Director: Jared Bush, Byron Howard, and Charise Castro Smith

Writer: Charise Castro Smith and Byron Howard

Stars: Stephanie Beatriz, John Leguizamo

Synopsis: A young Colombian girl has to face the frustration of being the only member of her family without magical powers.

Earlier this year, I wrote an op-ed about family animated films, and why they shouldn’t have villains. So when I watched Encanto, and found out that it didn’t have a typical antagonist, I knew I was in for a treat. Encanto was released in late November this year, and was directed by Jared Bush, Byron Howard, and Charise Castro Smith. It centers on the extraordinary Madrigal family, whose special gifts have enabled the village of Encanto to thrive for three generations. Each member of the family has a special gift, except for Mirabel. However, when the magic begins to fade, Mirabel must find the source of the problem, and find a solution. 

The story of Encanto is special to me because of how human it is. Mirabel may be our central protagonist, but she isn’t alone in suffering from the pressures placed upon her by the family.  Every Madrigal has been given a gift, but with it comes the pressure to be perfect. Luisa’s song, “Surface Pressure,” puts it clear as day: “I’m pretty sure I’m worthless if I can’t be of service.” This is a film that lets each character be real. There isn’t an easy solution to the family problem, because it’s built on their complex relationships and fears. This thematic complexity is delivered through simple lyrics and by allowing each character to share their perspective. Its message that gifts don’t define you will resonate with audiences, and makes Encanto stand out among the animated films, not to mention the many musicals that came out this year. 

The story isn’t the only well crafted element of Encanto. The cinematography by Alessandro Jacomini, Daniel Rice, and Nathan Warner is the lifeblood of Encanto. While I have been impressed with Disney Animation Studios recent releases (Raya and the Last Dragon, Frozen II), none have the fluidity and precision in their cinematography that permeates Encanto. No shot feels static or dull. Rather, the cinematography has an energy similar to a Spielberg one-er, where the camera moves with characters and frames them expertly without needing to cut between shots. This forward momentum is enhanced by Jeremy Milton’s editing, as scenes flow from one to the next with ease. 

And speaking of recent Disney Animation releases, the animation style of Encanto cranks the individuality slider up to eleven compared to previous entries. Encanto shares much of the lighting design and texture detailing that permeated Frozen II and Raya and the Last Dragon. But what sets Encanto apart is the character design. Every person in the Madrigal family is distinct in their expressions, movement, and shaping. And these designs immediately convey who these individuals are. Dolores’ twiglike stature and large eyes are reflections of her timid attitude. Mirabel’s bushy hair and glasses show just how unexceptional she is. And Luisa’s massive build contrasts perfectly with her facial expressions, highlighting the pressure that is placed upon her in a physical, real way. Even the magic house, Casita, is given a personality through the way bricks and doors move. That attention to detail is creative and mesmerizing to watch.  

Speaking of the characters, the vocal performances are some of the best in the business. Stephanie Beatriz, known for her work as Rosa in “Brooklyn Nine Nine,” brings Mirabel to life. Her performance brings Mirabel’s emotions to the forefront, making the forced happiness, curiosity, anger, and longing audible to the audience. It’s a completely different performance to her television work, and it creates a sympathetic lead for the film. The supporting cast is well established as well; with John Leguizamo, Jessica Darrow, and Maria Cecilia Botero creating especially memorable performances in their roles as Bruno, Luisa, and Abuela Alma respectively. Every cast member taps into the pressures set upon their characters in subtle ways that add depth to each performance. And when those pressures are revealed, the film accentuates those emotions through Lin-Manuel Miranda’s musical numbers. His signature rapid fire lyrics are on full display in Encanto, diving deep into the feelings and history of the characters with ease. Plus, the vocal performances and animation work together emphasize these ideas as well. Each character has a signature rhythm to their singing that personifies their characters. The film fires on all cylinders in these moments, bringing together the vocal performances, story, editing, animation, and cinematography to reveal the thoughts and feelings of these characters. Lighting and environmental changes are used to unleash the charged emotional states of the characters. All of these elements blend together to create intoxicating musical numbers full of emotion and energy.

But it’s not simply Lin-Manuel Miranda’s musical numbers that shine in Encanto. The score by Germaine Franco propels the story forward from moment to moment. It injects the film with a magical vibrance at each and every point of the film. It accentuates the emotional exchanges between Mirabel and other family members, and enables the film to feel like a true musical despite having only seven numbers.  

