imperative. Glazer’s Nazis, however, don’t appear morally confused in this manner. Unlike the mindless rank and file of Arendt’s imagination, these characters know what they’re doing, and they know that it’s wrong. They simply don’t want to know (because they stand to benefit from it), and they succeed in hiding their knowledge from their own consciences.

Several developments demonstrate that the Hosses, in contradiction to the notion of the “banality of evil,” know perfectly well the evil of Nazism. When Hedwig’s visiting mother, for example, tells a pithy story about a Jewish servant, Hedwig becomes visibly uncomfortable. Apparently, for Hedwig and Rudolph, even anti-Semitism isn’t good enough: what they require is total omission of Jews from discussion. Lies, after all, are leaky, since their fallacies risk being recognized. Constant, effortful ignorance, by contrast, is airtight. If Jews are never mentioned, the morals of their elimination never require consideration, let alone justification. (Indeed, Hedwig’s mother later leaves the house in discomfort: although bigoted, she alone, having spoken the victims into existence, finds herself haunted by the crematorium.)

The question, then, isn’t how the Hosses fail to realize their culpability—they do. The question is how they distract themselves from it. And this is what the bulk of The Zone of Interest illustrates.

Floors are swept. Hedges are trimmed. New clothes are tried. Board meetings are held. Parties are thrown. Gossip is exchanged. Work calls are made. Marital squabbles are had. These are the events shown in The Zone of Interest, because they comprise the all-important bubble in which the Hosses have ensconced themselves to guard against their own moral compasses. Not even the sounds of mass death can penetrate this bubble: dreariness, it seems, is a formidable shield. Only when evidence of such horror arrives unmistakably under their noses—such as Hedwig’s mother’s departing letter, or the appearance of human remains in the nearby river—is the bubble invaded, but even then, Rudolph and Hedwig quickly discard the relevant evidence, quickly rebuilding their mental fortress of domestic duty.

Mundane matters, it appears, can consume a life. They’re the blinders that, if we prefer, can shield us from real reflections. Such as: What is my responsibility to the world? Am I making society better or worse? What is happening outside of my immediate circle, and is it good or bad? The Hosses find it possible to participate in genocide because they know how to drive their ugly thoughts away: by keeping busy with trivialities.

But for a brief, perhaps inevitable moment, the mental fortress does falter. At the movie’s conclusion, Rudolph begins dry-heaving after a Nazi social event, suggesting, for the first time, discomfort. He’s so uncomfortable, in fact, that he experiences, apparently, a premonition of the future: the opening of the Auschwitz museum, where the horrors he helped implement are on display for the world to see.

There’s something wrong, though. The impact of this vision isn’t what it should be. The employees preparing the exhibits don’t seem to notice what they’re looking at: unthinkingly, they scrub the windows, vacuum the floors, sweep the cells. Just as in the Hoss household, it seems, there’s work to be done. And, just as at home, the little tasks at hand—not the explosion of suffering all around—command all the attention.

Rudolph sees this. He sees that, in the future, our eyes will glaze over. That we’ll be too busy, too distracted to shudder or recoil. That the same banality that shields him and his family so safely from having to consider their actions will, just as surely, shield us, far in the future, from having to do so, as well. After all, under the shroud of dreary goings-on, he’s escaped his own conscience. Why not ours, too?

Reassured, he stops dry-heaving. Composed once again, he slips down the stairs, into the darkness, unseen, unnoticed, his crimes forever in shadow, his villainy vanished from the world, which has more pressing things to do than think about it. Thinking, of course, is the scourge of atrocity, and people are endlessly good—and getting better and better—at finding ways to avoid it.

So: the banality of evil? Jonathan Glazer, our newest deserver of the title of cinematic master, has given us a new, terrible take: the evil of the banal.

 

—Jim Andersen

 

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Movie Reviews

Movie Review: American Fiction

American Fiction has two objectives. First, to parody the exploitation of Black artists by White people hungry for garish, insulting stereotypes. Second, to provide an alternative to these stereotypes by telling the nuanced story of a Black intellectual grappling with family troubles. Combined, that’s a lot for one movie, so it ultimately has to choose which objective is the priority. It chooses the latter.

