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The Sexually Frustrated Heart of MAGA

Until now, all political attempts to undermine the MAGA movement have failed. To the confusion of both political experts and casual observers, MAGA’s supporters have remained undeterred by unshakeable evidence of the movement’s disregard for morality, patriotism, and even conservativism. This is because none of these principles actually relate to the main premise of MAGA. Its true guiding theme is not a value or principle at all, but the dark spirit of male sexual frustration.

From the beginning, MAGA has invoked sex as a central rhetorical focus. Donald Trump launched his presidential campaign by referring to Mexican immigrants as “rapists” and has never trailed in GOP primary polls for three election cycles afterward. Since his ascendency, Republicans have largely ignored traditional politics and have instead focused bizarrely on instances of perceived sexual perversion. They accuse their opponents without evidence of sex trafficking and pedophilia. They viciously and persistently attack transgender people, a tiny group with little representation in powerful circles. They embrace QAnon, an online conspiracy that theorizes that pedophiles control the government and Hollywood.

And their preoccupation with sex always carries overtones of rage and resentment. Consider MAGA supporters’ most infamous and identifying insult: deriding non-MAGA men as “cucks”—short for cuckolds. Such language conveys that MAGA men view mainstream culture and politics as not only emasculating but as sexual dead ends, as routes to celibacy. For them, MAGA is the solution to a sexual problem, not a political one. Its actual political stances (where they can be found) lie downstream from this. Take its push to restrict abortion rights, a thinly veiled effort to restrict young women’s sexual behavior. Or its notorious animosity toward illegal immigration: as Trump’s original “rapists” comment indicates, MAGA perceives immigration as a sexual threat—or, more accurately, a scapegoat for lived sexual dissatisfaction. Conservative media outlets regularly parrot dubious claims about immigrants raping and attacking young women. Never do they run stories about immigrants usurping low wage jobs. Thus, the mantra that immigrants are “stealing American jobs,” already factually questionable, can and should be interpreted as a euphemism for sex. Even if taken generously at face value, sexual paranoia looms large: women prefer men with jobs.

The rise of MAGA coincides with the dual explosions of internet pornography and Instagram. The media has highlighted the negative impacts of these developments on female body image and self esteem. However, it has not yet appreciated the corresponding impact on men, for whom the gap between sexual ambitions and reality has now become, for much of the population, outrageously wide. Some coverage has been dedicated to “incels” and violent offenders who lament sexual failure, such as school shooters. This coverage has characterized such individuals as belonging to a fringe. Perhaps. But a fringe of what?

Trump himself is the perfect avatar of sexual frustration. He regularly degrades women. He has been divorced several times and has been credibly linked to embarrassing affairs, all of which have the flavor (if not the formality) of prostitution. His wife shows him no affection, let alone desire, and she is rarely present at his events. Her frostiness toward him passes with no comment from pundits, who consider the subject out of bounds, but their courteousness blinds them to the crucial dynamic at play. That his wife detests him is the secret ingredient to his popularity. And it helps explain the failure of his copycats, who unknowingly torpedo their own appeals by flaunting (or at least feigning) healthy relationships with their wives.

Beyond the rhetorical and aesthetic evidence, simple intuition can easily discern the true heart of MAGA. Any outsider can recognize its atmosphere as dysfunctionally male. Trump and his acolytes are boorish, tense, and insecure. Few young women would wish to find themselves alone with one. In fact, several MAGA leaders including Trump have been accused or even convicted of sexual assault, which, far from disqualifying them, serves as a stamp of authenticity. At Trump’s rallies, to his supporters’ delight, he jeers powerful women and their male enablers. These events have an increasingly ritualistic feel: missing only are the witches burning at the stake.

A subset of women, of course, identify with MAGA, but their devotion is zealous, cultish, and unrelated to its premise. They revel in the cultural fervor of MAGA, not its ideas. MAGA men allow women to participate so long as they reject femininity, either by masculinizing themselves (a la Marjorie Taylor Greene) or playing the prostitute (a la Lauren Boebert). A relatively healthy female role model has no place in MAGA, as Ivanka Trump’s departure and Nikki Haley’s political flop exemplify. Indeed, to date, Ivanka’s main contribution to MAGA has been her role in resurfaced old videos in which her father awkwardly expresses unfulfilled sexual desire towards her. These clips, despite heavy play from Democrats, did not dampen the enthusiasm of his supporters. It is at least possible that they boosted it.