Meeting a new family can be a daunting task, and the Madrigal family is no different. But Encanto’s direction and intimate story makes it easy to keep track of who’s who, what’s what, and why each member matters in the family. It’s a film that revels in empathy, and in breaking the rifts that form between generations. As I said at the start of the article, it’s one of the best of the year, and a film for the entire family. 

Grade: A

Director: Jane Campion
Writer: Jane Campion, Thomas Savage
Stars: Benedict Cumberbatch, Kirsten Dunst, Jesse Plemons

Synopsis: Charismatic rancher Phil Burbank inspires fear and awe in those around him. When his brother brings home a new wife and her son, Phil torments them until he finds himself exposed to the possibility of love.

The Power of the Dog is about wealthy ranch owners Phil (Benedict Cumberbatch) and George Burbank (Jesse Plemons). Set in Montana in 1925, the story centers on the turbulent dynamic between Phil, Rose (Kirsten Dunst), and her son, Peter (Kodi Smit-McPhee).

Phil and George are brothers and it is immediately apparent that Phil is a bully. He repeatedly refers to George as ‘’fatso’’ and has contempt for anyone who does not ascribe to stereotypical ‘masculine’ traits. He readily performs this toxic masculinity much to the amusement of his ranch hands, for example, when he mocks Peter for his lisp.

Benedict Cumberbatch plays the narcissistic and volatile Phil who relishes tormenting Rose from a distance. He is the physical embodiment of misogyny and toxic masculinity. This is apparent when he burns the hand-made paper flowers Peter makes to decorate the tables of his mother’s inn. The very sight of perceived femininity or ‘weakness’ is something Phil seeks to destroy.

Cumberbatch could have easily overacted the volatility of his character but he does not do this. Each word and action he performs is slow and purposeful, and because of this, it has maximum impact. One can feel the fear at the thought of displeasing him or even challenging him. Phil’s refusal to bathe in preparation for his parents’ visit is a key example of his antisocial behavior. While he dominates and bullies George, it is clear that he fears being abandoned by him as he struggles to sleep in their twin beds when he is alone. His need to dominate and dehumanize the people around him is a cruel and desperate ploy to maintain control and hide his true vulnerability – homosexual attraction. As the story progresses, we realize that The Power of the Dog isn’t just about two rich ranch brothers. It’s also a ghost story about this hidden and forbidden desire.

As an audience, we are repeatedly reminded of the only man that Phil respected, Bronco Henry. It’s clear that Phil and Bronco Henry had a close relationship and we see haunting reminders of him everywhere. The saddle, the yellowing handkerchief that Phil fondles in the secluded glade; his name is never far from Phil’s lips.

Kirsten Dunst offers an emotional and tortured performance as Rose, George’s new wife. The effects of living near a narcissistic and misogynistic man become too much to bear as Rose succumbs to alcoholism. George is not oblivious to the effect his brother has on people. One key scene is where Rose teaches him to dance in the mountains and he is reduced to tears. Phil’s behavior has kept George isolated and alone and the relief he feels in Rose’s company is very moving. Plemons successfully portrays a man who is comfortable with his emotions and expresses them freely. The safety they both feel within each other allows their relationship to progress despite Phil’s attempts to thwart the nuptials. Phil’s hatred for Rose is motivated by his misogyny, self-hate and fear of abandonment. Phil cannot live his truth and he despises Rose for taking his brother away, his source of narcissistic supply.

Kodi Smit-McPhee’s performance should not be overlooked. What we observe is a brilliant and chilling presentation where the battle of wits could go either way. As Peter, Smit-McPhee lures us into a false sense of security. We see Peter through Phil’s eyes; effeminate, weak and docile. With George’s money, Rose sends Peter to medical school to train to be a surgeon, and it’s upon his return that we’re forced to question his innocence – think Fatal Attraction, just less unhinged. Peter is anything but sentimental, he is pragmatic. Up until this point, Peter has presented as a timid and gullible character but it’s this scene that raises the stakes. It makes the developing relationship between Phil and Peter more thrilling to watch as they are soon engaging as equals rather than predator versus prey.

Phil speaks of Bronco Henry with reverence and uses Henry’s reputation to grow close to Peter and eventually teaches him to ride horses. Again, he exerts his toxic masculinity and rather than help Peter when he begins to fall off his horse, insists his ranch hands not intervene and instead leave Peter to ‘’figure it out’’. In a sense, Phil has ‘’figured out’’ how to conceal his true nature and it is only in the secluded glade that we see him truly vulnerable without his ranch costume and persona as armor.