Wrong choice. Unfortunately, the life of author Thelonious “Monk” Ellison (Jeffrey Wright) isn’t all that compelling on its own, although it’s well written and acted. It’s only compelling when juxtaposed with Monk’s newest output: an intentionally exaggerated, phony novel of Black hardship and violence. But as American Fiction progresses, the farcical half of the plot—the key to the other half’s significance—fades into the background. Therefore, the movie becomes increasingly ho-hum and forgettable.

The result of the failed balancing act is a very good movie in parts, but not as a whole. There are scenes of first-rate satire, such as a White interviewer fawning over a popular Black author whose dumbed-down new novel (“We’s Lives In Da Ghetto”—hilarious) features two characters arguing in heavy vernacular about a trip to the pharmacy. On the other hand, there are scenes of laudable realism, such as Monk’s arguments with his wayward brother, Cliff. These two aesthetics are awkward bedfellows. Imagine if “South Park” had attempted to reshape itself into an Oscar contender.

Perhaps the film’s tonal inconsistency is why its narrative eventually disintegrates, unable to reach a conclusion. Caught between satire and realism, between sharp-edged humor and subtle drama, it can only peter out, shielding its own exit with tired postmodern games. This final indecision may be a meta-commentary on the impossibility of writing (and existing) as Monk Ellison. But even so, the smell of a cop-out is unmistakable, and this ending reeks. Given American Fiction‘s jumbled concept(s), one last disappointment may have been inevitable.

 

-Jim Andersen

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Movie Reviews

Movie Review – The Holdovers

The Holdovers is a quiet, thoughtful film, a worthy entry in the New England artistic tradition of contemplative musings. Like a Robert Frost poem, its action is minimal, its setting is poignant, and its conclusions remain unspoken.

Its success hinges on three excellent acting performances, any of which could have sunken the film had a lesser effort been made. In fact, the three stars, especially Paul Giamatti, routinely rescue cliché lines and situations with offbeat, surprising deliveries. In other words, while the screenplay itself is sometimes too cute for my liking, the cast (mostly) finds enough credibility in it to retain authenticity. There’s no doubt that the film, because of its plot, exists in the shadow of Good Will Hunting (1997), so I waited in terror for it to eventually assume the painful corniness of its predecessor—but the moment never came.

The Holdovers is about breaking free of the past and setting a new course for oneself. It’s also about a particular moment in time—the Vietnam War era—in which the mid-century American optimism had begun to fade, and greed had taken hold of the country in new, alarming ways. The movie’s three main characters reject this new normal: they’re the “holdovers” who still strive to find nonmaterial fulfillment with the help of family and friends. A story that will resonate for the foreseeable future.

 

–Jim Andersen

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Uncategorized

Movie Review: Past Lives

Past Lives is filmed like an indie music video and has roughly the plot of one. Despite the sorrows of its characters, it’s an exercise primarily in whimsy: isn’t life, with all its twists and turns, just wondrous?

The movie’s feet are never quite on the ground. It deploys moments of relatable awkwardness—stuttering hellos, clumsy goodbyes—to assure us that this is all the real deal. But I hope we’re too clever for that. These moments aren’t difficult to execute, as any TV commercial demonstrates. In fact, the first section of Past Lives resembles an extended ad for a Macbook Pro: loading screens; ear buds; pixelated laughing; worldly locales; hip, goofy friends. A fluttering musical score of whirling, discordant chimes. Unrequited love is now available at your nearest Apple store.

Life is unpredictable. Even the most passing stranger has a unique story. Love takes many varied forms. Our paths are ever-changing, endlessly tangled, often crossing with those of people we’d least expect.

If you feel that the above statements are profound, you’ll likely enjoy Past Lives. But I don’t, and they aren’t. While this movie might land well with audiences by virtue of its heartfelt sincerity, it lacks the substance to stick around past this year’s Oscars.

–Jim Andersen

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Commentary and Essays

The Twelve Movies of Christmas

‘Tis the season for Christmasy movies, so let’s discuss twelve holiday classics and where they fall in the definitive rankings.

BONUS – Worst Christmas Movie: The Polar Express

This film has its advocates. Why, I can’t explain. My top eleven Christmas films emphasize the value of family, the joys of generosity, and the importance of looking past commercialism. You know, Christmasy themes. On the other hand, The Polar Express argues that the real priority—so crucial as to determine the health of one’s very soul—is to actually believe in Santa Claus.

