Director: Daisuke Miyazaki
Writer: Daisuke Miyazaki
Stars: Sumire Ashina, Takuma Fujie, Kyôko Koizumi

Synopsis: Teenagers Jun and Ibuki set out to find the psychedelic rock band Exne Kedy.

Daisuke Miyazaki’s Plastic (2023) is one in a long line of films that have made valiant attempts to capture the transient existences led by audiophiles; passionate music enthusiasts who are happy to spend their days engaging in debates over all but the most obscure artists. There is, of course, a certain romantic quality that this lifestyle possesses. The idea of critically regarding art, while also affording it tremendous respect, is relatable to any human being who has developed a serious hobby. Music appreciators are somewhat distinct from rugby enthusiasts, however, in that they are able to largely avoid the complications that come with accepting the same degree of financial or professional responsibility that an artist takes on when pursuing their passions. The touch of sentimentality with which the audiophile lifestyle is regarded is inevitably shot through with a hint of bittersweet melancholy, as the audience comes to accept that it’s just not possible to pursue this lifestyle for a lengthy period of time. Life gets in the way and you find yourself drifting away from the interests that captured your attention when you are young and carefree. 

This narrative arc, in which viewers are encouraged to watch on, comes with a touch of fear and anxiety, as someone grows old and loses the carefree spirit that allowed them to accept certain disappointments in life. This micro-genre speaks to the somewhat unique relationship that musicians, specifically, can have with the process of growing older. Plastic places a focus on the rocky relationship between Jun and Ibuki, who fall in love after connecting over their shared fascination with the 1970s glam rock band Exne Kennedy and the Poltergeists. Their passion for music sustains them even while they struggle through young adulthood but they break up after realizing that they have different ambitions in life. It is only the surprise announcement of an unexpected Exne Kennedy and the Poltergeists reunion that brings them back into each other’s orbit. 

It is perhaps significant that the band Exne Kennedy and the Poltergeists does not actually exist. Director Daisuke Miyazaki, himself a fan of Kensuke Ide, drew upon his album Contact From Exne Kennedy and the Poltergeists for inspiration. Ide, a major figure in Japan’s contemporary rock music scene, enjoys playing around with gender boundaries and concepts of Japanese national identity. The freewheeling energy of his music permeates the entire film and Miyazaki creates a blend between 1970s glam rock aesthetics and the youth culture that thrives in Japan today. In discussing his approach to integrating music into the film, Miyazaki notes that music no longer plays a crucial role in shaping Japan’s youth culture. Members of Generation Z have moved on to playing video games and producing avant-garde comedy skits that require their audience to have consumed thousands of hours of internet lore. Music is seen as old hat and representative of a potentially damaging nostalgia for the past, which would prevent new generations from moving forward and developing a culture of their own. 

These developments ensure that Plastic can create a dialogue between the generations and ask questions about whether music is becoming a museum piece of sorts in a world in which audiophiles are becoming more and more scarce. What does it mean to engage with an art-form that is in a constant state of flux? For Jun and Ibuki, the nostalgia is kind of the point. Loving Exne Kennedy and the Poltergeists provides them with a window into a world that no longer exists. There is something romantic about the fact that this cultural milieu can not possibly be resurrected. It is permanently dead and can only be regarded from a comfortable distance. Even the reunion of the band plays as a kind of postmodern pastiche. The members of the band are back together and playing all their old songs but the cultural context around them has changed so much that they can no longer claim to be the same band in any real sense. 

It’s pleasing to discover that there are films out there that are seriously asking these deeply discomfiting questions. In a time when art lovers like myself fear that the things we love are going to be snatched away from us by a society that is changing for the worse every single day, Miyazaki’s film is a breath of fresh air. He acknowledges some of the sadness that we all feel while still avoiding throwing out the cheap platitudes that we often employ when addressing these problems. 

Grade: B+

Directors: R.J. Cutler, David Furnish
Stars: Elton John

Synopsis: It showcases a never-before-seen concert footage of him over the past 50 years, as well as hand-written journals and present-day footage of him and his family..

Elton John is a special artist and performer. He may be one of the best showmen music has ever had. And everything he brought us via his artistry’s presentation will never be replicated. I highly doubt that there will be another like him in the future. His blend of rock, blues, funk, and pop styles charmed the world with his beguiling, dazzling records like ‘Bennie and the Jets,’ ‘I’m Still Standing,’ and (one of my favorites) ‘The Ballad of Danny Bailey.’ Elton John is a chameleon, an artist who is always willing to experiment with his form via his influences–The Beatles, Jerry Lee Lewis, Ray Charles, Fats Domino, etc. A child prodigy on the piano who became one of the most impressive musical acts to cross the earth. 