There is an ambiguity between Phil and Peter, and over time, they grow closer. This drives Rose to drink more and the once optimistic and moralistic Rose slowly morphs into a frightened and anxious woman. Phil has discovered Rose’s Achilles’ heel, the more intimate his relationship with Peter becomes, the more unbalanced and distraught Rose behaves. Her husband, George, is away, and she has no one to protect her from Phil’s targeted abuse, and she is unable to protect Peter. To avoid leaving evidence of his torment, Phil uses his words to abuse Rose. He belittles her attempts to play a piece of music on the piano during his parents’ visit and tortures her from a distance with his banjo as she tries to practice. This is how pervasive Phil’s influence is. He needn’t touch Rose to cause her distress.

As an audience, we long for relief from watching this character assassination. But The Power of the Dog is a thrilling illustration of delayed gratification.

The cinematography is stunning and the use of music creates a sense of foreboding. We feel how vast the ranch is and how isolated the characters are from the outside world. Several shots were simply breathtaking; a favorite is the shot of the blood on the wheat during another scene that hints at Peter’s emotional detachment.

Based on the book of the same name, Jane Campion writes and directs a subtle battle for control and power – control over one’s image and power over the weak. She never lets us forget the impact of isolation and loss on the characters, the influence of ranch culture, and the concept of disease and contagion. At 128 minutes long it is a well-paced movie, taking its time to develop the characters with all their complexity and letting these complexities unravel slowly. The performances are strong and the story is engaging.

The Power of the Dog explores the ‘’dog’’ that plagues us as individuals – whether it’s shame, depression, loss, addiction, loneliness or a desire to belong. True masculinity is not a performance of machismo; it is not the exertion of dominance and control over those seen as weak. They say that knowledge is power, and in this case, if you study your enemies and discover their true desires, it’s possible to beat them without betraying who you are.

Grade: A+

Director: Paul Thomas Anderson

Writer: Paul Thomas Anderson

Stars: Alana Haim, Cooper Hoffman, Bradley Cooper

Synopsis: The story of Alana Kane and Gary Valentine growing up, running around and going through the treacherous navigation of first love in the San Fernando Valley, 1973.

Paul Thomas Anderson has worn many hats over his storied career. Pegged as a future master early on, Anderson attracted both emerging, and past talent from the word go. His visually dynamic, larger-than-life features placed him in esteemed company. Anderson evolved into a director with a cult-like grasp on audiences and his onscreen talent by Boogie Nights. Yet the eccentric Anderson loves to play with form and self image, leading to his latest film. Licorice Pizza presents a fresh challenge for the auteur, allowing the director to work with a hyper-talented ensemble of young performers. With two instant stars as his leads and a striking comedic tone, Anderson seems to have perfected his missteps in Inherent Vice and Punch-Drunk Love to remarkable success.

Licorice Pizza follows two young adults in the San Fernando Valley during 1973. Alana Kane (Alana Heim) shuffles from job to job, unhappy with how her life has turned out at 25. She lives at home with her parents and sisters. Alana struggles with intimate and platonic relationships that define her professional and personal life. While working as an assistant for a photo shoot, she meets Gary Valentine (Cooper Hoffman). The teenage actor brims with confidence and a non-stop work ethic. Gary has never met an opportunity he could not transform into money. As they take this new world in their hands, Alana and Gary place themselves at the center of New Hollywood and the larger-than-life personas that inhabit the town.

A staple of Hollywood cinema, the teenage exploration for life’s purpose has fascinated decades of filmmakers. Rebel Without a Cause minted James Dean as a movie star. American Graffiti allowed George Lucas to explore galaxies. Craven’s Scream saved the slasher film and the teen comedy through bloody delights. Anderson’s foray into the world of young adulthood combines Linklater’s lackadaisical vignettes with Ashby’s hopeless dreamers. 

Despite drawing from classic tropes, one cannot ignore the personal and dreamlike approach to Licorice Pizza. The world feels alive in its subtle touches, drawing from Anderson’s own adolescence. This authenticity and specificity help Licorice Pizza stand out from typical nostalgia fueled films, providing it with livewire energy to keep the audience on their toes.

