Director: Anh Hung Tran
Writers: Marcel Rouff and Anh Hung Tran
Stars: Juliette Binoche, Benoit Magimel, Emmanuel Salinger

Synopsis: The story of Eugenie, an esteemed cook, and Dodin, the fine gourmet with whom she has been working for over the last 20 years.

Food on film is basically its own genre at this point. Throughout numerous cultures and film styles, food is a standard. Tampopo, Eat Drink Man Woman, Big Night, and Like Water For Chocolate are just a few fabulous examples of the power of food on celluloid. It is not enough to simply film well composed dishes in order to make greatness. This is not your instagram feed, it must contain actual substance. There are few food films of greater substance than this year’s The Taste of Things.

The Taste of Things follows the relationship between a chef, Dodin Bouffant (Benoit Magimel), and his cook, Eugenie (Juliette Binoche). It should be no surprise that much of this working, and loving, relationship is built through, and inside their shared kitchen space. Masterfully crafted by director Anh Hung Tran, and beautifully photographed by cinematographer Jonathan Ricquebourg, nearly the first quarter of the movie consists of Dodin and Eugenie preparing a lavish meal. They are assisted by Violette (Galatea Bellugi) and a possible new apprentice in Pauline (Bonnie Chagneau-Ravoire).

This opening sequence of events may seem borderline unnecessary on first watch. Even if it was, it would be worth it just to see Eugenie and Dodin cook. But it is so much more than what it seems. As the moments build, we see the unspoken bond between the two. They only say a handful of words to each other, but there is a trust, a comfort, a love that is evident. It becomes more obvious as Dodin and Eugenie separately work with Pauline to see her level of skill. She is just beginning but obviously has that something. One could imagine that Eugenie also had that something, which makes her irreplaceable.

The scenes involving Pauline are also completely necessary, though they may seem to be “just” showing the intricacy of flavors in Dodin’s creations. He is, after all, the Napoleon Bonaparte of the culinary world. Of note, Napoleon, among other things, is known for tactical brilliance and providing unexpected strategy. Dodin, indeed, provides the unexpected. But to return to Pauline, her incredibly sensitive palate shows how complex the flavors are, and how difficult they are to create. This leads us, once again, back to Dodin and Eugenie. The language of their love is this exact creation, so even when it seems simple, there is complexity underneath.

There may be other characters, but they are mostly ancillary. This is, first and foremost, a love story. Binoche and Magimel are perfectly cast, and perfectly complementary. Binoche has always been a beautifully grounded and natural performer, and Tran uses this to its supreme advantage. Eugenie has no desire to be in the room when Dodin is performing the courses for guests. She knows her importance and how talented Dodin is, in and out of the kitchen. It pleases her to keep distance, with the knowledge that her work was done perfectly.

Even if all of this is true, the film is empty without the private, stolen moments between our two lovers. And, as is appropriate to them, there are few grand gestures. They are direct, flirtatious, and sometimes smirking. Due to Binoche’s controlled performance, none of these interactions is over the top, but they are all deeply felt and they stir both Dodin and the audience watching these intensely private exchanges. We know their love, their bond immediately.

The Taste of Things is not a movie to be rushed, but to be savored like a grand meal. Dodin and Eugenie have built their relationship, year after year, dish after dish, to its grand heights in the supposed autumns of their lives. It may begin with a sense of awe at the sumptuousness of the food, but ends with an understanding of connection, love, and moving forward. If we are lucky, we get to see a movie like this once a year. The Taste of Things is patient, focused, passionate, and a reward for the audience.

Grade: A+

Director: Hayao Miyazaki
Writer: Hayao Miyazaki
Stars: Soma Santoki/Robert Pattinson, Takuya Kimura/Christian Bale, Yoshino Kimura/Gemma Chan

Synopsis: A young boy named Mahito yearning for his mother ventures into a world shared by the living and the dead. There, death comes to an end, and life finds a new beginning. A semi-autobiographical fantasy from the mind of Hayao Miyazaki.

The Boy and the Heron is an animated masterpiece and one of the year’s best films. Hayao Miyazaki’s latest film opus works on many levels. It is a family film of profound humanity, exquisite artistry, and the simple joy of creativity. On the surface, the “Godfather of Manga” seems too high-brow for mass audience consumption, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Miyazaki is akin to Tolstoy in the way that he wrote for the masses and the working class. Miyazaki is practically cut from the same cloth, evoking the interconnectedness of life with stunning imagery and a youthful exuberance for children of all ages, young and old.