In my household, a lot of Elton John’s music is heard; the entire family has playlists of his music, and there are even a couple of vinyl records here and there. So, when I heard that a documentary about him was going to be screened at the New York Film Festival (in the Spotlight section), I wanted to take some time off from watching international arthouse films to check out R.J. Cutler and David Furnish’s Elton John: Never Too Late. Unfortunately, the documentary does not add much to the legend’s story or explore the process behind the Rocketman with rose-tinted shades. It leaves the project alongside the many biographical portraits made by big studios. While one might be charmed by it all due to Elton’s persona, the project lacks deeper insight and interest. 

Cutler and Furnish have plenty of material at their disposal from five decades worth of shows, recordings, and behind-the-scenes footage that capture the essence of Elton John. But, without a clear vision for the project based around him, you have a lot for nothing–everything available, yet not knowing what to do with it. Never Too Late is tied together by two performances at Dodger Stadium in different eras: the height of his career in the mid-’70s and the potential end of his live performances in 2022. If you love his music or have seen the film Rocketman, you know about the former. It was a two-night event in 1975 where 110,000 fans got crammed in Dodger Stadium, as Elton wore the baseball team’s uniform with plenty of sparkling lining. The latter was fairly recent, during his Farewell Yellow Brick Road tour–the curtain closer to his legendary career of magnificent showmanship. 

Initially, you have the connective tissue of a man looking back when his career peaked, creatively and commercially, and pondering what comes next when he retires. However, within these two critical moments in his career, the documentary starts developing two new narrative strands that talk about his beginnings as a trained classical music student in England to his grand farewell all over the world–the start and finish of the Rocketman. The start of Elton John has been documented many times. Even Dexter Fletcher planted it in his 2019 biopic starring Taron Edgerton. The aforementioned shows his start through the vivacity of Elton’s records, which contrasts with his repressed childhood, which he had artistically and his time backing bands like The Drifters. 

Meanwhile, in Never Too Late, you never feel vivacity and spirit from the artist’s interviews. His journey is still fascinating; how Elton grows from classical music to a multigenre mash-up composer is very impressive–everyone who aspires to be a musician must read about him to get inspired. Yet, in the vacuous way it is approached here, it does not capture that magnificence. You only sense the grandeur of his musical aura via the performances we see, both old and new. Examples that come to mind are a cover of The Who’s ‘Pinball Wizard ’ and John Lennon’s last performance in America during Elton’s 1974 concert–the ex-Beatle’s ability to move a crowd and Elton passing the spotlight to someone else. As a slight gift and a shift in tone, we see an animated sequence of the two stars partaking in some substances. 

There are some personal scenes in which Elton delves into the abuse, both by drugs and his parents, he faced during his teenage years and the height of his career. People like Winifred Atwell, Bernie Taupin, John Reid, and Roy Williams are mentioned throughout this section of the film–all riddled with painful angst that took their lives into dangerous, isolated territories. These moments in Never Too Late show the true purpose of the documentary and why Cutler and Furnish made it. The title, taken by the track of the live-action Lion King film of the same name, may recall the availability to change, whether it is referring to something you want to fix or make amends to. 

In the documentary, Elton refers to it as a means to reflect on the past and guide his loved ones–his partner and kids–so they can avoid his deeply wounding woes. That’s why he wants to retire. He wants to be in their lives, support their decisions, and care for them, unlike his own parents. Elton glances at the past with new eyes that are clearer about everything that happened. While the majority of the doc does not contain that personal emotional heft, these moments do have Elton showing some vulnerability, just like he does in his best and most memorable records. In the modern era part of the doc, little emotion is felt, and most is hidden. The element of looking back to pave the way for the future is lost amidst very unimportant ramblings. You don’t get anything out of it, even if you are a fan. 

For lack of better words, it feels safe and clean rather than open and sensitive. You would expect more playfulness behind the camera and experimentation with the information provided for a man like him, with a discography filled with glitz and glamor. A film like Moonage Daydream by Brett Morgen comes to mind–a kaleidoscopic roundabout through the different eras of a musical genius. You see what Morgen did with all access to archive footage. And in comparison, Never Too Late reeks of uniformity and flavorlessness. Nothing feels cinematic, and it infuriates me that many documentaries on iconic artists always end up as weak efforts due to the filmmaker’s inability to capture their music’s impact through style and importance rather than a thorough examination. 