The problem with this message, identifiable by anyone over the age of nine, is that Santa Claus is not real. He’s only a symbol, a representation of childhood innocence and the spirit of giving. He isn’t a deity who requires and rewards literal belief in himself (with implied dangerous consequences for those who step out of line). The film’s ending, in which an adult version of the protagonist proudly reports his continued belief in Santa despite others’ lapses, leaves a strange aftertaste: is he mentally okay?

That’s to say nothing of the failed animation that looks worse with each passing year. But bad effects can be overcome by true aims. When a towering Santa in The Polar Express holds a contest to reward the child who believes in him the most—a terrifying spectacle straight out of the Old Testament—we know director Robert Zemeckis has shot well wide of the mark.

The Best Christmas Movies
#11: Die Hard

I’m giving Die Hard a token placement on this list. It’s a great movie, and it takes place during Christmas, so there’s that. But Christmas doesn’t have much to do with its plot or even its setting, so I don’t feel it warrants a high placement compared to others on this list. I’ve already written at length about Die Hard‘s ingenious script and direction here, so if you want a more in depth commentary on its successes, check out that piece.

Die Hard does have some semblance of a family drama, with NYPD detective John McClane seeking to reconnect with his estranged wife during the holiday season. For this reason, some viewers remain adamant that Die Hard is a legitimate Christmas classic—maybe even the Christmas classic. I don’t agree, but I’m including the movie here in deference to them.

#10: National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation

A somewhat more cynical vision of Christmas cheer compared to others on this list, Christmas Vacation highlights the trials and tribulations of the holiday season: the difficulties of coexisting, even briefly, with family who live very different lifestyles. But it’s all in the name of a good time—especially when the never-ending mishaps are juxtaposed with the determination of Clark W. Griswold, who insists that it’s all worthwhile. And although he’s wrong about nearly everything else, on this particular topic, he’s right. Even his evil boss joins the fun and turns out to be not so evil, a welcome suggestion that good times together can melt away material differences.

I dock points, though, for the movie too frequently crossing into bad taste. Griswold is Chevy Chase’s best character, but even here, his flaws as a comedian occasionally show through. One subplot involves the married Griswold ogling an attractive retail worker and later fantasizing about her. Maybe this was more of a knee-slapper in 1989, but I have a feeling that, even then, it was one of a few flashes in this otherwise heartwarming comedy of the trait that would eventually tank Chase’s career: that he’s kind of a jerk.

#9: Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (1964)

Rudolph is the longest running television special in history, so it must’ve done something right. I’ll admit, however, that, watching it recently, I had some difficulty discerning what that might have been. Although the dated claymation adds a silly charm, the special is dragged down by goofy antics and annoying supporting characters, and it ends on an odd note: bullied and rejected time and time again, Rudolph finds acceptance only when he does something useful for Santa. In this scenario, jolly old Saint Nick comes off as… quite transactional.

But the intended message of Rudolph does shine through more successfully at other moments. The highlight is Rudolph landing on the “Island of Misfit Toys,” where assorted playthings bewail their Christmas exclusion due to various defects. The toys’ direct plea for empathy—“How would you like to be a bird that doesn’t fly?”—summarizes the theme in a way that children can understand. And unlike Rudolph’s suspicious happy ending, in which he resolves his problems simply by becoming popular, the misfit toys find happiness by discovering that Christmas has a place for everyone, even the weirdos. That’s surely a message worth airing for sixty years straight.

#8: Elf

Elf is a crowd pleaser. It doesn’t break much new ground, and it risks overstuffing on silliness, but never quite goes over the top. I think that’s because of its sneakily realistic portrayal of a jaded New York City.

Nearly everyone who interacts with Buddy the Elf assumes the worst. His eventual love interest, Jovie, accuses him of stalking her in the shower. His boss interprets his handiwork as evidence of corporate sabotage. His dad pegs him as a bad practical joke sent to humiliate him. And their cynicism isn’t just Christmas humbug; in fact, the movie goes out of its way to suggest that the characters’ pessimism is justified. Jovie, for example, was only showering at work because her landlord cut her water off. Buddy’s dad has to give a presentation on Christmas Eve, and when he refuses, he loses his job. So there’s no sugarcoating it: greed and cruelty are alive and well at Christmastime in New York.