That is not to say that Licorice Pizza redefines the genre. Many will liken the film to Ladybird, Dazed and Confused, and even Once Upon a Time…in Hollywood. Anderson’s film contains multitudes, at once both lighthearted and somewhat prickly. He opens the door for controversy, stirring the pot with questions about ethics in cinema. For some, the issues of ethnic-based humor and questionable sexual politics will be too much. It is essential to acknowledge these decisions, which seem to directly confront the darker side of the 1970s as a whole. Licorice Pizza does not ignore these choices but attempts to weave a tapestry about the futures of our characters through these issues.

Throughout Licorice Pizza, Gary pushes Alana for sex and intimacy. Alana recognizes their age gap’s inherent issues from their first meeting. For the vast majority of the film, she rebuffs him, instead seeking relationships with older and seemingly wiser men. Each of these men fails her simple tests along the way. Most are too self indulgent to look outside themselves. Other men fail her in more hurtful ways, using her as nothing more than a pawn in larger schemes. Even Gary, one of our protagonists, fails to live up to the man Alana believes he can become. However, he shows genuine remorse and care, which none of the other men provide to Alana. The two ride a rollercoaster of a relationship, drawn to each other through invisible forces. They are the definition of star-crossed lovers, even if the extent of their sexual flirtation comes down to a single kiss.

Many will read this kiss, and implied relationship to follow, as an endorsement of their actions. However, Licorice Pizza suggests that this relationship is not one of love, but one of convenience and lust. Life goes on for these characters after the end credits, and it seems unlikely they will consummate their relationship. Even if this were the case, Licorice Pizza leaves little doubt about Anderson’s opinion of the romance; it is toxic in ways that only a first love can be. We should not idolize this relationship, but instead, remember the messiness of our first genuine relationships.

Additionally, Anderson’s film never pulls punches about Gary’s troublesome present and future. When Gary is taken into custody, Anderson sets the stage for his criminality. While we believe he has been busted selling drugs to customers, when in actuality, he has been mistaken as a murder suspect. The fact that it becomes an issue of mistaken identity is beyond the point, as Gary seems destined for run-ins with the law. His ambition creates physical, emotional, and economic danger in his life. He works on information that would be considered insider trading to enrich himself. His businesses bounce between get-rich-quick schemes and fads which lack any semblance of stability. Even Gary’s PR firm, run by his mother, associates with openly racist, misogynistic, and inept businessmen. Gary’s lack of a moral compass is not due to his age but his blind ambition to conquer the world. Alana’s unwillingness to have a sexual relationship with Gary becomes an extension of his lust. 

Perhaps no sequence offers more insight into Gary’s questionable ethics than his interaction with Jon Peters (Bradley Cooper). Gary has strayed from Alana for other women in the preceding hour, named a business after a sex joke, and found his semi-successful fad business evicted. Yet Gary remains successful, cashing in on hubris and luck. When the anthropomorphized hurricane that is Jon Peters enters the frame, his bluster and vanity are entirely unchecked. He demands respect and threatens violence. Gary not only fits the depiction of a young Peters, but he then proceeds to commit insane acts of vandalism and destruction in the same ilk as Peters. Gary will never have enough, and in the years after Licorice Pizza, he seems destined to destroy lives in the process. 

Meanwhile, Alana wants to escape her world. She wishes to avoid the small, overstuffed house of her youth. She sees politics and relationships as ways to explore the world. Her belief in herself is similar to Gary’s in that they both see themselves in control of their lives. Yet Alana opens herself in a way Gary never does. Her optimism and faith in people create genuine pain. She connects with people on a human level and believes she can positively change the world.

During one of the standout set pieces of the film, Alana looks at herself in a mirror, realizing how wrong things have gone. The comedic and tense scene beckons back to the Alfred Molina drug den in Boogie Nights, both in tension and life-threatening stakes. This small moment of character introspection forces Alana to realize the mistakes she has made, even if she cannot wholly unpack what that means at this moment. Unlike his film set in the world of adult film, we see Alana attempt to change her life to no avail. Placing her trust in someone else burns her again, and Alana finds herself back in the situation that led to her original realization. Gary and his friends provide a safe harbor where Alana finds acceptance. But this moment of safety will fade. She will fight with Gary. Hopefully, she can succeed next time.