When Alex Ross Perry made Pavements (playing at the festival in the same section), he said that he wanted to pave the way for directors to craft more inventive portraits of musical figures with flair and ingenuity–projects rooted in the acclaimed that made the artist(s)’ style and musical posture. And it feels odd that such a film like Never Too Late plays next to Pavements, a project with tons of purpose and dedication that shows the band’s history and acclaim through many cinematic tricks and innovations. They feel like polar opposites of what can be made by visionaries and studio heads. Cutler and Furnish have open doors to access the sparkling world of the Rocketman, yet decide to delve into the old, tired traits of uninspired biographies and portraits made in today’s age

Grade: D

Director: Mati Diop
Writer: Mati Diop

Synopsis: The journey of 26 plundered royal treasures from the Kingdom of Dahomey exhibited in Paris, now being returned to Benin, a French-speaking West African nation.

If a short and imaginative documentary about 26 stolen treasures making their way home after 130 years in captivity isn’t quite what you expected Mati Diop’s next film to be after her 2019 directorial debut, Atlantics, join the club. Yet it should hardly come as a surprise that Dahomey, the name of that very follow-up, is just as transfixing and haunting as her previous film. Both are meditative; both are beautiful, strange, and beautifully-strange; and, in a way, both could be called ghost stories. That distinction certainly applies to Atlantics – its plot hinges on men who were lost at sea coming back to haunt their home island by possessing the bodies of the girlfriends they left behind – but there’s a different sort of spiritual nature to Dahomey. Diop, in just two features, has cemented herself as a remarkably cerebral auteur who sees beyond the outer layers of her subjects; her knack for infusing them with souls, regardless of them being living, breathing objects or not, is wholly singular.

So, too, is the way she goes about doing so: In Dahomey, which gets its name from the kingdom that is now known as Benin, a number of the aforementioned looted artifacts are given voices. The first piece we hear from is known as “26,” the statue of a Dahomey king made up of wood and metal and possessing a deep, distorted, and demonic voice that mimics what I imagine a cave would sound like if it could speak. As “26” and their fellow artifacts share memories of their travels and the tribulations they faced along the way, they describe treatment that can only be described as that of a negative immigrant experience. We hear things like, “Why don’t they call me by my real name? Don’t they know it?” and “Is this the end of the journey? Everything is so strange. Far-removed from the country of my dreams.” The dialogue, co-written by Diop and the Haitian author Makenzy Orcel, and the voices, performed by Lucrece Hougebelo, Parfait Viayinon and Didier Sedoha Nassegande, pair nicely, perfectly embodying the gravely-wisdom that would come with a life that has spanned well over a century.

That’s what makes up the first chunk of the film, the process of retrieving the artifacts, carefully boxing them in wooden crates, and placing them aboard an aircraft carrier that will safely guide them home. At one point, Diop and Dahomey cinematographer Joséphine Drouin-Viallard place a camera inside 26’s container; the screen goes black as the box is nailed shut, and we’re left with the statue’s ruminating thoughts on its past, present, and future. The next thing we see is the unboxing upon arrival in Benin, where Diop and Drouin-Viallard follow archaeologists as they assess each piece’s condition (physical appearance) and description (what it is, and what it means). Many have suffered a fair amount of wear and tear over the course of 100-plus years, especially considering the fact that they were stolen in the first place. The artifacts are then put on display for a group of Beninese dignitaries and their invited guests, and later, for the public to view. Parades break out in the streets. The statues, vases, thrones, and memorials, meanwhile, have traveled from one display case to another; at least in these ones, they are home.

From there, the pace picks up, as the film’s conclusion is almost entirely dedicated to a lively debate between students at the University of Abomey-Calavi, all of whom are remarkably passionate on the subject of the artwork’s return, primarily that only 26 of over 7,000 looted pieces have actually been returned. Issues of colonialism and heritage, among others, are discussed at length. Given how natural this section feels as it unfolds, it was a surprise to learn that Diop engineered the debate herself, casting students at the university like she would a fiction film, and creating their discussion for the purpose of her film. 

