Directors: Chuko and Arie Esiri
Writer: Chuko Esiri
Stars: Sophie Okonedo, David Oyelowo, India Ria Amarteifio, Toheeb Jimoh, Ayo Edibiri

Synopsis: A Lagos society wife prepares for a party while reflecting on her youth and the choices that led her to marry a respected man instead of her poet boyfriend.

Did we ever get an answer to the age-old question “who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf?” Not concretely, though the best answer may exist in the great author’s own writing: Her characters, more than likely. High-class intellectuals of all ages, Woolf’s creations were written to walk a psychological tightrope above a field of emotionally disruptive land mines rather than mere thorns. Their lives, routinely thrown for a loop by the feelings of those in their circles, presented as challenging primarily in the context of interpersonal relationships, as well as one’s connection to the world around them. None of Woolf’s novels did it quite as successfully (nor famously) as Mrs. Dalloway, the tale of a society woman who reflects on choices that have led her to her present existence while dating back to her teenage years, those of long summers and young, complex love. It’s a text that is practically begging to be adapted; it has inspired precious few attempts and even fewer successes.

It was probably the appropriate time for that trend to be bucked, and for it to come in the form of a reimagining as elegant and sharp as brothers Chuko and Arie Esiri’s Clarissa is a gift one shouldn’t reject based on its apparent quietude nor simple pleasures. The Esiri’s second feature – following 2021’s criminally underseen Eyimofe: This Is My Desire – certainly has those qualities in spades, but what it lacks in volatility it more than makes up for in gentle consideration of its characters to the point where they are tangible beings, not realizations left on the page. Much of what made Woolf’s novel such a beguiling, renowned text was its uncanny ability to turn a style that mirrors one’s stream of consciousness into a universal experience. The Esiri twins expand that framework into something uniquely cinematic and contemplative; their vision of Mrs. Dalloway is one propelled forward by what its characters are not saying more than what they are, internal monologue or not.

Played as an adult by the ever-transcendent Sophie Okonedo and as a young woman by an enchanting India Ria Amarteifio, our titular character evolves from a teen basking in the spoils of a semi-charmed life to a woman of the house tasked with the tedious to-dos of party preparation, though her exasperation at said tedium appears to be preinstalled, a symptom of a life still charmed but hardly exciting. In her youth, Clarissa was curious and well-read, a lethal combination that drew the similarly creative Peter (Toheeb Jimoh) to her orbit like a moth flutters toward a flame; in the present day, having married the more sensible man (Jude Akuwudike) and leaving her childhood will-they-won’t-they (David Oyelowo plays adult Peter) to forever wonder “why didn’t they,” Clarissa is at a loss, but not one she’s willing to express in words. It’s her attitude that leaves her emotional state vulnerable, whether she’s snapping at her household/kitchen staff or trudging through the day with regard only for the errands that need completing before the guests arrive. 

Okonedo is astonishing here. Only half the film is hers, given the Esiri’s eloquent toggling technique that seamlessly shifts from one time period to the other and back again, but her air reverberates throughout. Even as we watch her younger counterpart navigate adolescent confusion about what and who is right for her – an inner conflict that is only intensified by the connection she shares with Sally, played by Ayo Edibiri and Nikki Amuka-Bird in the two timelines – we long for Okonedo’s interpretation of how the past has impacted her in the present. Her time on the periphery is not a weakness of the film, rather a recognition of an undersung performer’s immense talent. That the Esiris know precisely when and how to wield her poise is an even greater asset, something only Janet Planet’s Annie Baker has adequately done in recent memory.

Even stronger is how the co-directors weave in the elemental presence of Septimus (played by the revelatory newcomer Fortune Nwafor), a young military officer whose post-traumatic response to a violent conflict with the jihadist group Boko Haram while serving in the Nigerian army has left him vacant, a soul housed within a body yet maintaining no connection to one another. That Nwafor hardly says anything in the film makes the performance that much stronger, and his unspoken link to Clarissa haunts an otherwise dreamlike picture like an indescribable nightmare. Often donning a tank top and glistening with sweat, Nwafor’s physical turn works wonders with Jonathan Bloom’s 35mm cinematography, an actor and a craftsman playing off one another’s gifts like partners in a dance routine. This tends to go for how Bloom films the entire cast, like when Amarteifio and Jimoh are in close proximity and the choreography turns sensual with the perfect touch of restraint, but it’s particularly astonishing when Septimus is our focal point.

It would be expected for a film called Clarissa, similar to a novel called Mrs. Dalloway, to only allow its  nominal subject to ever truly take center stage, yet Chuko Esiri’s intricate screenplay affords opportunities for all. The sophomore feature would not nearly be as strong without it, though its resounding sense of connectivity should also be credited to its movement from London to Nigeria, from a community dominated by individuals to one populated by families, blood or otherwise. The essence of Mrs. Dalloway and Woolf’s sensibilities remain, but Clarissa is entirely a story of its own merits. One can only hope that the Esiri brothers carry the eloquence of their ambitious effort here into the future, but it’s worth basking in the present for a while. The past will always be there, but in the end, moving forward is all we have.

Clarissa had its U.S. premiere at the 64th New York Film Festival. NEON will release it in limited theaters on Dec. 11.

Grade: A-

Director: Jordan Firstman
Writer: Jordan Firstman
Stars: Jordan Firstman, Cara Delevingne, Kirby Howell-Baptiste

Synopsis:  A hard-partying New York City club promoter sees his whirlwind lifestyle upended by the arrival of the 10-year-old son he never knew he had.

By the end of Club Kid, Jordan Firstman’s directorial debut, the title has taken on two meanings as far as it is concerned: on one hand, it refers to its main character’s brash and loud nightlife where all he is doing is going from one party to another, one club to another and living it up without any hesitation. The other meaning is the literal kid at the center of the story, whose life for all intents and purposes, takes form in the club through his experiences. What is most unexpected about Club Kid, however, is just how emotionally powerful it ends up being, and some of the places it goes to in realizing its central relationship. Also, in extremely funny directions.

The plot is simple: Peter (Firstman) is a party promoter and partygoer in New York who lives for the night scene and the company it brings. Along with his crew of close friends, they hit every major club in town, every other night, all the way till the wee hours of the morning. Things take a drastic turn, however, when Peter finds out about Arlo (Reggie Absolom), a son that he didn’t know he had–doubly surprising to him, given he is gay, which the movie does address, yes–and suddenly, he has to be a father to him and get his act together. As the movie progresses, this bond becomes stronger, and Peter finds himself balancing not only being better with Arlo as a father, but being better in his professional life as well.