The Boy and the Heron starts with Miyazaki using the well-known director’s simplified designs, particularly for the characters. Here, the story is set in 1943, at the height of the Pacific War. In a devastatingly lyrical scene, 12-year-old Mahito Maki (Soma Santoki/Robert Pattinson) loses his mother during an air raid while she works as a nurse at a local hospital. Fast forward months later, Mahito’s father, Shoichi (Takuya Kimura/Christian Bale), who owns a munitions factory, remarries his late wife’s sister, Natsuko (Yoshino Kimura/Gemma Chan).

Obviously, it’s a confusing time for Mahito. His father produces the same type of explosives that killed his mother, and his aunt is a younger, spitting image of her. Now, he’s abandoned at his “new mother’s” estate for safety reasons while his father returns to work. Mahito has no friends or anyone his age to socialize with. Natsuko is pregnant, which makes matters even more complex, further playing into the child’s fears that he will eventually be replaced, just like his mother. Mahito begins to act out, treating his new mother as if she’s hot to the touch, coldly distancing himself from her as if he accepts her; the memory of his mother will be lost forever.

As the story progresses, Mahito is attacked by a mysterious gray heron. In an act that seems like a form of diversion and as a way to cope with his grief, Mahito takes it upon himself to end the feud between the gawky-looking bird and himself once and for all. However, in a twist of fate, the heron tells Mahito his mother is, in fact, alive. While chasing his new feathered nemesis, Mahito runs across a sealed-up tower in ruins near his aunt’s home. Now, arming himself only with a bow and arrow made up of the heron’s feathers, Mahito searches for hope or, perhaps, closure.

The Boy and the Heron is a rare work of art that can be accessible to everyone. Funny, charming, exciting, and suspenseful while leading to an incredibly moving conclusion, few films explore grief with this type of tenderness and care. However, that doesn’t mean the viewer can’t have some fun along the way. Where Mr. Miyazaki’s film excels is in getting lost in the supporting characters. You have a fearless chatter of man-eating parakeets that go from frightening to downright wondrous. The reveal of the heron’s true identity is splendid and adds comic relief throughout. Then you have the handful of “old maids,” who look like weathered and aged Precious Moments porcelain figurines that were lost to time forever. These are all exceptional and exciting moments packed with humor and a splash of grandeur.

The legendary filmmaker’s “simple” visuals are brought to the forefront. However, you’ll notice that everything in the background is an endless array of breathtaking paintings. It feels like an homage that evokes masterpieces from Claude Monet, Edgar Degas, and Camille Pissarro. As scenes unfold, the backgrounds come alive with classic works, resembling a stroll through a breathtaking garden with cherry blossom trees. The environment inside the tower is akin to grand oil paintings, where you can observe the details of the tapestries on the wall. The stunning shading of the yellow room is downright Confucian, evokes Hokusai (or even Edward Hopper) where Mahito meets his Granduncle, hints not at joy or warmth but at the idea that young cocky energy and restless vitality should proceed with caution when facing overwhelming power.

Mr. Miyazaki and cinematographer Atsushi Okui use various color palettes to reflect the emotional state of the characters throughout the journey in the script. The Boy and the Heron‘s interconnectedness revolves around systems, not just Mahito but the family as a whole. In line with the director’s holistic approach to the family unit and how the group functions within their world, including the environment, The Boy and the Heron is a grand adventure full of compassion, mindfulness, loving-kindness, and self-awareness that emerges from dark times to the other side where the light awaits. 

If this is Mr. Miyazaki’s grand farewell, he did so with an instant classic that’s one of the year’s best films.

Grade: A+

Director: Kore-eda Hirokazu
Writer: Yuji Sakamoto
Stars: Sakura Ando, Eita Nagayama, Soya Kurokawa

Synopsis: A mother demands answers from teacher when her son begins acting strangely.

Hirokazu Kore-eda has adopted a more schmaltzy approach to telling his stories for the past few years. This has made his most recent features, except for Shoplifters, somewhat detached from reality. They never reach a satisfactory emotional point. It is quite disappointing, considering his brilliant early features that channel the energy of Yasujirō Ozu’s narrative style. Kore-eda knows how to portray domestic melancholy in a humanistic way, unlike other directors who might do so in more theatrical and melodramatic ways. The tangible and grounded emotions have made cinephiles worldwide heavily relate to his films. So, when you see such a talent falter, even slightly, you ache for them to regain their mojo. Indeed, Kore-eda has done so with Monster, a heartbreaking Rashomon-like style picture divided into three sharply written parts. 