After Dahomey’s first screening at the New York Film Festival, Diop noted that she knew she wanted the film to involve both the perspective of the artifacts and students early on in the filmmaking process, and after hearing a radio broadcast from the campus’ own station, orchestrating the event herself seemed to be the best (and most efficient) course of action. That the students’ opinions appear to be entirely their own and not scripted nor influenced by Diop’s direction helps to soften the blow, but that the inception of the debate’s lack of authenticity did set off a few alarm bells for this critic. Diop further mentioned that the debate went on for three hours, and that she even organized a second debate in order to mine more footage, given how profound the first discussion was. With that in mind, it’s hard not to wonder what was left on the cutting room floor. And, is it somewhat ironic that, in a film about a culture being returned what was stolen from it, Diop chose what bites to take from these dialogues depending on what worked best for her project?

Then again, there’s an element of surrealism hanging over the entire picture – what with the talking statues and all – and it doesn’t exist as a dark cloud. It’s much closer to that of a rainbow, with the pot of gold at its end being the objects returning to their rightful birthplace. Indeed, it would be fair to call the journey that these artifacts take back home a “return,” especially considering how Diop views the pieces as cognizant, soul-baring vessels. But there’s something to be said for viewing this voyage as an act of reclamation, that Benin took back what was theirs. Of course, it was President Emmanuel Macron and the French parliament who spearheaded the return of the items to Benin, with Macron noting that “African heritage can’t just be in European private collections and museums” back in 2017, when he told a crowd of students in the African country of Burkina Faso that the return of their nation’s artifacts was a “top priority.” Is it worth noting that he didn’t commit to whether the restitution would be temporary or permanent? Perhaps, but Diop’s film is a resounding enough argument that each piece belongs at home. 26 may not be 7,000, but it’s a step in the right direction. 

Dahomey opens in theaters in New York on October 25th and Los Angeles on November 1, with an expansion to follow.

Grade: B

Director: Miguel Gomes
Writer: Telmo Churro, Maureen Fazendeiro, Miguel Gomes, Mariana Ricardo
Stars: Gonçalo Waddington, Crista Alfaiate, Claudio de la Silva

Synopsis: Edward, civil servant, flees fiancee Molly on their wedding day in Rangoon, 1917. His travels replace panic with melancholy. Molly, set on marriage, amused by his escape, trails him across Asia.

In Chris Marker’s 1983 film, Sans Soleil, an unnamed woman (voiced by French academician and actress Florence Delay) narrates the thoughts, worries, and observations written by a world traveler, his perceptions visualized in words and images from various places like Japan, Iceland, Guinea-Bissou, and San Francisco. It is a travelog with plenty of philosophical reflections from the unknown scriptor of those letters. He speaks about time, memory, life and death, as well as how life on this planet has changed (and vastly increased or decreased in various aspects). Pictures of foreign countries through Marker’s lens turn into depictions of strangers’ daily living. Each frame is played like a memory from not only the photographer but also the one behind the camera–fragmented yet containing a sense of mysticism. 

We travel the world with new eyes as Marker experiments with the form again after his revolutionary La Jetée in 1962. There’s something oddly fascinating about how Marker perceives this world that is entirely alien to him. You are drawn, yet detached; reality and dreams cinematically tether tin between the cultures depicted on-screen by some poignant conceptualizations of the worldwide view of life’s mundanity. Sans Soleil may be a travelog in its first layer. However, as it continues, the experimentalist documentary blossoms into a multilayered piece, with more to find upon each viewing. It seems that Portuguese filmmaker Miguel Gomes has taken inspiration, both directly and indirectly, from Chris Marker’s documentary for his latest work, Grand Tour (playing at the New York Film Festival in the Main Slate), a magical film that sweeps through the many Asian countries where two lovers travel in their cat-and-mouse games towards a reunion of realization.

Both Sans Soleil and Grand Tour are unique forms of travelog, the former relying more on reality and the latter fiction, which breaks the form of the state of filmmaking. While Gomes does not reach Marker’s work’s limitless experimentation, he offers something different to the table, providing a fresh viewing at the festival–whose slate consists of some of the most inventive projects of the year–and in the international cinema circuit. It is kaleidoscopic in its own right, merging the old with the new, monochrome with color, and reality with fiction, employing footage by three different cinematographers (Gui Liang, Sayombhu Mukdeeprom, and Rui Poças) and an overall sense of the esoteric behind the grounded. 