From its very first minute, Club Kid is bursting with a tremendous amount of energy and vibrance. Dazzlingly brought to life by Adam Newport-Berra’s terrific cinematography, who is two-for-two this year after equally brilliant work on The Invite, Firstman’s New York feels as much a character of the movie as the rest of the cast does as you head into one loud nightclub after another, with the experiences being increasingly more booze and drug-addled with each passing night. Firstman’s direction throughout is incredible, confidently bringing the story to life with a hand that feels more learned than the debut work it is. Being how so much of the movie revolves around clubbing and partying, the needle drops that accompany many of those thumping moments are expertly chosen, making up a wonderful soundtrack to sift through long after the credits have rolled. It is also a testament to the screenplay that almost every scene is loaded with visual and spoken gags, and not a single one of them zips by, each bit further cementing their memorability.

What is also rather effective throughout Club Kid is its celebration and embracing of the movie’s queer characters and nightlife presented throughout. Every scene highlighting these aspects–of which there are many–is done in such a colorful, accepting and loving manner, giving each character a chance to shine in the overall narrative and leave a lasting impression, such as Peter’s roommate Nicky (Eldar Isgandarov), a writer from Azerbaijan who wants desperately to be a famous philosopher, who walks away with some of the funniest moments of dialogue in the entire movie, and even some charming moments from some of Peter’s friends like Saffron (Saturn Risin9), a DJ who even teaches Arlo a bit about her work, and Almi (Miss Benny), who has some of the movie’s funnier line deliveries. Other memorable supporting turns from Diego Calva, Cara Delevingne and Kirby Howell-Baptiste are equally well-captured.

At its core, the story of Peter and Arlo is beautiful, packing an emotional punch to balance its humor seamlessly. Firstman is exceptional at writing and acting out the scenes where he begins to connect with his son, understanding that he needs to put in his best efforts to care for him, which means putting much of his clubbing life on hold and coming to terms with all the things keeping him from maturing. These moments are often hilarious too, with more than one joke highlighting some of the less kid-friendly aspects surrounding Peter’s home (watch out for one Bjork t-shirt one morning) and the conversations between him and Arlo that are filled with quick back-and-forth moments of comedy. Absolom is sensational in the role, bringing a sweetness and charm to every second of Arlo and his time with his father. Eventually, he brings his own knowledge and love of music to the table as well, even creating a playlist with Peter that has a slew of excellent tracks to bop your head to.

Is Club Kid entirely unpredictable and surprising? Perhaps not. At its core, a father-son bonding storyline where the two learn to be better from each other after connecting for the very first time, is one many have seen before, and some of its plot turns in later parts of the movie are somewhat expected given some of the preceding events that lead to them. By the end, however, it hardly matters. There is so much energy and heart in Firstman’s script and each performance beat from the cast, that it more than overcomes some of these minor gripes that arise throughout its 2+ runtime, which moves at a very brisk pace till the end. The result is an exceptional debut from Firstman as a director, and one of the most impactful and heartwarming/heartwrenching movies of the year, and one that comes highly recommended.

Grade: A

Believe it or not, some people call New York City the greatest place on the planet. This may come as a shock to the senses, dear reader. Unfortunately, my objectivity on this matter may be slightly biased having lived here my entire life. But I do feel fairly confident in the definitive nature of such a bold declaration. What is it about New York that makes its denizens so liable to scream it in the streets, from rooftops, or in bars or parks? The recent Knicks championship has only added to our sense of unshakable adoration for what this city has to offer. It’s something much deeper than the amount of restaurants, cultural institutions, or walkable public spaces we have to choose from on any given day. It’s instead rooted in the unifying principle that a city as varied and oversized as this offers its inhabitants the opportunity to be anything or anybody they’d like to be. At any given moment, New York reciprocates the love people show towards it tenfold in expressive opportunity. But this city can also be unrelenting in its rapidly evolving nature. So many fall victim to the cruelty of those who hope to exploit the beauty of New York through greedy business practices or outright hatred for people freely living however they choose. At the 64th New York Film Festival, the New York Shorts program was made up of five short films, each linked by their explorations of freedom and change alongside a city that simultaneously exists as both transitory and eternal. The changes within the city seem to be occurring more rapidly by the moment, yet its storied streets, avenues, and neighborhood staples lost to the latest slop bowl peddler live immortally within the hearts and minds of the people who carry their legacies with them wherever they go.

The People’s Beach

J. Wortham’s short film is indicative of New York’s ability to offer space to all its residents. This documentary focuses on Jacob Riis Park in the Rockaways, described by one of its frequent regulars as “one-of-a-kind… like a fantasy.” Wortham uses this opportunity to create an archival piece of sorts highlighting Riis for all it offers its community. In first approaching this short film, Wortham felt as if they wanted to leave their own imprint on the fight for justice, as they saw various forms of community outreach and rally movements organizing. “This was what I knew, Riis and the water.” In turn, this short film divulges what Riis has represented for so long, in addition to exploring Riis’ potentially rocky future. A longtime haven for the Queer community, Riis is a public space that not only allows New Yorkers a direct connection to nature, but it offers a vital space for its beachgoers to be as free as they’d like to be. These beachgoers can wear whatever (or as little) as they’d like, do whatever they choose, or be whoever they feel most comfortable as. It’s a wondrous delight to see Wortham’s crisp footage of beachgoers having a ball, whether it’s jumping around in the water, dancing all across the sand, or forming a runway in the middle of a crowd to find who has the best outfit on the beach. The infectious fun of the short film is its primary driving force. 

But importantly, the festivities and celebration of Riis never removes the weight of building anxieties revolving around what Riis might look like in the near future. The rapidly-expanding infiltration of private companies doing all they can to exploit public land has indeed set its sights on Riis. Old buildings which stood as testaments to the history of a place are being demolished in favor of ugly luxury buildings designed for those with obscene wealth. A situation like this doesn’t just make for an unfortunate eyesore, it allows for the erasure of New York’s expansive history. Despite the unknown future, Wortham’s short seems optimistic, or at the very least, embracing of the fact that community can reside wherever people gather under the driving force of love and care for one another. In talking to subjects for the short who have been going to Riis for decades, Wortham noted “they were doing the same things we are doing.” It’s an observation which feels indicative of the strange relationship New York has with the passage of time. The geography of this city is almost certain to change; if not by greedy developers, simply by the sheer force of nature. But it’s almost as if nothing can stop New Yorkers determined to live exactly how they choose to do so. It’s a beautiful reminder of this city being a safe haven for any who choose to embrace its scope.

ee

Heather Landsman’s short film begins by highlighting one of the more inconsequentially hellish aspects of contemporary society: the rampant proliferation of the speculative market. It would appear that not even the more niche corners of pop culture are safe from individuals and corporations intent on preying on the earnest passion fans have for everything from anime to video games. And so, collectible figures which likely cost pennies to make and were meant to adorn shelves as a personal form of expressive decoration now sit behind plexiglass boxes as collectors willing to spend hundreds of dollars fight for the possibility of owning it. They may not even be familiar with the property, let alone appreciative of it; they simply couldn’t care less aside from the status symbol. And so, any adoration of something slowly becomes warped through its unattainable prism. But that only encourages Landsman’s film to feel all the more wrapped up in the allure of something we desire on such deep levels. The film feels akin to an exposed nerve, where we nervously wonder whether or not the people around us will notice the vulnerability and wreak havoc on our entire lives. 