Eight years after Trump’s unexpected presidential victory, the Democratic Party may finally be coming around to the true nature of its opposition. Vice Presidential candidate Tim Walz has characterized MAGA as “creepy” and “weird,” and this branding has resonated across the political spectrum. Far from being shallow or reductive, it pegs the movement more accurately than anything before it. When footage emerged of Walz’s counterpart, JD Vance, deriding childless women as selfish and miserable “cat ladies”—a rant soaked in MAGA sexual rage—Walz’s labels afforded Democrats the appropriate shorthand they had previously lacked. Vance has been accordingly helpless to stop the media shellacking. Trump, seeing this, has uncharacteristically reduced his profile, possibly hoping that Vance will discover a counterattack for him to borrow before being similarly tarnished. But the hope is futile: Vance, dumbfounded, can only double down on his angry, judgmental persona, the only political posture he has ever known. With every appearance he digs himself deeper into the hole that Walz has made for him.

Is this the end for MAGA? Not quite. The social trends that fueled its rise remain active, and the potential antidote—a mainstream, non-moralizing confrontation of men’s mental health struggles in an increasingly digital world—is not on the horizon. Black men, a longtime Democratic bastion, have begun to drift rightward, to the puzzlement of pundits who had theorized racism as the main pillar of MAGA. Trump himself may be fading, but one worries about his replacement. He has always been limited by his deficiencies and failures as a man—which, paradoxically, comprised his qualifications to lead the movement. But what if his successor is less limited? What if the next Trump, blood-related or otherwise, not only embodies sexual frustration but has the ability to marshal it towards its natural conclusion?

It could well again be time again for the witches to burn at the stake.

 

–Jim Andersen

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Movie Review – Dune: Part 2

In the first movie adaptation of Dune, directed by David Lynch and released in 1984, there’s a bizarre scene in which Baron Harkonnen informs a prisoner that he has been given a poison, and that the only way to procure the antidote is to milk a scrawny looking cat every day. The cat is seen taped to a bulky contraption along with a live rat. We never receive any explanation of 1) why the Baron would do this, 2) the significance of the cat, or 3) why a rat is also attached to the milking device. In fact, we never see the cat or the rat again, and the scene, which doesn’t appear in Frank Herbert’s source novel, is quickly forgotten.

Inexplicable moments like this—of which there are more than a few—are part of why Lynch’s Dune is considered an old-timey failure, a relic of botched studio filmmaking. The newer Dune adaptations, directed by Denis Villeneuve, prove our progress in the craft of blockbuster cinema. Don’t they?

Actually, to me, some moments from the recently released Dune: Part 2 are equally as absurd and random as any from the 1984 version, although in a different way. Take one scene in which a gathering of Bene Gesserit discuss Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. The purpose of the scene is to establish Feyd as a sociopath. The dialogue, though, quickly goes off the rails, as the three women attempt a garish Freudian analysis in which they reveal that Feyd murdered his mother and is therefore “sexually vulnerable” and hungers for the experience of pain.

Whoa. Did this conversation really need to happen? It’s extremely disturbing, and none of the details turn out to be relevant. (Feyd is rarely seen afterward except to participate in a knife fight.) One might assume that it’s backstory lifted clumsily from the book, but no: in the book there’s no mention of Feyd murdering his mother and no mention of his supposed sexual immaturity. The scene was inserted specifically for the movie and for no story-related purpose.

Yet this outrageous scene doesn’t draw our ire, as the cat-milking subplot does. The reason appears to be that Villeneuve’s scene, contrary to Lynch’s, seems serious: it’s dark and harrowing, so, somehow, its ridiculousness isn’t easily noticed. The cat/rat scene, on the other hand, is lighthearted and goofy, and that kind of ridiculousness receives no forgiveness.