Grand Tour, taking its title from the Asian Grand Tour, where tourists travel to different cities to experience new sights and cultures, is split into two parts, each following one side of the on-the-run lovers. The first half centers on British diplomat Edward Abbot (Gonçalo Waddington), stationed in colonial-era Burma (now Myanmar) in 1918. We meet him as he waits for his fiancée, Molly (Crista Alfaiate). They have been engaged for seven years, and there has not been a glimpse of marriage until now when Molly has decided it is finally time to seal the details–traveling from London to Burma and marrying her one true love. The debonair Edward becomes a coward when he gets cold feet out of the blue. This is why Edward takes the first train to Singapore for an Asian Grand Tour. 

Gomes never states why Edward panics with the first thought of marriage. The Portuguese filmmaker exemplifies his cowardliness in exploring the psyche of a 20th-century romance. Gomes wants to pinpoint early on his uncalled-for action of escaping reality to pave the way for his other themes, like culture, time, and space–all interlaced through the titular roundabout. In a matter of minutes, his world changes and leaves behind reason and indulges in worry. In some aspects, Edward represents the unsettled people who go their separate ways at the moment of significant change because they can’t commit. His journey through Asia takes Edward to Bangkok, Saigon, Japan, and the Philippines. He meets various locals that enrich his cultural and societal scope while concurrently shifting his paradoxical presumptions and contemplations. 

Molly is right on his trail. In the second half of Grand Tour, she follows his steps to marry the love of her life. The tone between the two acts is quite different. Molly’s personality is more vibrant, which adds some comedic elements to the film, while Edward is a brooding character. This combination might seem odd at first, considering Gomes’ experimental approach, yet everything comes together as a fascinating daydream that blends the past with the present and reality with fiction. This tour has the two lovers running away and chasing each other from one country to another–cowardice and stubbornness colliding–with narrations, often heard in different languages, accompanying their travels, asserting the universality of storytelling. 

Perspectives change how stories are told, and Gomes uses this narrative gadget to show how Edward and Molly’s tale is relatable yet isolated depending on the voice speaking on it. You get your first taste of the Marker influences here, as the background of Grand Tour comes within the experimentality of Sans Soleil. Gomes, known for blending narrative and documentary filmmaking in very creative ways, composes some scenes in a manner that Marker’s dreamy vision would. Gomes has said that in his films, “fiction is capable of fictionalizing the images themselves”, and you see how these beautiful monochrome images contain a reverie that puts the viewer in a trance. 

Another element the Portuguese filmmaker uses to match Marker’s work is the addition of present-day footage (mostly shot in color) capturing the people and their respective situations in these countries. The narrations of Edward and Molly’s journeys intersect with fictionalized and documentary footage unrelated to the narrative. It hints at Gomes’s (and his group of screenwriters: Mariana Ricardo, Maureen Fazendeiro, and Telmo Churro) genuine interest and admiration for the film. They all want to meditate on memories and reflect on how our perception of remembrance has changed through the cinema forged by our dreams. It is not just memories about good or bad experiences you had, but history, place, sounds, and everything that traces back to one thing that traces back to another–creating a web of interlaced recollections held sacred by their owners to be shared with the world. 

While Marker immortalized his footage of a moment that once was, preserving it via the power of celluloid and cinema, Gomes looks back at it with a new adventurous lens, crafting places and locations of the past with well-made sets–interspersed with modern-day footage–to reconfigure them into something new, stories with a new meaning and definition. By doing that, he is developing memories not only for himself and everyone involved in Grand Tour but also for us–the viewers who will look back on these piercing images and capture true, unique definitions of them. Of course, this applies to a great variety of films with potent images that are dreamy and grounded simultaneously. Yet, due to the magical nature of the direction in Grand Tour, it harnesses more power and inspires the mind. 

I felt this same feeling in Alice Rohrwacher’s incredible La Chimera, where the beauty and imagination of cinema enchanted everything. Both stimulate your senses with their imagery; Gomes and Rorhrwacher share the brilliance of being such expressive artists in their own right, where every frame acts like a shot in the heart. Grand Tour and La Chimera–the two using memories as a gateway for realization and emotional healing–live in your mind, body, and soul as long as these frames and words continue to have meaning. (I still think about the “You are not meant for human eyes” line.) They are immortalized in your spirit like an irremovable tattoo, and if you seem to forget, these films are at arms’ length for you to revisit their enchanting power.