As Emma (Abby Griffith) gawks at a particular blind box collectible figure way out of her price range, the thought of the shop employees, Huey (Will Menaker) and Julie (Isobel Fox), watching her every move keeps her on edge. Unwilling to let Emma stew in her panicked anxiety alone, Landsman brilliantly utilizes every practical effect imaginable in order to elicit the same sort of paranoid panic in her audience. Largely captured on MiniDV format, this film looks how a nightmare feels. There’s a sense of broken reality at play, from its fish eye lens surveillance to the maximalist emotional responses inspired by the stylistic flourishes of anime. It’s just one of the ways ee feels so spiritually indebted to Hideaki Anno’s mid ‘90s anime masterpiece, Neon Genesis Evangelion. Landsman captures the innate emotional throughline of that show to the tee: the panic that sets in when we feel the darkest parts of ourselves have been revealed for all to see, yet we continue down the path regardless of that worry simply because it feels better on some fundamental level. That this short film also leans fully into the sensory assault editing style of anime imbues it with a breakthrough revelation of personal touch. It makes the hyperpop aesthetics all the more shocking and effective in their striking contrast. Landsman is able to blend all these disparate characteristics into a short film that feels completely unique, all the while showcasing a clear love and understanding of various pop culture staples that make this a wild and entertaining ride in just under 10 minutes. ee also effortlessly captures the thrilling wonders that are the little pockets of New York, which seem to exist in a liminal space for those who know how to find them. They represent the potential of infinite experiences being on offer, sometimes occurring in the most strange locations imaginable. There’s nothing like the discovery of such a gem that feels distinctly formed for us amidst all the chaos of the city, and the same can be said for a short film like this.

The House Call

Eliza Barry Callahan’s short film doesn’t take place within the city limits, but it does feel as if it remains indebted to New York City in some capacity. This story takes place in Saugerties, New York, a wonderful town that’s just below the Catskills. It’s essentially 100 miles out of the city; nearly the same distance as Philadelphia. And yet, for so many New Yorkers, they (perhaps a bit ridiculously) consider Upstate New York to be this vast wasteland of mystery and nothingness. This short film feels like it’s playing with those notions of city audiences. But it also feels like a metaphor for the beautiful opportunity an escape from the city, or just the stresses of our everyday lives, has to offer some people. It’s a chance to get away from the shock of reality and perhaps be reminded of what matters most in our lives. Dr. Swan (Victoria Pedretti) experiences something a bit like that, although Barry Callahan goes about such a discovery in a fairly unsettling manner. This short film perfectly embodies the feeling that something we consider so standard has gone deeply and profoundly wrong. Most can likely relate to finding themselves in a situation which desperately needs to be exited yet not having the means of doing so. Dr. Swan unfortunately doesn’t have that ability either, and is instead pulled further into a waking nightmare shot so gorgeously by Hot Water and Rebuilding cinematographer, Alfonso Herrera Salcedo. The foggy farm this tale takes place in just feels so unreal. Yet the unsettling tension of the scenario couldn’t feel any more fraught with genuine fright. What then plays out across the remainder of the story makes for a strange little gem of a short film. It casts a wide net when exploring topics, ranging from existentialism and veterinarianism to the sheer simplicity of emotional misunderstandings and frustrating mundanities. It’s so easy to get lost in the inner workings of our lives and truly forget how freed we can feel by simply doing what we love, even if it’s only for a moment or two. Barry Callahan delivers a short that frankly looks stunning, captures the strange sensation of dread quite well, balances a lot of tones in a way that is oddly charming, and ends on the perfect note before threatening to overstay its welcome.

A Woman’s Place Is Everywhere

There’s a particularly cruel evil at work in Fanny Texier’s short documentary. And yet it’s an evil that is becoming all too familiar in the world, especially in New York. Most people in this city have likely dealt with a comically inept or downright villainous landlord that, frustratingly, remains faceless in their dealings with tenants. Their actions, which can often lead to devastating circumstances for tenants, are hidden behind blunt emails or posted notices that show little regard for the real people being affected by such loosely made decisions. This is the exact scenario identical twins Emilija and Ona Rygelis faced in the years they were being filmed for this short documentary. They have lived in an industrial Williamsburg loft their entire life, and shortly after the death of their mother, are barely provided any time to grieve in peace before their landlord begins serving eviction notices. They may have to deal with all the typical circumstances of New York City apartment living, but, as they describe it, the twins feel as if their mother’s being is “baked into the DNA of this place.” 

With an indeterminate amount of time to shoot and a loose plan on what the structure of the documentary would be, Texier’s short film somberly and efficiently captures just how much of a life revolves around where our roots spread from. When it comes to a New York City apartment, the little space we have to call our own can fill up rather quickly and becomes integral to our sense of self. In the case of these twins, their perfectly located Williamsburg loft has a jaw-dropping amount of space that makes their legal issues all the more infuriating and worthy of a fight. It’s made all the more rage-inducing knowing what this beautifully self-renovated, richly lived-in loft will ultimately become: another ugly, cheaply made, modern building with no soul that costs an exorbitant amount of money to rent. New York neighborhoods are being frustratingly pushed into the “future,” all the while having their distinct souls drenched in history completely ripped out by developers looking to make every part of this city look like nowhere. The stories of these twins are undoubtedly but one of many, yet that fact makes their situation no less sympathetic. These twins are lovely, bringing a realistic quirky charm to their living situation that speaks to how endearingly close they are with one another. The emotional resonance of this short is made all the more potent by Texier including some stellar footage from a short, 1970s experimental film that just so happened to star these twins. It was a film made to explore the relationship of twins, and as such, it offers a clear look of what Williamsburg used to look like. Their mother is also featured, and Texier splices this footage into the present-day for an absolute gut-punch that perfectly synthesizes the emotional toil such a situation is wrapped up in. It leaves the audience with a crushing pit in our stomachs. And yet, it also causes us to think of all the stories that have been built atop throughout history. It’s a notion that makes this documentary an essential piece of New York history. No matter what happens, this short film confirms that this loft was not only lived in, but imbued with a love that cannot be shattered even if it moves somewhere else or is torn down in the name of useless land development. The neighborhoods of New York may be rapidly losing character, but the characters within this city are still keeping it fresh and exciting as best they can. It’s perhaps that spark in each of us that makes this city the most special.