That might lead us to expect the worst, but might there also be reasons to expect the best? That’s where the fun of Elf comes in. Don’t sleep on this movie as a healthy argument for optimism alongside—not in place of—being realistic about troubled times.

#7: How the Grinch Stole Christmas! (1966)

Dr. Seuss’ immaculate rhymes and Boris Karloff’s perfect narration make this whimsical story a deserving holiday staple. Its ending is a legitimate challenge to young children, who likely doperceive Christmas as a primarily material event and who might be just as shocked as the Grinch to learn of the Whos celebrating “without packages, boxes or bags.” And for adults, the Grinch is a surprisingly relatable character: his conversion upon realizing that Christmas “doesn’t come from a store” implies, contrary to the catchy musical ode to his odiousness, that his grumpiness and isolation stemmed from dislike of consumerism rather than inborn nastiness. Even the Grinch’s most evil episode—deceiving Cindy Lou Who to escape detection—resonates for adults, most of whom, facing interrogation by kids, have, by necessity, “thought up a lie” and “thought it up quick.”

The 2000 live action remake would later butcher the character, the tone, and all of Seuss’ themes, offering a terrible Christmas viewing experience perhaps exceeded only by The Polar Express. If you want a trashy version of Edward Scissorhands, then good for you, because it exists.

#6: Home Alone

Macaulay Culkin’s turn as Kevin McCallister is one of the great child acting performances. I think the key to the character’s enduring popularity is how the film simultaneously conveys the dueling truths that 1) kids are far more capable than we give them credit for and 2) despite this, they still need grownups around.

The movie’s best moment, very overlooked, is when Kevin reacts to his mother’s return by looking away, pained, until she apologizes for leaving him behind. At this point, he’s made no mention of what he understands about his parents’ mistake or how he feels about it. But these two seconds tell us all we need to know. More than anything, they reveal how emotionally vulnerable Kevin really is. Sure, he playacts at adulthood. However, this is perhaps only to compensate for the overwhelming dependence of childhood: egregiously overlooked by his family, he’s reliant on them to set things right. Such is life as a kid.

In the film’s notorious finale, Kevin lays waste to two small time crooks—smashing them with a steam iron, shooting their testicles with a BB gun, setting their heads on fire, and terrorizing them with a live tarantula, among other tactics. Is this sadistic streak compatible with the spirit of Christmas? (The cops, portrayed as capable defenders, were a mere phone call away.) Apparently, in the opinion of most Christmas moviegoers, it is. I abstain.

#5: A Christmas Carol (1951)

Charles Dickens’ original novella has inspired, in some way, about half the entries on this list (including, sneakily, Home Alone). So it may justifiably be named the best Christmas story of all time. In my view, though, it’s a story somewhat better experienced through reading or onstage.

Having said that, the classic 1951 version starring Alastair Sims stands the test of time as a faithful adaptation of Dickens’ intentions. When other movies borrow from A Christmas Carol, they tend to cherry-pick the happiest element: the joyous turnaround of a bitter, wayward grouch. They often omit the darker sides of Dickens’ tale—for instance, the heavy portrayal of working class suffering and the harrowing projection of a life of greed.

This latter aspect is actually pivotal to the original story. Scrooge, unlike his many spinoffs, repents early on. He doesn’t vow to change, though, until witnessing townspeople celebrating his future death. In other words, there’s nothing like being scared straight. These days, nobody has the guts to send that message—which is maybe why A Christmas Carol keeps getting remade. This way, filmmakers can harness the original’s power while maintaining plausible deniability. That was Dickens, not me!

#4: Miracle on 34th Street (1947)

I consider this the beginning of the top tier. In other words, the films from here on have a legitimate claim to the #1 ranking. The claim for Miracle on 34th Street rests on its superior filmmaking: its production, script, and acting stand out from other holiday favorites. Because of this, it holds up extremely well: watching it this year, I was startled at how modern it felt. It’s thematically similar, in fact, to Elf, dampening any idea that the urban malaise portrayed in the latter film is new to the 21st century.

Kris Kringle—if that’s really his name—is not Santa Claus. He has no magic abilities, notwithstanding the movie’s final shot. He doesn’t even make toys; he only knows where to buy them. By all indications, he’s just an old man living on Long Island.