Grade: A-

Directors: Scott McGehee, David Siegel
Writer: Scott McGehee, David Siegel, Sigrid Nunez
Stars: Naomi Watts, Bill Murray, Constance Wu

Synopsis: Follows a story of love, friendship, grief and healing, about a writer who adopts a Great Dane that belonged to a late friend and mentor.

A film set in New York City during the holiday season. All the typical iconography is there: Jane’s Carousel in Dumbo to the beautiful block of brownstones opposite Washington Square Park. Iris (Naomi Watts) is a writer living in one of said apartments. What’s crucial about this apartment is that it’s rent-controlled. With such a slice of heaven in the West Village, any New Yorker knows that under these circumstances, you’ll want to be buried in that apartment. There’s no leaving such a gift! But in comes Apollo (Bing), the mountainous Great Dane that acts as the primary supporting character of the film. In classic comedy fashion, Iris finds herself taking care of this beast of a dog. His previous owner was Walter (Bill Murray), Iris’ writing mentor, best friend, and much more, who suddenly and unexpectedly took his own life. Anybody can attest that dealing with grief is a massive burden in and of itself. It obviously takes a toll mentally, physically, and emotionally. Rest assured, this film isn’t as dour as the inciting incident might have you believe. As much of a drama as this film is, it relies heavily on its comedic spin. Because as Iris deals with her grief, she must also learn the common struggles of owning a dog in the city. For a place known for its lack of space, a 145-pound Great Dane certainly presents more than its fair share of challenges. If you’re wondering, this isn’t the basic set-up of something you’d see when flipping through channels and settling onto the Hallmark channel. Directed by Scott McGehee and David Siegel, this is The Friend, playing in the Spotlight section of the 62nd New York Film Festival. It’s a film we’ve seen before in countless iterations. Despite that, its ability to often charm and occasionally surprise sustains itself through its runtime.

There’s much apprehension on Iris’ part when taking in Apollo. She has plenty of reasons to back this up as well. For one thing, she’s not much of a dog person in the first place. Secondly, her apartment building doesn’t allow pets. It’s a common trait for a New York apartment and while many tenants simply do it anyways, this is a rent-controlled West Village apartment. Is it worth the risk? In the end, she does it for a simple reason: it keeps her close to the memory of Walter. It’s also the product of a guilt-trip by Barbara (Noma Dumezweni), Walter’s current wife. She is one of three of his official spouses in the film. That should give off some sort of idea as to what type of character Murray plays. He’s not in it much, but his presence is constantly felt throughout the film. His life and past actions serve as both a boon and a curse on the people who surrounded him. It’s the first of many ideas and character traits present in The Friend that separate this from its Hallmark counterparts. Whereas films like those are much more glossy and smooth, The Friend is unafraid to delve into murkier waters. Some of these explorations may not always turn up treasure. But it’s the riskier venture that makes this film far more interesting than one which merely plays it safe for 90 minutes. Time and time again, The Friend pulls quite the trick on its viewer. Just when the audience thinks they have it all figured out, McGehee and Siegel throw a curveball that’s enough to hold your interest a bit longer.

When Barbara is trying to offload Apollo onto Iris, she brings up a question which feels like the most fascinating element present in this film. The Friend basically structures itself around two central ideas. The first is fairly obvious: grief. When discussing how Apollo has been noticeably depressed at the absence of his beloved Walter, Barbara poses the question: “How do you explain death to a dog?” And it’s in this simple notion to ease the pain of an emotionally hurt animal that the complexity of The Friend reveals itself. If anything is made apparent by the endearing, sad, and wildly impressive performance Bing turns in as Apollo, it’s that we don’t need to explain death to a dog. Animals are far smarter than humans like to give them credit. It would appear that Apollo has an innate understanding of what’s happening, yet, like many humans, simply cannot cope with processing it. The real question should instead be, “How can death be explained to humans?” We understand the literal process of death. But in the steps of processing loss and grieving those who have passed away, it’s a process that is fundamentally intangible. There’s no guidebook that can be followed to a tee. Grief takes on a multitude of forms. In The Friend, Apollo could even be seen as a physical manifestation of grief. 