New York Never Let Me Down

Charlotte Wells begins her short film with a shot of the city skyline overlooking a large, snowy hill. It’s practically swallowing up the frame. It’s a city that remains omnipresent, not just geographically and culturally, but emotionally. To live here for any extended period of time is to carry it with you in ways that we often can’t perceive until we are removed from it. To live here for an entire lifetime, with decades of stories and emotions to parse through, is to understand the true thankfulness that is the only thing required in return. For the subject of this short documentary, Paula Spiro, a woman with a million stories to tell, this tender gratitude is apparent from the moment we hear her speak to Wells. Wells merely points a camera at Spiro, now living in upstate New York, and aims to explore the more intangible qualities of what it was like to live in the city for so long. She wants Spiro to detail what the city sounded like, how it felt, what it embodied in her time living there. It’s one thing to look at living in New York City and rattle off all the cool opportunities it grants its residents: whether it be the art, the culture, the food, the sights. And make no mistake, Spiro does have plenty of stories in those scenes that are jaw-droppingly cool. 

From famous subway busking to teaching a variety of musicians who would go onto great acclaim, she’s been around the scene and makes it sound like a wonderful thrill ride. But this all comes from a place of tender reflection with the aim of exploring the emotional imprint New York left on her first and foremost. A crucial element of this short film is Wells’ brilliantly personal direction. Wells ensures there’s no barrier between Spiro and the audience, zooming all the way in on her face during stories to capture every specific detail of her subject’s facial features and mannerisms. She beautifully catches Spiro dancing or drumming through a stunning reflection or rich shadow caught in a window. One shot in particular catches Spiro from a far distance merely walking, with Wells slowly fading in an image of the nighttime skyline while riding the Roosevelt Island Tramway. All the while, Spiro is exposing her interiority through narration in a way that any lifelong New Yorker will feel deep in their soul. As much as Wells is obsessed with capturing Spiro in all her idiosyncratic glory, so too is the film and Spiro enamored with all that New York provided her, specifically in terms of its self-discovery and possibility. To lock into New York’s wavelength is to accept the freedom to be anything we want to be. And anybody who truly cherishes New York is liable to be brought to tears by the unfakeable tenderness and sincerity on display by Spiro. She is thankful for all the time she spent in New York. While her current circumstances may not be the life she initially envisioned, the city seems to have imbued her with all the vital characteristics necessary to make living anywhere a truly distinct experience. Spiro never allows her story to fall into a depressing trap. She understands the sadness, embraces it for what it is, and lives on with a vigor that feels strong enough to inspire anybody listening to her story. This city is amazing, but sometimes the city isn’t nearly as fascinating as the people within it. Much like any parent, perhaps its purpose is to give us all the necessary tools in life, and if and when we eventually leave (or are effectively forced out), we can create our own wonderland based on the wonder and freedom the city provided us, wherever we may end up. To feel like we belong somewhere is perhaps the most important trait a location could ever provide us, and New York provides that in spades by granting each of its residents all they could ever want; we merely have to seize it.

Director: Luca Guadagnino
Writer: Simon Rich
Stars: Andrew Garfield, Yura Borisov, Monica Barbaro, Cooper Hoffman, Ike Barinholtz, Mark Rylance

Synopsis: Follows the confusing firing and rehiring cycle of Sam Altman at OpenAI where the board gained control of the company and removed him, and Altman still returned.

When the Austrian neurologist and psychiatrist Viktor Frankl said, “Between stimulus and response, there is a space,” it stands to reason that he was not thinking about the speed at which ChatGPT closes that gap as it answers a prompt. I tried it myself recently for the first time for research purposes, not because I needed it to inform me of something, but because it’s a machine that has grown powerful enough to have an opinion, and to do so instantly. I entered a prompt: What are your thoughts on the new film Artificial? I did so knowing that there is no possible way for a chatbot to have seen the film – not only because it only just world premiered at the 64th New York Film Festival, but because computers cannot attend film screenings – and knowing that its opinions would be sourced from those it scours online and subsequently rewords. But I was curious nonetheless.

Here’s a slightly condensed version of its response, because if I surmised nothing else from my time in ChatGPT’s lair, it’s that it knows nothing about copy editing: 

If you mean Luca Guadagnino’s Artificial, my early take is: I’m very intrigued, but I think the movie may be more interesting than it is great… The criticism I’m most sympathetic to is that the film may already know what it thinks before it starts asking questions. The really compelling version of this movie isn’t simply, “Sam Altman is dangerous and AI might destroy civilization.” We already know that’s the conversation. The really interesting movie would ask why intelligent, ambitious people sincerely convinced themselves that building increasingly powerful AI was worth the enormous risks, while simultaneously showing how money, ego, competition, idealism and fear became impossible to disentangle. 

While I was plainly giddy to hear that my new friend Chat – we’re on a first name basis now, and it is my therapist – was eager to see Luca Guadagnino’s Artificial for itself, I pointed out that it cannot and has not. “You’re right to call that out. I can’t actually have a firsthand opinion of the film if I haven’t watched it,” it replied. “Phrases like ‘my early take,’ ‘Garfield sounds terrific,’ and especially ‘I actually think its biggest strength may be that it will be weird’ make it sound like I sat through a screening. I didn’t.” Good to know. So what would a more honest answer have sounded like? Don’t fret, dear reader: Chat has that prepared.

A more honest answer would have been something like: “I haven’t seen Artificial, but based on the reviews and reporting I’ve read, it sounds like…” And then distinguish clearly between reported reception and my interpretation of that reception… So, short version: I synthesized information and analysis, but I incorrectly framed that synthesis as a firsthand movie opinion. You were right to be skeptical.

This response went on, offering to discuss the film with me scene by scene so it could better understand the thing it has not seen, patting me on the back for exposing a weakness in its previous answer, and using a lot of bold and italics in its typeface. I declined to proceed with the exchange; in the end, all I felt like I had accomplished was a colossal waste of time.