After a quick trip to South Korea with Broker, Kore-eda is back in his native land of Japan. His latest project begins with blazing fires in the night sky, where we see a hostess bar burning to the ground. As the chaos emerges and the sirens continue to drown out the sound of worry and sadness, people gather around the flames. They are curious as to what might have caused it. The film starts with a simple premise, yet as it extends, it transitions into something equally heartbreaking and hopeful in its examinations of truth. We first see a fifth grader, Minato (Soya Kurokawa), and his mother, Saori (Sakura Ando), who have tried to live a humble life after the tragic death of his father. But the young boy hasn’t been the same since; lately, something has been bothering him to the point of changing his attitude from quiet and sweet to troubled and disturbed. 

One day after school, Minato comes home with a strange look on his face. Saori can’t seem to figure out what’s wrong with him at first glance. His looks are distant, and he feels separated from the person his mother knows. But when Saori hears that her son’s teacher, Mr. Hori (Eita Nagayama), has been bullying and behaving violently against him, she asks for justice for his actions. However, the meeting between her and the principal, with Hori present, doesn’t go the way she expected. She’s received with fake apologies and no motive for improving the care of the students. Kore-eda leaves plenty of details behind in each different perspective so that in the next angle, we can slowly connect the dots. Whether the detail is minor or consequential, a lighter or a bruised arm, they all have a place within the story’s search for truth. They are connected with the introductory flames that Kore-eda uses as a scene to separate each perspective. 

You can compare Monster’s narrative structure to the likes of Rashomon and, most recently, The Last Duel. But Kore-eda doesn’t copy the exact format of the aforementioned films. Unlike them, this film’s three perspectives tell one version of the story – but through three different sets of eyes. Meanwhile, Kurosawa (brilliantly) and Scott offer iterations of the tale. The first stance in Monster leaves you with many questions and little to no answers, leaving room for contemplation. And as it continues with the other two perspectives, it recontextualizes what you saw before. The title of Kore-eda’s latest is misleading, referring to the beast that surges from within – forged by our emotions and painful experiences – rather than a literal figure of malevolence. None of the characters are handled in a way that could be lessened to such superficial traits. 

It is the idea behind being a monster, a person eaten alive by their suffering, and how that causes one to make brash decisions. The viewer ponders around to whom this title should apply, whether it is Minato, Hori, or the educational system and its corrupt nature. Kore-eda wants you to reevaluate how we see their actions – taking glimpses through each perspective – instead of targeting them wholly, diminishing them as simple personas of protagonists and antagonists. Kore-eda is known for using empathy as his way of “manipulating” the viewer. But in Monster, that constant swindling comes in a matter that doesn’t feel forced or excessively maneuvered. The root of this film’s empathy is sourced from the inability of people to accept or embrace incomplete pictures. 

There are constant conversations between characters about what they know and don’t know, referring to the actions taking place and the backstories accompanying them. Your opinion of them changes from one side to another, from malevolent to innocent and vice-versa, upon each detail and mystery unraveled. For the first time since 1995’s Maborosi, Kor-eda is not the credited screenwriter. This shows you why this film deviates from his usual form of storytelling, depending on techniques he isn’t accustomed to. Its mood and atmosphere are more lenient on bleak and melancholic tones rather than hopeful, like most of Kore-eda’s filmography. 

This moral tale of the effects words and actions have on children does have some unnecessarily convoluted moments; Sakamoto does these narrative tricks with some much-needed subtlety and cautiousness. Yet some parts of the web-like narrative don’t work because of Sakamoto’s need to over-entangle each plot point. If Kore-eda had written this, he likely would have made it far more straightforward – and, coincidentally, more effective in the process. Another element that elevates the film is the cinematography of Ryūto Kondō, who has previously worked with Kore-eda in Shoplifters. He creates beauty out of internal damnation, using a slightly poetic visual language that adds notes of melancholy to the film. Kore-eda’s previous films lacked those piercing effects in their cinematographies, which led them to have less of an identity. Kondō’s work makes Monster stand out because of its different ways of expression, varying from the perspectives. It is a fascinating change of pace, creating a more pensive piece rather than one more open on an emotional level. 