But he has made the conscious choice to assume the identity of Santa Claus. He’s a sort of holiday season Don Quixote, diving into a role with such aplomb that others begin to struggle to separate his fantasy from reality. Kris tips his hand when he gives young Susan a lesson in “pretending,” advising that using one’s imagination enables infinite possibilities. Indeed they do, since, as Kris shows, pretending to be Santa Claus has much the same effect as actually being him: in both cases, Christmas principles—generosity, kindness, love—inspire others, not the man himself.

The takeaway from Miracle on 34th Street is interesting and leaves much to ponder. Essentially, the film argues that Santa is effectively real because, well, we can’t do without him. Department store executives intervene for Kris because he boosts their bottom line. A judge rules in Kris’ favor because voters in the next election will reject an anti-Santa outcome. Parents acknowledge Kris as Santa because they sense their kids’ innate need for optimism and hope. In summary, we all need to play pretend: commercially, politically, parentally, even psychologically. So, by democratic inevitability, if not factual truth, Santa is real. Again, an interesting, thought-provoking statement—certainly worthy of a yearly Christmas watch.

#3: A Charlie Brown Christmas

There’s a melancholy to Christmas that only A Charlie Brown Christmas really taps into. It opens with a dreary jazz tune, bringing forward the Christmas blues that Charlie Brown just can’t shake. “I know nobody likes me,” he complains. “Why do we have to have a holiday to emphasize it?”

When Charlie Brown, inspired by Linus, leaves his commercial-minded friends behind on the theater stage, they shuffle after him. Why? After all, they make extra clear that they don’t like him or enjoy his company. Do they follow him out of sympathy? Guilt? Worry? It’s open to interpretation, but in my opinion, it must be that Charlie Brown, by openly pining for a deeper Christmas experience, has given voice to a spiritual hollowness that, really, they’ve all been feeling. They’re just too cool to say it themselves. (Remember that they’re all “actors” in an upcoming Christmas play.) With a big smile as he carries off his tree, Charlie Brown has suddenly become the one that, deep down, they’d all like to be. They follow him because they want what he’s got.

Of course, he falters soon afterward. But the group comes to his rescue, and their assistance is interesting, too. They steal the flashy trappings of Snoopy’s campy, prize-winning doghouse and use them to turn Charlie Brown’s tree into a tasteful Christmas centerpiece. To me, this is a reminder of the purpose of Christmas ornamentation: to bond through experience and show affection. Christmas does have an external component, but, to land meaningfully, it needs a proper foundation. The Peanuts gang had mastery of the former, but had neglected the latter until the neighborhood blockhead showed them the way. The takeaway: we make the holidays pretty not to attract attention or win prizes—but to rejuvenate the ones who, like Charlie Brown and his tree, need “a little love.”

#2: It’s a Wonderful Life

This movie’s soaring high points justify its silver medal performance on this list. True, an abundance of overly folksy scenes and dialogue may rightly turn off highbrow critics and confer It’s a Wonderful Life to the status of holiday classic rather than all-time great. But at other moments, the film veers back toward realism, creating some of the most memorable and inspiring scenes anywhere, let alone in the Christmas canon.

Chief among those inspiring moments is the finale, maybe the happiest in Hollywood history. It comes after a fun but somewhat cliche chapter detailing George Bailey’s glimpse of a world in which he was never born, courtesy of Clarence the Angel (himself a spinoff of Dickens’ Ghost of Christmas Future). The horror that George witnesses in this altered universe leads him to re-value his own life, even despite the certain financial ruin and imprisonment that await him.

Certain—but, in fact, not forthcoming. While Clarence may show George the value of life, even he can’t bring George (or us) to anticipate what’s to happen next. In an earlier conversation, Mr. Potter had gleefully imagined the scenario of George asking his working class friends to cover his shortfall: “They’d run you out of town on a rail!” It’s the genius of this movie that George had accepted this as the sad truth, and so had we. But what are the holidays for, if not looking after the ones who’ve looked after us? Valuing our own life is only the first step; the second is realizing that others value it, too—even in dollar terms, if necessary. Clarence knows enough to let George’s friends and family reveal that for themselves. For me, the ultimate tearjerker.

#1: A Christmas Story

If anyone wants to know what Christmas is all about, this movie, in my opinion, is it.