Maybe I’m not using this thing right, or maybe I was asking leading questions that have undoubtedly been influenced by my disdain for the thing that Sam Altman, Ilya Sutskever, and others created, namely its desire to strip the world of creativity and autonomy. But I turn back to Frankl’s idea, specifically that the space between stimulus and response “is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.” If OpenAI’s inception, expedited development, and unprecedented rise is the stimulus, Artificial ostensibly serves as the response, yet what has unfolded in the space between those two events is decidedly murkier than, say, the events that transpired from when Ben Mezrich’s “The Accidental Billionaires” was published to when The Social Network hit theaters. Mark Zuckerberg was already a sociopath by the time Jesse Eisenberg portrayed him on screen. It’s not that Sam Altman and the Facebook founder don’t share that strand of crazed DNA, but what happens when a film arrives with its subject at the peak of his powers despite the failed efforts that have been taken to knock him down a peg?

In other words, is Guadagnino’s picture – penned by Saturday Night Live alum Simon Rich, and containing the humor you’d expect from a writer with his background – landing a bit too soon? Of course, there’s no such thing: Even as Artificial unfolds at a breakneck pace, it begins in 2003, when the aforementioned Sutskever (Yura Borisov) explodes out of a cannon and into the University of Toronto lab that the eventual godfather of artificial intelligence, Geoffrey Hinton (Mark Rylance), calls home. Mere minutes pass, and we’ve jumped from a plucky 17-year-old solving the basics of AI’s foundational code on a whiteboard to its first success in 2012, the only differentiation between the time periods being the whitening of Hinton’s hair and the continued thinning of Sutskever’s. From there, we zip ahead again toward (but not yet arriving at) Sutskever’s initial introduction to Sam Altman (Andrew Garfield), first seen chatting with Elon Musk (Ike Barinholtz) about the news that Hinton’s motley crew of computer scientists have sold their breakthrough discovery to Google for $44 million, a laughable number in their eyes. Eventually, Altman and Sutskever agree to partner in a venture that expands Hinton and co.’s experiment beyond what the aging professor could see – in 2013, he believed that artificial general intelligence (AGI for short) was a century away – and into the early stages of the company we now know as OpenAI. Mayhem follows.

And yes, it all does happen that fast. Guadagnino has long been a prolific filmmaker, not just in how often he manages to pump out new movies – Artificial is his fifth narrative feature since 2020 and his second this year alone, alongside his seven-hour doc about Bernardo Bertolucci – but in the energy he infuses them with. He has hit a stride in that regard, and isn’t about to let up with Artificial. So it’s unsurprising to watch it churn forward at the speed of an advanced chatbot’s response time, even if it causes some moments in time to feel more harshly considered than others. Jarring? Almost certainly. But in dramatizing the world of Silicon Valley titans and their devoted cohort, pacing is probably the least of Guadagnino’s worries.

Chock full of his now-expected camera flourishes (the film is shot in 35mm by Malik Hassan Sayeed) and accompanied by a fitting synth score from Blur frontman Damon Albarn, what separates Artificial from being an otherwise run-of-the-mill biopic is its deep consideration for its characters, not solely when it comes to their mannerisms and how they act, but how they think. What Rich and Guadagnino are attempting to do here is open a window into the psyches of real-life figures who have gone to great lengths to ensure that they are not understood. And while a fair criticism for any “based on true events” movie is that the filmed result is told from one perspective, this film sets out to measure their pulses as close as it possibly can without physically holding two fingers over their wrists. We have Ilya, the dreamer whose vision eventually catches up to him and manifests itself in dread for how his creation could potentially harm the world; Borisov embodies such an evolution quite well by toying with posture and tone, as well as using his eyes as a means to peer into the soul of his character. When he describes his vision for artificial intelligence as becoming something that will bring an end to all suffering and allow us, finally, to be free, we believe him. When he later expresses concern over the realization of these dreams, we fear for him.

There is also Greg Brockman (Cooper Hoffman), one of OpenAI’s co-founders and its now-president, a loud, fratty, balding ball of rage in search of a place to misdirect his central emotion, and while Hoffman is tasked with delivering a fastball performance, he repeatedly smacks a line drive. Mira Murati (Monica Barbaro) is the curious case of someone who found themselves in what she believed to be the right place at the right time, only to discover that there would likely never be a right time for this very wrong place; Barbaro’s temperament throughout the film shifts from eager to learn to eager to inspire change, then briefly hopeful to disrupt before becoming enveloped by the environment she hoped to alter. Elon Musk (a very funny Ike Barinholtz) shrugs a lot; to his credit, The Studio star recognizes that this part is meant to be played for laughs.

Despite reports that the plan for Andrew Garfield’s awards campaign is to run him in supporting actor (thus granting Borisov the lead distinction), Artificial is very much a movie about what makes Sam Altman tick, and Garfield puts his best foot forward, heel off the ground and all, in turning in a performance that is at times both worth a chuckle and a cringe, not to mention an outright shudder. The problem for Garfield isn’t that his work isn’t committed, but that his part is a familiar one: A once-plucky investor type-turned-menacing CEO who will stop at nothing for power and is more than happy to slay any dragon to achieve it, and Rich’s script doesn’t offer much wiggle room once the shift takes place. That the film around him mishandles its efforts to mask the sudden transformation as something more gradual doesn’t help matters. Garfield still turns a meal of a role into a feast – though whether you’re full or just nauseous by the end is a classic case of “your mileage may vary” – by nailing not just Altman’s physical tendencies, but presenting a level of aloofness only fitting for the man that oversees an entity capable of deceit and possesses a terrifying sense of independence despite living inside a computer. His Altman operates that way when things are good, and even more so when things are bad; apparently, being a billionaire has its delusion-infested perks.

Among those benefits is a distinct detachment from reality that Guadagnino and his team attempt to inject life into, but too often find themselves depicting such enthusiasm in scenes that consist of chanting and/or popping bottles, as though to say, “Look! This is exciting, but also don’t forget to be so scared!” It’s a curious move for a sensualist to make this far into his career – not least because none of these characters house an ounce of sex appeal – but it makes a tinge of sense if you consider what the Call Me By Your Name and Challengers director did with After the Hunt, a colossal misfire that at least attempted to mine conversation fodder from its thorny subject matter. Still, Artificial seems disconnected from its characters in a way that no Guadagnino picture has before. That’s not to say that it isn’t an achievement, but that feels more anonymous than most distinctive work to the point where its closing title card of “Luca Guadagnino’s Artificial” feels more intentional than earned.

As for Rich, whose only prior writing credit is the Seth Rogen HBO Max vehicle An American Pickle (though he provided additional story material on Inside Out, Wonka, and A Minecraft Movie), he frequently falls on a sword planted in the ground by The Social Network’s screenwriter Aaron Sorkin, whose “isms” are well-worn and recognizable the moment they are heard. Characters in Artificial say things like, “We’re the only ones seeing the future,” “It’s not how this could go wrong… It’s how could it not?”, and even “Visionaries lie to themselves. Liars lie to everyone else.” Pointing individual lines out in a script that is more thoughtful about its characters than plenty lesser biographical chronicles tend to be may come off as an unnecessary evil, but when an exchange feels so specifically designed for an audience to “oooh” at its encapsulation of a figure’s motivations in hindsight, it’s difficult to ignore.