Grade: B

Director: John Woo
Writer: Robert Archer Lynn
Stars: Joel Kinnaman, Catalina Sandino Moreno, Scott Mescudi

Synopsis: A grieving father enacts his long-awaited revenge against a ruthless gang on Christmas Eve.

A silent film has a certain novelty in the digital era. It’s like a black and white aesthetic or shooting on film instead of digital. The choice is bold especially in the action genre in which the characters are often quipping, growling, or berating between bursts of gunfire. Silent Night isn’t completely devoid of dialogue though; any dialogue that is exposition is spoken in voice over. Any shouting during battle is done by characters not seen to be speaking on screen, as well. There are a few short, muffled, inconsequential lines spoken by main characters, but that’s it. It’s too bad this intriguing conceit is wrapped up in a massive turkey.

The lack of dialogue is a gimmick that gets old very soon and completely destroys any of the realism the filmmakers wish to have with their everyman hero. In fact, it creates an incredibly depressing film. With no dialogue to distract from the plot, we’re forced to sit in the silence of this man’s grief and the reminder that children can die. All we know of the main character is his one motivation in life and it’s not enough to build a movie on.

The conceit is even worse when the training montage, which should have been a few minutes with a rocking song before the mayhem, is a very long chunk of the film. It’s drawn out and crushingly boring. There’s a reason main characters in these revenge films are former military, cops, or assassins, because you can skip them being bad at shooting a gun and driving a car in an aggressive way. This everyman is so painfully inept at what he wants to accomplish. It’s really awful watching someone who hasn’t been in a real fight with another human try and fight someone. Bad fights by people who don’t understand how to fight only belong in comedies. In an action movie it’s just pitiable and not in the way to get an audience on your side.

The whole film has a student thesis feel. It plays like someone who watched a lot of action films thought they could do it. Silent Night is entirely derivative of films from the ’80s and ’90s heyday of the action film. Even the way time is passed in the film is hackneyed and eye-rolling. Based on writer Robert Archer Lynn’s previous credits of micro budget indies, that’s not too much of a stretch. Especially since this is his first produced screenplay in sixteen years and probably spent that time stewing in an executive’s slush pile with only a quick rewrite to make it more relevant now.

A lot of these revenge films, especially the modern variety have something to say. Silent Night feels like it’s just echoing political talking points about urban blight. It’s set in a Texas city that is overrun by Latino drug gangs. The police are powerless, the people are in fear, and the federal government does nothing. It’s very much using talking points of several prominent fear mongers to indicate that you could do what the police cannot and in one scene of complicity between Brian (Joel Kinnaman) and Det. Vassell (Scott Mescudi) what they secretly want you to do because their hands are tied by the law.

You have to wonder what made action movie legend John Woo want to attach his name to this lame duck of a movie. It’s obvious that Woo is trying to make a film his way. He and cinematographer Sharone Meir pull off some dynamic moves and tracking shots, but you can’t polish something so ridiculous. It’s so ridiculous that it’s not even a fun bad movie. At one point, the reflection of Brian’s memories are projected onto a Christmas bauble and the overwrought music is so maudlin that the silliness is lost in the uncomfortableness of the situation. Silent Night runs head first into every cliché possible, but skips out on Woo’s own clichés which would have at least made the movie interesting to watch.

There is typically something positive to say about any film, but Silent Night isn’t worth the digital space it takes up. It’s hard to say that an action movie where people are gruesomely killed is supposed to be fun, but the fantasy is supposed to be escapist at least and not so moodily depressing. This is just dour melancholy for an hour and forty-five minutes. Even Lars Von Trier wouldn’t make an action movie this morose. Avoid this one at all costs.

Grade: F

Director: Paul King
Writers: Simon Farnaby, Paul King, and Roald Dahl
Stars: Timothée Chalamet, Hugh Grant, Olivia Colman

Synopsis: With dreams of opening a shop in a city renowned for its chocolate, a young and poor Willy Wonka discovers that the industry is run by a cartel of greedy chocolatiers.

The new Wonka film is designed to be family-friendly viewing. To that point, the prequel to the beloved children’s classic, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, succeeds beautifully on that level and then some. Director Paul King captures the overall mischievous nature of the iconic character in a film that is nearly perfect for family holiday viewing in part because the film never takes itself too seriously. So, while this translation may (albeit intentionally) lose that dark, sardonic humor and cynicism diehard Dahl-heads may love, King and company create a touch of madcap movie magic that makes Wonka the near-perfect big-budget holiday viewing for the entire family.