Dune: Part 2 is, by design, a very depressing movie. It may be the most depressing blockbuster film I can remember, except for 2015’s The Hunger Games: Mockingjay – Part 2, another tale of cynical politics and futile warfare. Its even clearer predecessor, though, is 2009’s Avatar, with which it shares a nearly identical storyline: an outsider joins a skilled tribe of natives, ingratiating himself by subduing indigenous beasts—and, as it were, a fiery bachelorette—and going on to lead the tribe in battle against a militarized opponent. The only significant difference between the two stories is that Dune: Part 2 is palpably uneasy about itself, going as far as to finally conclude that its hero is, in fact, a villain. His triumph has been a scam. Hence “very depressing.”

So, naturally, everyone loves it. Because somewhere along the line, popular audiences stopped liking fun things and started liking bleakness and anguish. They stopped liking when antidotes have to be milked out of cartoonish cats, and they started liking when crushing sexual torment spruces up characters’ backstories, even in a PG-13 rated movie. Nobody smiles in Dune: Part 2, and that’s the way we like it. (Actually, in one early scene a group of girls briefly laughs; this may be what brought it all the way down to 93% on Rotten Tomatoes.)

Thinking about the blockbuster movies of my lifetime, I think I can peg exactly when this change occurred. It was somewhere between 2003’s The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, which ends with merry jigs in the Shire, and 2005’s Batman Begins, which… doesn’t end with any jigs, and after which, it seems, no one plans to do any jigs ever again. But 2003-2005 isn’t quite accurate as a demarcation of the transition period, because movies are released on a lengthy delay from when they begin filming. The Return of the King was actually filmed in 2000, and Batman Begins began production in 2003.

Can anyone think of any major events in American history that occurred between 2000 and 2003 that would have altered our national psychology?

Yes, I believe we’re still living in the post-9/11 cultural era. And since we’re still inside it, we have difficulty appreciating the degree to which that event continues to influence our behaviors and tastes. In my view, that influence has been harmful—on arty cinema, yes, but even more so on blockbusters like Dune: Part 2. These big budget films, after all, are made with the aim of appealing to the entire adult population, so they best reflect the cultural zeitgeist. And judging by our latest versions of Dune, Batman, James Bond, Star Wars, The Hunger Games, Jurassic Park, and even Twilight, our zeitgeist is traumatized. We cast an eye of suspicion on the bright side of life, rejecting its onscreen depictions as frivolities or even straight falsehoods. Meanwhile, we gravitate toward portrayals of emotional suffering, which receive an oft-undeserved stamp of validity from critics and audiences alike.

But rejecting the depiction of pleasure is unnatural and aesthetically damaging. Consider that Dune: Part 2 attempts to emphasize Feyd’s monstrosity by noting (as I’ve said, totally unnecessarily) that he gets pleasure from pain. That may be strange, but hey: at least he gets pleasure from something! That’s more than can be said for the Debbie Downers around him, whose expressions range from “tearful” to “raging” to “resigned to the futility of human existence.” No character in the movie besides Feyd exhibits the fundamental human behavior of aiming to do what they enjoy. That makes Feyd, contrary to Villeneuve’s intent, the film’s most likable character—a “scene stealer,” as major publications have generously put it. Thus, like so many 21st century blockbusters, Dune, by misunderstanding what makes a character relatable, accidentally sets its audience up to root for evil. (After all, if viewers like seeing Zendaya scream in misery for three hours, don’t they get pleasure from pain, too?)

The problem with Dune: Part 2 and similar big budget pictures is that they’re dishonestly dark. At the risk of making the most mockable statement one can make in 2024: life isn’t this bad. Sure, tragedy is part of life, but what about the flip side? What about moments like the jazzy cantina from Star Wars: A New Hope? The community celebration from The Lion King? The silly sex scenes from the early Bond films? Where are—I’ll even go this far—the jigs? Where, in summary, are the things that we like to do, and that we accordingly spend much of our time doing?

It seems we aren’t yet ready to welcome those back to the screen. The trauma continues.

 

–Jim Andersen

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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 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 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 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 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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Movie Review: Past Lives

Past Lives never quite has its feet on the ground. It deploys moments of relatable awkwardness—stuttering hellos, clumsy goodbyes—to assure us that this quirky love triangle is 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. Oscar nominations are 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 of a classic romance.

–Jim Andersen