Perhaps that’s by design, too, a film all too eager to be seen as a blinking red sign that screams “DO NOT LOOK AWAY” before it naturally flickers off. It mimics its studio in that way – not the studio that developed it (Amazon MGM), but the one that saved it from certain death (NEON) after its original home dumped it just days after signing a $50 billion deal with OpenAI. You’ve heard that story by now, and Artificial was never going to touch it from a narrative standpoint. But what the film does bring to the table is a warning, a cautionary tale about how we should fear the people who build just as much as we fear what they built. (That’s about as close as it gets to touching David Fincher’s 2010 masterpiece, a film it has already been forced into conversation with by way of the Artificial premiere coming just hours after many critics saw The Social Reckoning.) 

Whether this flare is being sent up too late or too soon is besides the point; certain movies may set out to deliver a message, but they hold no legislative power, and many of those who do don’t seem to be concerned about a future dominated by AGI as long as it makes them a buck. You know all of this already, and that may be Artificial’s main problem. What The Social Network achieved with its mythologization of Mark Zuckerberg was that it crafted a compelling Greek tragedy, the kind where the king isn’t slain, but is seen aimlessly refreshing his browser to see if an ex-paramour will accept his friend request, alone in a boardroom. We know that his power didn’t wither from that day forward, but at the time, it was a proper encapsulation of how we should look at these people: As sad, lonely, rich men who know not how to put their foot on the brakes and wear speeding tickets as points of pride. Artificial argues something similar, but the loser of its central war is the sad, lonely, rich one, while the victor marches off with an excess of spoils in tow. In other words, it’s an apocalyptic true story. Perhaps the fact that we’re still living in the middle of it is what precisely holds it back from being a great one.

Artificial world premiered at the 64th New York Film Festival. NEON will release it in theaters on Dec. 25.

Grade: B-

Director: Pedro Almodóvar
Writer: Pedro Almodóvar
Stars: Bárbara Lennie, Leonardo Sbaraglia, Aitana Sánchez-Gijón

Synopsis: In 2004, an ad director faces a turbulent Christmas weekend. In 2026, a filmmaker turns her story into a screenplay, blurring the lines between reality, fiction, and the people closest to him.

What is the most defining characteristic of a film from Pedro Almodóvar? The most obvious trait that jumps to mind is bound to be his striking use of vibrant colors. Pick any random frame from Almodóvar’s illustrious career and you’re bound to be struck by the delicious color palette on display. The aesthetic impact Almodóvar has left on cinema is major enough on its own for him to be remembered forever. But Almodóvar’s films also contain so much depth beneath their aesthetic footprints. Beyond the lusciousness of his filmography, each film by Almodóvar is one that is overflowing with emotions. His melodramatic tendencies are an absolute delight time and time again. And there are simply so few filmmakers who could ever match his gifted ability to cohesively sprinkle nearly every conceivable tone into a single script. To watch a film by Almodóvar is to bask in the immensity of the emotional spectrum and still end up with a smile on your face through it all. He has such a penchant for entertaining an audience despite introducing us all to a variety of characters which are often truly sad, complex individuals. His latest film, Bitter Christmas, is no different, although it does find the filmmaker explicitly interrogating himself and where these characters and their pain have all stemmed from over the years. It’s a work of art that is profoundly personal, and Almodóvar is making no attempt at covering up that fact.

With this film, Almodóvar is effectively telling on himself a bit. Bitter Christmas finds Almodóvar writing a story about a filmmaker who can’t help but put the emotions and circumstances of his life and that of those around him directly into his work. It’s the framework around which the entirety of this film functions. Raúl (Leonardo Sbaraglia) has been in a creative rut for some time, yet is working on the titular film which will hopefully rejuvenate his artistic sensibilities. Beyond the obvious metatextual elements that make up an incredibly rich subtext as Almodóvar reveals so much of himself through Raúl, this framing device is also an incredibly clever way to imbue the film with all the classic Almodóvar traits audiences have loved for decades now. 

The story-within-a story takes place in 2004, centered around Elsa (Bárbara Lennie) as she finds herself dealing with a sudden flare of health troubles and an equally frustrating blockage in her filmmaking career. The audience meets Elsa and she immediately finds herself going through it. A migraine flare-up appears out of nowhere, and it is heightened as far as possible. Almodóvar frames this situation as the worst conceivable evening imaginable; so much so that, after what only feels like a few moments, she demands to be taken to the hospital by her boyfriend, Bonifacio (Patrick Criado). This may all feel sudden, but Almodóvar breezily guides his audience through the table setting of his film seamlessly. After all, Almodóvar has had Raúl throw the audience right into the middle of a story. It would appear that whatever is going on in Elsa’s life that we are unaware of is causing her body to lash out. The immediate interactions with hospital staff make a great entry point for the classic humor Almodóvar excels at. It’s a bit awkward, it’s a bit blunt, and it’s more than a bit revealing for all the characters involved. This sort of levity would work wonderfully as it stands. Yet Almodóvar’s framing of this being a story-in-progress allows him complete freedom to really elevate his usual sensibilities even further. It allows the melodrama to feel even more tongue-in-cheek. It allows for efficient storytelling through wonderful flashbacks and expositional dialogue that functions meaningfully. Almodóvar simply makes it work. But Almodóvar’s career hasn’t flourished with so many fascinating films over the decades simply because he makes quirky films that look good and balance tone beautifully. It’s because he has a distinct flair for storytelling that arguably remains his most vital trait as a filmmaker. It all lies in his respectful, compassionate treatment of these characters.

To be a character in an Almodóvar film is to face some sort of tragedy or deep-rooted sadness. It’s practically unavoidable. These circumstances often operate in tandem with one another when looking at the example of his most well-written characters. But he’s not the sort of filmmaker who revels in torturing the characters he writes. It’s so obvious how deeply he cherishes each person’s struggle in any of his films. He wants to protect them from their pain as best he can. Almodóvar is really great at forming a support system around these people when they need it most, particularly when the larger systems around them, such as society or their own families, have failed them. And this isn’t solely an endearing element of Almodóvar’s films. Perhaps most importantly, his typically heightened nature never undercuts this essential characteristic. It instead allows moments of catharsis to be that much more fulfilling. This care baked into Almodóvar’s work is part of what makes Bitter Christmas such a fascinating object; it is a film where Almodóvar is directly interrogating himself and the moral quandaries he faces in his work in relation to the deeply emotional circumstances present across his filmography. 