Beyond the many meanings and lessons one can take away from Licorice Pizza, moviegoers cannot ignore the craft on display. The performance from Haim delivers the film world a new star. While her career as a musician brought fame, her naturalism and ability to access her emotions will open an entirely new career for Ms. Haim. Her performance will be among the best of the decade. Hoffman shines in nearly every scene he’s in, combining his highly expressive face, non-verbals, and charming demeanor to great effect. While trying to hide his participation on a phone call, Hoffman provides the ultimate showcase in “show, don’t tell” performances.

The two astound at every turn, and Anderson brilliantly allows them to shine against a stunning ensemble. As usual, Anderson perfectly tunes each of these performances, allowing talents like Bradley Cooper, Tom Waits, and Harriet Sansom Harris to leave indelible marks on the audience with limited screen time. If one did not already believe Anderson is the next Altman, Licorice Pizza adds to the compelling case. Serving as the co-cinematographer with Michael Bauman, the film achieves stunning imagery and control. They create beautiful images highlighting the brilliant costume and production design that brings the valley to life.

Once again, Paul Thomas Anderson crafts a masterful examination of America while never removing himself from the critical character moments that allow his films to endure. What more can be said about the wunderkind turned auteur? Any year with a Paul Thomas Anderson release is a gift to the medium. Licorice Pizza earns its place as one of the best films of 2021 and will be one to revisit for years to come.

Grade: A-

Director: Juho Kuosmanen

Writers: Juho Kuosmanen, Andris Feldmanis, Livia Ulman, Rosa Liksom

Stars: Yuriy Borasov, Seidi Haarla

Synopsis: As a train weaves its way up to the Arctic Circle, two strangers share a journey that will change their perspective on life.

In the late 1990s, on her last day in Moscow before she embarks on a journey to the city of Murmansk to see its famous petroglyphs, our protagonist, the Finnish exchange student Laura (Seidi Haarla), is thrown a farewell party by her lover Irina (Dirana Drukarova), who was supposed to accompany Laura but couldn’t due to her work as a Russian professor. At the party, Laura appears confounded and perplexed being around Irina’s friends, and her conflicting emotions about the upcoming trip begin to rise. She is obviously excited to finally go on the trip she’s been waiting for, but her partner dropping out creates an air of mystery around the fate of their relationship.

Laura’s fears aren’t unfounded; her return to Finland is quickly approaching after Murmansk’s visit, and their relationship remains a big question mark that neither she nor Irina wants to figure out the answer to. Laura is anxious, but in the meantime, Murmansk’s petroglyphs are enough to keep her excitement for this trip alive.

Enthusiastic Laura hops on the train to be quickly disappointed when she discovers that she has to share a sleeping compartment with a drunk swearing Russian man called Ljoha (Yuriy Borisov), who works as a miner and is traveling to the city for work. With his vulgar nature and overwhelming personality, Ljoha represents the polar opposite of everything that Laura is. And even though the passengers of this small compartment couldn’t be physically any closer, realistically they’re so far apart. Trapped in with Ljoha for what appears to be days of misery, Laura’s journey to her destination didn’t start on the right foot.

 As time goes by, detached from the world on a long train ride with nothing but a camera recorder which has some footage of Irina that she plays over and over, it takes Laura some time to realize how lonely she actually is. She has been living in a country where she doesn’t speak its language very well, in a void relationship that may be coming to an end, and is stuck sharing a ride with the last person she’d like to be with.

The first act of the film captures this feeling of isolation and unfulfillment very well, and the credit goes to Juho Kuosmanen’s direction, which keeps the first act moving while, at times, the screenplay felt as if it was struggling to get going. Kuosmanen’s navigation and precise movement of his camera in cramped spaces gave the first act of the film a dynamic undertone that helped support the stillness of the screenplay.

Beginning with the second act, the screenplay finds its footing and begins to explore the emotions and motivations of its characters in a much more interesting way. The wheels start turning on Laura’s relationship with Ljoha after she hesitantly accepts his invite to spend the train lay-over period at his foster mom’s house. At the house, Laura’s perspective of Ljoha starts to become less one-sided. She begins to shed her first impressions, and that picture of him in her mind becomes less clear. She realizes that underneath this gigantic front, there is a person who is as lonely and lost as she is.

Kuosmanen’s navigation of the next chapter of the story is excellent; it saves the film from going down the rabbit hole of familiar tropes and known clichés. Even though the film can’t quite tell its tale without relying on one or two of said clichés, they acknowledge them and move on quickly to focus on the two leads’ relationship as they get closer to each other.