Christmas is for everyone, but most of all, it’s for kids. And A Christmas Story, more than any other movie, is concerned with how kids actually experience the holidays. It’s especially concerned with the thrill of Christmas: the barely bearable anticipation of wondrous, mysterious gifts. In fact, A Christmas Story is the only movie on this list (and possibly the only movie ever) to authentically celebrate the receiving of presents. While the other films and specials—not without wisdom—largely dismiss presents as a superficiality, A Christmas Story alone knows that for kids, it’s not. Ralphie, in desperately wishing for a Red Ryder BB gun, isn’t seeking material gain. He’s seeking a means by which to become skilled, important, and formidable—in other words, an adult. The gun, to Ralphie, is the vessel of childhood’s universal promise: that life in the future will be so much better.

Grownup Ralphie concludes by acknowledging that this promise doesn’t last forever: “It was the greatest gift I had ever received or would ever receive.” In other words, this was the most exciting time of his life. But by finally hinting at a tinge of sadness, Ralphie has only acknowledged the obvious. Because the truth is that all meandering childhood tales—of schoolyard bullies, quirky teachers, overprotective parents, etc.—are about loss: the loss of the magic of being new to the world. We tell these stories in the first place because we want to recapture that magic. And if we’re honest in our recounting, we might just succeed. Like in a seance, we can conjure up some of those long-departed sensations: the trepidation of the classroom, the alarm of family squabbles, the humiliation of the uncool, and even the euphoria of Christmas—what was once, and can still be, the best time of year.

 

–Jim Andersen

 

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Movie Reviews

Movie Review and Analysis – Killers of the Flower Moon

“I do like money,” admits Ernest Burkhart (Leonardio DiCaprio)—thereby joining the Martin Scorsese tradition of dimwitted, mercenary protagonists. Like his predecessors, Henry Hill of Goodfellas and Jordan Belfort of The Wolf of Wall Street (also played by DiCaprio), Ernest can’t resist the temptation of the green. But Killers of the Flower Moon takes a gloomier survey of American greed than those other two films because not only does Burkhart commit greater evils by far than his parallels, but, unlike them, he never attains the dream of wealth that motivates him in the first place.

Scorsesean violence has always allowed a glimmer of amusement: like Tarantino, he enjoys the suffering of the crooked. But what about when the violence is one-sided, and the victims are faultless? That’s the new territory of Killers of the Flower Moon. And perhaps surprisingly, Scorsese proves apt in supplying the appropriate tone. Absent is the humor of Goodfellas; absent is the clinical eye of Taxi Driver; absent even is the cynicism of The Departed. Pervading the film instead is a sense of elegy, of personal pain; for better or worse, the movie’s true precursor may be Schindler’s List. (Not accidentally, Scorsese imitates his peer with a late, Spielbergian cameo.)

Much of the pain is felt through the great performance of Lily Gladstone as Ernest’s Native American wife, Mollie. In the movie’s most memorable shot, Mollie wails in despair after the death of her sister. Gladstone’s acting gives the moment dignity and power, while Scorsese’s framing of the scene from above, with the characters huddled in a pitiful basement, conveys their helplessness in the face of unmoored scheming and violence. Bringing both truths to the screen has often stymied directors: Spielberg, for example, couldn’t strike the balance.

An even more interesting duality in the film has to do with Scorsese’s portrayal of the American everyman. Typically, blue-collar, plain-speaking types are sympathetic characters. Their lack of cleverness serves as a virtue, a promise of honesty. But Scorsese, in Killers of the Flower Moon and his previous film, The Irishman, has illustrated a darker side to ignorance. In those two films, witless simpletons commit unspeakable horrors because of their witlessness: easily manipulated by tyrants, they become unnaturally malicious. Ernest is aptly named, as he’s indeed “earnest” in his love for simple pleasures and for his family. But Scorsese shows us that earnestness isn’t enough: while the character sincerely mourns the declining health of his beloved wife, he injects her with the very poison causing her infirmity.

Overall, Killers of the Flower Moon is another variation on classic Scorsesean themes. If I had to summarize his body of work, I would describe it as an examination of money, stupidity, and violence—and their repeated confluence through American history. His newest output follows that track exactly. Nevertheless, with each new release, he brings a slightly different approach, challenging himself in a new way, even at 80 years old. He’s one of the masters, and his remaining work deserves to be cherished.

 

–Jim Andersen

For more reviews, see my thoughts on Oppenheimer.