Raúl, effectively a stand-in for Almodóvar, has an affectation he can’t stop. He draws so much inspiration from the world around him. That’s an understandable trait for an artist. The only issue is Raúl can sometimes be a bit too directly inspired. But as Raúl points out through Elsa’s outlook on her advertising career, she is unable to “switch off work.” Raúl and Almodóvar feel as if they are nothing without the art they put out into the world. It goes beyond merely creating for the sake of working; it is an innate calling to mine the personal and explore all the emotions present in the world within them. That will inevitably lead to pondering how others handle their emotions in relation to ourselves. Simultaneously, Bitter Christmas also finds Almodóvar directly reckoning with the imprint of his legacy. He’s been making films since 1980, and over such an expansive career, one is bound to make films that deal with similar topics. But when it comes to Almodóvar, his house style almost causes people to feel as if he’s “returning to the well” again and again. Such criticisms of his late-stage career are evident in the way his last few films have been received to particularly lukewarm praise. This film is a declaration that that couldn’t be further from the truth. Almodóvar isn’t “returning to the well,” he is instead grappling with the sheer expansiveness of human emotion. To pretend like lofty feelings such as grief, love, or hopelessness can be efficiently understood or excised immediately feels foolish. What Almodóvar has instead been creating with his filmography is a body of work which allows him to once again explore a similar set of emotions through an entirely new prism. Whether it be through the weariness of exploring our past with Pain and Glory or facing death head on with The Room Next Door, Almodóvar is continuing to reflect on how the most complex emotions affect individuals in a myriad of ways; and he does it all through his own complexly woven tales which make for wildly entertaining films. 

There is no conceivable scenario in which Bitter Christmas should be seen as anything close to a minor film by Almodóvar. It is instead the work of a filmmaker who refuses to stoop below his own standards in the “twilight” of his career. It is a statement essentially delivered directly from Almodóvar through Raúl that he has no interest in making something lesser than, like a TV movie, simply for the sake of it. Bitter Christmas sees Almodóvar actively grappling with his life and his work through the prism of those around him. He may admit that he has gone a bit overboard as the years have progressed. After all, Almodóvar has always been a filmmaker who wears his heart on his sleeve and writes his characters to do the same. Yet he is somebody who very clearly feels a great deal of emotion, and may he continue to explore all the nooks and crannies of that great spectrum of feeling for many, many more films to come.

Bitter Christmas celebrated its U.S. Premiere in the Main Slate section at the 64th New York Film Festival.

Grade: B

Director: Fergal Costello
Writer: Paddy McDonald
Stars: Steven He, Michael Tient, Gemma Chua-Tran, Jason Tobin

Synopsis: Two hapless rat catchers encounter a kung-fu Taoist Guardian pursuing an undead Chinese Jiangshi. Together they uncover family secrets and must embrace their fate to rid Dublin of this supernatural menace, the only way they know how: Extermination.

This year I was fortunate enough to cover Fantastic Fest remotely. The stills of the movies intrigued me so I quickly made a list of my most anticipated films. The synopsis and stills of Kung Fu Deadly gave me vibes of Big Trouble in Little China and I was immediately drawn to whatever they had going on in this movie. Unfortunately, this movie doesn’t give me what I needed in the martial arts department. As I watched, I continued to feel like there could’ve been more for me to enjoy with the fight scenes. There was enough to enjoy in between some mid-tier comedy, heartwarming family moments, and fight sequences that would make a Gen Z Disney Channel watcher yell out with excitement. 

Lifelong buddies Danny (Steven He) and Frank (Michael Tient) are bumbling exterminators. The two are just floating along in between bills and the small amount of clients that they have. Danny feels like he wants more out of life than what he has been given by his now deceased father. Frank constantly tells Danny to just live for the present and not to set super high goals for himself. Ronnie, Danny’s dad’s old buddy, constantly tells Danny to sell their apartment and cut Frank loose. One night, while on a job, the guys encounter warrior and hunter Lian (Gemma Chua-Tran). She’s in a battle with an ancient vampire T’ang (Jason Tobin) who’s being controlled by money hungry playboy Marrs (Max Huang) with an ancient pedant. Danny and Frank feel like they are out of their league once the fight is over. Lian blames the duo for Marrs and T’ang being able to escape. Lian recognizes that Danny’s weapon is made from ancient wood. She tells them that Danny’s father was a guardian and that he was a guardian. Some time after this, the three of them go see Danny’s aunt June. June breaks out an ancient story book that tells the story of Danny and Lian’s family members that were warriors/guardians. They fought the two vampires T’ang and Min Chun, defeated them and banished them to separate coffins. Now, the coffins have been stolen and separated due to Marrs’ foolish ways. Lian, Danny and Frank have to do all they can to stop a full on apocalypse from happening. 

Deadly was filmed on location in Dublin, Ireland. The movie being a tried and true love letter to Ireland with added elements from Chinese culture took me by surprise. It’s a reason why the humor of the movie feels a lot like it’s from Shaun of the Dead and Chinese elements feel like they’re from Big Trouble in Little China. Steven He’s Danny was definitely crafted from the prototype of Wang Chi from the aforementioned Big Trouble. The ancient vampires T’ang and Min Chun also felt like the antagonists from that same movie with some added features such as T’ang dabbling in the art of karaoke with some hilarious results in the movie. Director Fergal Costello and writer Paddy McDonald do a decent enough job with blending the comedic, dramatic, and action components together. As I stated earlier, I just wish that there were more action sequences in the movie that were longer and thrilling. Lee Huang, a member of Jackie Chan’s stunt team, was the action director for this movie. Surprising as that was to find out, I was disappointed by the writing of the action sequences, not so much the choreography and the execution by the actors and the stunt men and women. 

By accounts from festival goers, this movie was the most tame and seemingly normal thing that came out of Fantastic Fest 2026. I’m happy that it had a movie like this for people to watch as a palate cleanser from all of the dread and mundane offers that the festival had to give audiences. I can’t wait to see our three leads in this movie in other projects and I can’t wait to see if director Costello and writer McDonald stay in the comedy and action genres or if they venture off to other pastures.

Grade: B-

Director: Tom McCarthy
Writer: Thomas Bidegain, Noé Debré, Tom McCarthy
Stars: Evan Peters, Paul Rudd, Tatiana Maslany

Synopsis: In October 1980, twenty environmental experts convene at a Florida hotel to draft a congressional statement on carbon dioxide emissions, but struggle to agree on the wording.