Written by Paul King and Paddington 2 collaborator Simon Farnaby, this Wonka prequel follows the titular character as he arrives in town, waiting to distribute his delicious confections to the world and looking to settle in the chocolatier district of 1930s London. When he arrives, the innocent Wonka (a wonderful Timothée Chalamet) begins a festive song and dances through the cold nighttime streets, giving away all his money to those who need it most. Wonka, about to spend the night freezing on a cold, hard park bench, is approached by a shadowy figure named Bleacher (Tom Davis), who offers him shelter.

Wonka follows and is given a warm bed by Mrs. Scrubbit (a menacingly funny Olivia Colman). So, what’s the catch? She asks Wonka to sign the contract while encouraging him to ignore the fine print. Even when a local neighborhood child, Noodle (Calah Lane), who works there, tries to warn him, he signs his life away. It turns out Noodle is Mrs. Scrubbit’s and Bleacher’s property. The duo preys on unsuspecting visitors, and they sign into indentured servitude. Along with Abacus (Jim Carter), Piper (Natasha Rothwell), Rottie (Rakhee Thakrar), and Larry Chucklesworth (Rich Fulcher), they are locked in the bottom of the inn’s basement, scrubbing the days away.

However, they have no fear. With the help of Noodle and her friends, combined with Wonka’s precocious nature, they sneak out of the grounds to help build Wonka’s business. That’s until big business does what corporate fat cats do. Led by Slugworth (Paterson Joseph), Fickelgruber (Mathew Baynton), and Prodnose (Matt Lucas), they work together to sabotage Wonka’s efforts in small business, watering down their product (quite literally) and paying off local political figures to keep their pretty standard treats in the mouths of the community they serve. Frankly, it’s the same plot lifted from David Simon’s The Wire, where Avon Barksdale and Stringer Bell sell inferior products under various labels to control the space, but this is Warner Brothers going for congenial Disney fare, so I digress.

From there, Wonka can be a silly but often charming viewing experience that’s too much goddamn fun to ignore. While anyone can appreciate Timothée Chalamet’s lovely magnetic quickness that he brings to the Willy Wonka role, establishing and spreading a consistent tone throughout the picture, the supporting characters truly shine in King’s film. For one, Keegan-Michael Key is hilarious as a Chief of Police addicted to the chocolate fix the sugar-fat cats have him hooked on as he addresses their needs with amusing intimidation and unlawful arrests.

However, it’s the delightful Hugh Grant, the Wonka world’s first Oompa-Loompa. This is where you may get some of that quintessential Dahl-biting humor. Grant’s delivery (and his silence) is perfection. He steals every scene he’s in. The famous onset (or off) prickly and posh performer has found quite the niche with comic-supporting turns in the likes of Dungeons & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves, Operation Fortune: Ruse de Guerre, and Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery. As the young kids say, Grant slays in the role. In other words, he’s funny as hell, and a prequel to his character must be considered.

Neil Hannon and Joby Talbot wrote the music for Wonka, and some beautiful song and dance numbers are tremendous, enchanting fun that bring some unexpected poignant heart. The signature show stopper is Chalamet’s lovely rendition of the Gene Wilder classic, “Pure Imagination.” That’s the genius of assigning the Paddington 2 team to helm the new Wonka franchise. At the same time, the film will have its cynical detractors, which is fine. But those musical numbers in the movie have much more heart than expected. Along with Wonka’s backstory, covering the time with his mother (played by Sally Hawkins) has some heavy melancholy notes, sprinkling the film with some depth when needed. The final product is a whimsical and addictive family film. While you may argue some of the guts have been ripped out of the source material (it would be unfair to compare this to the original), Wonka is a delightful, fizzy, and delectable treat. While the filmmakers may lay it on delectably thick, including the film’s laden special effects and a third act that can border on saccharine, Wonka’s modern spin could potentially be a new holiday classic for mainstream movie fans. It should have long legs for years to come.

Grade: B+

Director: Todd Haynes
Writers Samy Burch
Stars: Julianne Moore, Natalie Portman, Charles Melton

Synopsis: Twenty years after their notorious tabloid romance gripped the nation, a married couple buckles under pressure when an actress arrives to do research for a film about their past.