What Juho Kuosmanen’s Compartment No. 6 brilliantly captures isn’t a simple love story between two strangers who meet on a train; it’s a state of human nature. Laura and Ljoha’s relationship encapsulates the human need to be together, to connect, to be understood, and be seen. The lack of that connection is what Laura realizes was missing from her relationship with Irina. As she says, “I just miss the way she used to look at me.”

The harsh miner world of 1990s Russia made Ljoha seem like a much more straightforward person than he is, but the truth is that Ljoha knows that something is missing here; life can’t be just this. Both are looking for that spark of magic that comes when you truly connect with someone. In the end, on that Compartment train, what made these polar opposites attract towards each other is being human.

Grade: B+

Director: Adam McKay

Writers: Screenplay by Adam McKay, Story by Adam McKay and David Sirota

Stars: Leonardo DiCaprio, Jennifer Lawrence, Meryl Streep, Cate Blanchett

Synopsis: Two low-level astronomers must go on a giant media tour to warn mankind of an approaching comet that will destroy the planet Earth.

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While Adam McKay has a very distinct style to the films he creates, unlike some other notable filmmakers such as Quentin Tarintino or Martin Scorsese, McKay’s films have received incredibly mixed reviews. Focusing often on political satire, McKay goes to the extreme to accentuate the problems he chooses to focus on. After his last two films, The Big Short and Vice, focused on previous real events, he changed his approach to fiction for Don’t Look Up. Despite this alteration, it stays true to his satirical nature and especially to his critique on current culture, politics, and society.

Don’t Look Up focuses on Dr. Randall Mindy and Kate Dibiasky (Leonardo DiCaprio and Jennifer Lawrence), two scientists and professionals in their industry, who discover an asteroid headed towards Earth that has the power to destroy all life on the planet. The film follows their struggles, starting with trying to alert the President of the United states, played by Meryl Streep, who only tries to downplay the events fearing that it might interfere with her upcoming election. Despite how desperately Randall and Kate try to point out that an election won’t matter if an asteroid hits the earth and kills everyone, politics and personal power trump the individual lives of billions of people. After failing to convince the President, DiCaprio and Lawrence try to take their news to the media, hoping to alert the public and push for a change. They’re further thwarted when they’re not seen as “media ready” and their story fails to gain traction or headlines. Also working against them is the Mark Zuckerberg/Jeff Bezos/Elon Musk-esque billionaire Jason Isherwell (Mark Rylance) who sees the asteroid as potential to harvest the minerals it’s made out of for monetary gain. With his power and influence, he pushes his narrative as to why the asteroid is good for everyone and uses his political influence to manipulate the American people.

Yes, this is a Covid movie, but unlike other Covid movies we’ve seen within the past year that have often failed, such as Songbird and Locked Down, Don’t Look Up takes a more metaphorical approach. The thematic use of an apocalyptic asteroid easily draws in the audience and the desire to forget about the pandemic is achieved while wrapped up in the chaotic world that McKay creates. At its core, Don’t Look Up is a story about a potential humanity-ending event that media and politicians become divided on despite the distinct proof of its existence. It’s easy to begin to compare to the real world pandemic we’re experiencing, and the critique McKay is trying to make are incredibly poignant.

Among some of McKay’s filmmaking trademarks are his often large ensemble casts along with his frantic and  chaotic editing, both of which are utilized perfectly in Don’t Look Up. The entire cast shines in this film and no one fades into the background. The large names thrown into the cast are all stellar in their respective roles, but Meryl Streep is especially amazing in her Trump-parallel presidential role. The editing can jump around a bit and while it might be too jarring for some, it shows how fast-paced and cut-throat the world we live in is now. At the end of the day, it also does an amazing job at displaying the sheer humanity behind the film, and how interconnected we all are despite our disagreements or differences. If we are unable to come together to stop the end of the world, there truly is nothing that can bring humanity together.

While his filmmaking might be too much to handle for some, McKay’s fictional events in Don’t Look Up are incredibly relevant to what the United States is going through today in the pandemic, and he’s able to exhibit a level of humanity that’s incredibly touching and relatable to audiences. It’s a must see on Netflix for this holiday season that will have you thinking about the social commentary involved, but not too stressed due to the extreme comedy.