Tom McCarthy’s A Statement begins with a genuine shock for the uninitiated. It reveals that, as far back as 1896, Swedish scientist Svante Arrhenius formed the hypothesis around which the foundational argument and issue of climate change effects would make itself apparent. Imagine the frustration to read such a discovery; one that explicitly reveals how ineffectually we have handled the climate crisis. This is something that has been known for over a century now, and even still, it would appear as if nothing meaningful has been achieved with any sense of urgency. It’s immensely frustrating, borderline disheartening, and impossible to spin as anything other than a complete and tragic failure. Right here is the hurdle that A Statement needs to overcome within its runtime. How does one make a film about a group of people outright destined to fail? It’s the obstacle these conference panelists also need to break through in order to achieve their goal: they are tasked with crafting the first statement for Congress towards meaningful action in the battle against climate change. Now this may seem like a dour affair simply because of the majorly worsening dilemma we find ourselves in. But surprisingly, A Statement finds an almost effortless ability to remain a humor-filled affair amidst the impossibly aggravating scenario presented to the audience. It’s perhaps the film’s biggest strength in imbuing life until this whole affair, although it can still occasionally teeter on the edges of feeling a bit dull.

It feels obvious to note this is a film primarily drenched in tragic irony. Despite that tone, McCarthy and his screenwriting partners never approach this subject with anything other than sincerity or reverence. The key element driving all of A Statement is understanding exactly what the central goal of this film is. We know the goal of the committee brought together in a Florida hotel conference room in 1980. The 20-person ensemble cast, made up of government officials, scientists, activists, and more, must craft a statement for Congress on how they should best handle the rising levels of carbon dioxide plaguing the planet. Of course, anybody watching this film in 2026 could tell you such actions would likely be a folly. Some of the people in the room seem to have believed that as well. But that’s not to say A Statement is a waste of time because audiences know the overall inefficient outcome of global policy with regards to climate change. It’s instead an exercise in crafting a complete story with various arcs surrounding the notion of collective failure. It can be immensely difficult to pull off. Although McCarthy’s film strives for the challenge with admirable effort, it can occasionally remain stagnant because of that weighted baggage. Still, there’s a compelling quality to A Statement in its unflashy portrayal of flawed people striving for success, all with their own desires, frustrations, and goals.

A Statement is a film acutely designed around its ensemble. There’s no single protagonist, instead offering every character actor in the primary setting their own potential at leading a film of their own. There’s something almost refreshing about McCarthy’s approach to this story. It’s meat-and-potatoes filmmaking, striking away everything non-essential to merely get to the fundamentals of the story. For example, how does one go about introducing all 20 people in a stuffy conference room in an efficient manner? The answer lies in the very history from which this film pulls much of its script: the actual transcript from the conference. So once the room is full, McCarthy quite literally slides the camera across each side of the table, one-by-one having each individual introduce themselves and the organization they represent in the exact fashion it was done in 1980. It’s as blunt as can be, yet it’s undeniably effective. And such a direct approach towards the directing of this film does allow the fundamentally real drama of the conference participants to unfold as the primary star of the film. It’s a creative decision which majorly pays off, if only to emphasize the potential of a story within any moment across history.

With every piece of dialogue during the conference-set scenes being pulled verbatim from historical transcript, the film becomes imbued with a genuine authenticity. McCarthy even goes so far as to initially include the words themselves on screen, akin to subtitling. It immediately reminds the viewer that these are all real people, each bringing their own biases, thoughts, and emotions into the room with them. It quickly makes some of the more foolish and baffling sentiments held all the more enraging. It makes the cowardice of neutering genuine arguments based in facts for the sake of not ruffling any feathers in the room immensely frustrating. There’s so much emotion baked into the very essence of this film. The zealous edge of A Statement, even if it may not be sensationalized in any sort of meaningful way, is still felt through some of the performances. It’s difficult to not adore the caddiness of John Turturro’s performance as a nuclear scientist, the comically frustrated yet passionate Evan Peters as an environmental activist, or the completely fed-up, overworked, and underpaid Paul Giamatti character, as the director of the Department of Energy. A Statement even has Jason Clarke doing what he does best: torturing the people around him with a baffling series of inquiries or statements while sitting in a non-descript room at a makeshift table. Somebody notes that all of this deliberation is just “letting the democratic process play out.” But what happens when that process becomes largely ineffectual in dealing with such a massive issue?

What then plays out over the remainder of the conference is quite akin to Sidney Lumet’s 1957 masterpiece, 12 Angry Men. While this is a much more muted film in many regards, it too captures the fundamental idea of being trapped. There’s the obvious confinement of being locked away in a specific room. But the characters in both films carry the weight of a massive burden being placed on their shoulders. In A Statement, while most of the participants can largely agree on the general sentiment that rising levels of carbon dioxide will become increasingly problematic for humanity, they’re not even getting caught up in the details of what should be done about the matter. Infuriatingly, they instead verbally grapple over what should merely be said about the issue in the first place. There’s so much argument surrounding the minutiae of the issue that the issue itself becomes a backdrop for their own frustrations and biases to bubble up. A Statement takes advantage of such a wide-ranging, open-ended discussion and uses it to form a deeper examination at the fundamental flaws present within America.

A Statement largely reveals a country whose ideals have bred ineffectual action and outright foolish decision-making. We favor short-term gain and give little forethought as to what may come next for the world around us. It’s what makes the moments which occur outside of the conference room equally compelling, and arguably twice as tragic. Any time McCarthy includes a character that isn’t part of the conference, they simply couldn’t care less when the subject of the climate is broached. And there’s no judgement directed at these characters; although perhaps there’s a fair bit of mockery at play. But this tragic lack of knowledge ultimately feels like a deserving indictment of this country’s long-storied inability to bring forth meaningful change regarding an issue that has already had permanent effects on our lives and will continue to escalate until something is done. Amy Ryan portrays a representative from the public health sector, and in a conversation on the phone during a recess, she states, “I feel human… and useless.” It would appear that the systems within government meant to make everything more fair and balanced can often force many to feel their abilities and knowledge have been completely reduced. We simply must cut to the very root of the matter and state issues such as these as plainly as possible. There can be no worry of discomfort or shock when such a vital dilemma is at hand. As A Statement comes to a close, McCarthy does indeed deliver a film that feels as timely as ever, yet it can’t seem to ever shake the bits of stagnancy that hold it back from truly being great. Still, its ability to remain entertaining as a whole and the opportunity it offers for a deeply-stacked ensemble to just show off their talent for two hours makes it a fairly solid watch.

A Statement celebrated its World Premiere in the Spotlight section at the 64th New York Film Festival.

Grade: B-