The Oscars are no strangers to films that delve into controversial topics, especially when the focus is on a relationship involving an adult and a minor. In recent years, they’ve nominated films like Licorice Pizza and Call Me By Your Name, both centering around a romance between a character in their mid-20s and a character who’s in their late teens. Defenses of these films often range in argument. Some arguments assert that such relationships occur in real life and deserve a realistic depiction, despite the social unacceptability. Others assert that main characters in films don’t need to be morally good characters, and advocate for more films that explore characters existing in an ambiguous gray area, neither wholly good nor bad. While both arguments are valid, I find neither particularly applicable in these instances. I believe that a film should explore controversial topics, but it crosses a line when it starts to endorse them. I’ve previously spoken out about the problematic nature of the former, highlighting the dangerous precedent these films set with the tones they establish. Both of the mentioned films lean towards romanticizing the relationship between the two main characters, almost as a type of poignant romance that goes against societal standards, and one that they can overcome.

May December follows Elizabeth Berry (Natalie Portman), an actress chosen to portray the “real-life” figure Gracie Atherton-Yoo (Julianne Moore). Elizabeth travels to Savannah, Georgia, to delve into the lives of Gracie and her husband, Joe Yoo (Charlies Melton), who gained tabloid attention for their illicit affair when Gracie was 36 and Joe was just 13. I approached the film with some apprehension due to the subject matter and the poor execution of similar films that have come before. The film focuses on these characters as adults, providing ample space to explore the nuanced consequences of their relationship. This approach allows the characters to navigate the moral gray area in which they reside, helping the audience understand the motivations behind their actions without ever justifying them. May December intricately examines the problematic relationship at the heart of the film, all while incorporating a playful and campy atmosphere reminiscent of a daytime soap opera.

The most intriguing aspect of May December lies in the relationship at the film’s center between Moore and Melton’s characters. Todd Haynes skillfully crafts the dynamic between these two, revealing the disturbing nature of its conception while portraying them as a seemingly normal couple. Gracie,(Moore), stands out as one of the most captivating characters to grace our screens in quite a while. Clearly a deeply troubled individual, she exhibits multiple instances of an unstable nature, experiencing crying fits and breakdowns over the most minute nuisances in everyday life, suggesting that there’s something more going on underneath the surface. As the film progresses, we gain insight into how she perceives her relationship with a man she pursued while he was still a minor, and how she constructs a narrative to justify it to herself. Joe (Melton), now an adult, initially appears to navigate the disturbingly unique predicament adeptly. However, as the story unfolds, we realize he’s merely cosplaying as an adult, still emotionally and mentally stunted at the age when Gracie initiated contact with him. Haynes doesn’t shy away from addressing the troublesome nature of this courtship, yet he skillfully infuses profound humanity into the characters at its core.

The addition of Portman’s character into their life only further highlights the rift between the two, and how starkly different they are from each other. As the film progresses, their relationship only continues to crumble apart, as Portman begins to pry into their personal lives and unravel the core of their connection. Adding another layer of complexity to the narrative, Portman’s character, Elizabeth, sets the stage for the film’s exploration of not only personal relationships but also its stylistic choices. Following the pattern of the other characters in the film, Elizabeth is nearly as morally ambiguous as the others. With a polite and charming demeanor, as an actor, you can see what kind of lengths she’ll go to as part of her pseudo investigative journalism, trying to truly tap into who Gracie is as a human, even if that means causing colossal shifts in her everyday life, all for the chance at trying to make future her character on screen appear more “real”.

Stylistically, Haynes effortlessly balances the dark and serious tones of the context when necessary and isn’t afraid to poke fun at the inherent absurdity of the film’s nature as well. Particularly, the use of the score truly emphasizes moments of over-the-top dramatization, giving the film an almost daytime soap opera quality that makes it incredibly entertaining to watch. Conversely, he knows when to focus on the seriousness of the matter, directing the performers to heartbreaking places that will shake you to your core. The dichotomy of the campy tones of the film alongside the intense realism provides for a fantastic viewing experience. Although Haynes might occasionally grapple with pacing issues and trying to establish the exact direction of the film, once you’re settled in, it easily becomes one of this year’s best viewing experiences.

While May December on its surface might seem like an off-putting film about an incredibly controversial topic, the way it deals with the themes, narratives, and characters it presents is flawlessly executed. With hilarious moments of absolute absurdity intermingled with some of the most intensely dramatic scenes in film this year, it’s undoubtedly an experience that will not disappoint.

Grade: A-