Grade: A

Director: Christian Schwochow
Writers: Ben Power
Stars: George MacKay, Jannis Niewöhner, Jeremy Iron

Synopsis: A British diplomat travels to Munich in the run-up to World War II, where a former classmate of his from Oxford is also en route, but is working for the German government.

Not to be confused with the similarly-named Steven Spielberg film Munich, director Christian Schwochow’s historical drama Munich: The Edge of War doesn’t engage itself with doling out punishment for evil behavior in the past, as much as it tells a story of those who try to stop evil before it can even start.

Based on the 2017 historical novel Munich, written by Robert Harris, Munich: The Edge of War introduces us to friends Hugh (George MacKay) and Paul (Jannis Niewöhner) , a British and a German who are graduating from Oxford in 1932, and are enjoying their last days of college together before they go their separate ways out into the world. Six years later, the friends are in very different places and the world is a very different place. Hugh is working as the executive assistant to British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain (Jeremy Irons) and Paul is a diplomat who is in the new German Chancellor Adolf Hitler’s inner circle. Despite being trusted by Hitler, Paul is not as trusting of the new German leader, especially as he senses his larger global aspirations. Meanwhile, Prime Minister Chamberlain is being pressured as to how to handle Hitler’s threats towards Czechoslovakia, whom Hitler feels is a territory that rightfully belongs to Germany. As Chamberlain grows closer and closer to allowing Hitler to take Czechoslovakia if it promises an end to any future war, Paul decides he needs to reach out to Hugh to see if he can convince Chamberlain to see Hitler for what he really is and to not agree to any such arrangement. Can the fate of the world be altered by two idealistic friends who dare to wade into very deep and dangerous waters?

If only the film were that exciting. While screenwriter Ben Power does his best to set the scene for Chamberlain to make his ultimate decision in a dramatic way, the film unfortunately fails to rise to the espionage thriller that it tries to be. The whole conflict, and thereby the tension, rests in the can-they-do-it nature of the plot, but because we know how things play out, we know they fail before they even try. So, to compensate for the lack of any true narrative drama, Power drives hard into the philosophical questions and hesitations, particularly for Chamberlain, a figure that history has ultimately not judged kindly. Irons does well to reflect how Chamberlain’s good intentions are subverted by his naiveté, which allows him to fall prey to Hitler’s bad intentions and inauthentic promises. But it only makes you long for a deeper dive into Chamberlain’s gullibility, making you wish the filmmakers had utilized the actor they had in Irons to really explore and illuminate Chamberlain’s motivations, especially since his actions resulted in such catastrophic consequences for the entire world.

Instead, Munich: The Edge of War chooses to focus the most on Hugh, a typically British stuffed shirt devoid of any true emotion other than general bewilderment. He supposedly engaged in enthusiastic political and philosophical debate with Paul when they were in college, but you wouldn’t know it seeing Hugh behave like a wet noodle both at work and at home, where his wife and child hardly even know him. It’s the most frustrating to see Hugh come to life around Paul but completely apathetic and useless everywhere else. If there’s something about Paul that particularly lights a fire under Hugh, that would have been nice to explore. In fact, that may have made a better film; but instead, Hugh comes across as little more than a plot device.

Power and Schwochow save their best for Paul, who is the far more interesting and charismatic character. While George MacKay may be the more familiar actor, Niewöhner steals the show with his much more compelling performance as Paul, a patriot who is legitimately fearful of what is coming if nobody stops Hitler. While it’s easy to root for the one guy in the movie who sees Hitler for what he is, Niewöhner manages to paint just enough shade in his character to make us question his own motivations—are they personal, or are they political? Does it even matter? Paul’s anguish at his own lack of courage speaks volumes, and serves as a moving stand-in for the world as a whole, who may have known what Hitler was, but was too fearful, hesitant or naïve to take action against him when it mattered most.

There is much to salvage in Munich: The Edge of War, once you get used to its languid pace and dry, philosophical bent. It can even be forgiven for wasting the great August Diehl in yet another stereotypically evil Nazi (is there another kind?) role. But one can’t help but see the film as an opportunity wasted to explore much more deeply a figure and a moment in history that may be largely misunderstood.  Hindsight allows us to easily spot heroes and villains in history, but the much more interesting tales to be told are those that aren’t as clearly defined. Perhaps a tale of those who made wrong decisions for the right reasons and those who hesitated in the face of incalculable consequence. Munich: The Edge of War comes close, but, in the end, leaves too much still to be told.

Grade: B-