A common metaphor used for grief is likening it to a mountain. If Apollo’s presence could be described as anything in this tiny apartment, mountainous feels apt. He takes over Iris’ bed, forcing her to sleep on the floor. He tears her files and personal belongings apart. He refuses to eat or drink water. All Apollo can do for extended periods of time in the beginning of the film is lay with one of Walter’s old shirts. Grief can be all-consuming. It might feel like it’s hovering over our shoulder on a day-to-day basis. It’s something we sleep with. Throughout The Friend, where the emotional depths of its characters may sometimes fall a bit flat, its introspective nature about coping propels it into each new act. Coupled with the comedy and charm of Apollo’s antics, The Friend works when it injects its own observations and emotional stakes onto the tropes audiences are already familiar with. Yes, it’s a film we’ve seen countless times before. But what it aims to achieve in spite of that knowledge is where it’s most interesting. After all, this is very much a film about regular people going through very common occurrences. It’s a notion that Iris actually addresses outright at one point. And it’s the second idea around which McGehee and Siegel structure their film.

When she’s not writing, Iris is the professor of a writing class. The group of students are often seen conducting exercises amongst one another. The most common? Peer criticism. A student who primarily deals in fantasy writing (Owen Teague) criticizes a fellow student for writing about the ordinary. He questions the point of “writing about somebody regular.” In other words, isn’t life boring enough as it is? But these stories matter! And The Friend is very much an example of that type of story. Through films like The Friend, which don’t rely on a high-concept, audiences are reminded of the often simple nature of life. We go through experiences that may make us feel isolated. But here is a simple reminder that things like this happen all the time, to people all over the world. There’s a version of The Friend that is incredibly boring and borders on trite. And while the cathartic climax of this film may fall a bit flat, McGehee and Siegel carry The Friend in subversive, interesting ways right up until the credits roll. It’s the type of charming film that can be recommended to virtually anybody, and that’s always a beautiful discovery in the ever-expanding world of cinema.

The Friend played in the Spotlight section of the 62nd New York Film Festival.

Grade: C

Director: Pedro Almodóvar
Writer: Pedro Almodóvar, Sigrid Nunez
Stars: Julianne Moore, Tilda Swinton, John Turturro

Synopsis: Ingrid and Martha were close friends in their youth, when they worked together at the same magazine. After years of being out of touch, they meet again in an extreme but strangely sweet situation.

Every lover of cinema has encountered Pedro Almodóvar’s work. The Spaniard is one of the most recognized international voices; his stories of desire, identity, and passion have connected with thousands of cinephiles. While his voice and vision have remained the same, Almodóvar’s style has evolved throughout the decades–from a slight provocateur to a melodrama filmmaker to one with a more mature tone. Almodóvar began his career with striking features in the 1980s, which, by that time, were considered very provocative. The golden shower in Pepi, Luci Bom. The outrageous crew of Madridian mischief-makers in Labyrinth of Desire. Nacho Martinez self-pleasuring to clips of Mario Bava’s most violent scenes in Matador. These are just a few examples of the type of prodding and rousing that Almodóvar used to do back then. 

Within that provocation, his ideas and themes’ crux were intact. Today’s audience would consider some scenes problematic, though he still found many ways to explore how his characters’ identities changed and their desires met. And that, in my books, helped him converge onto his next stage, the Douglas Sirk-inspired melodramas of the 2000s and forward. His story designs felt different, even if his characters were always complex and broken, but ultimately intriguing. You sensed the essence of Pedro Almodóvar’s oeuvre through these new narrative contraptions that blend the throwback 40s style with his colorful portraits. Many directors have tried to inhabit a Sirk-like world in their stories. However, none have contained it like the Spaniard. 

Lately, Almodóvar has reached a new stage in his career, one that is more fully-fledged. This began with Pain and Glory, a film in which he explored his past through a reflection of his desires and art (and how, through art, he expresses his most secret desires). It was followed by Parallel Mothers, in which he takes a more political angle to critique and observe an untalked-about happening in Spain’s history. That is not the only way he is reinventing himself during this latter stage of his career. He is now dabbling in English, doing projects not in his native tongue for the first time. Almodóvar started with two shorts, The Human Voice and Strange Way of Life–a segway into this new strand of pictures and the latter one that recalls his past. 

Now, Almodóvar is doing his English-language feature with The Room Next Door (La habitación de al lado, the Centerpiece of this year’s New York Film Festival), an adaptation of Sigrid Nunez’s 2020 novel, ‘What Are You Going Through’. While he isn’t in top form or contain the melodramatic power of his previous two feature-length projects, Almodóvar gets the best out of his actresses, Tilda Swinton and Julianne Moore, both of which fit perfectly with his style, and depends on them to uplift the frail screenplay on which the film stands. 

The Room Next Door centers around a pair of longtime friends who have reunited after many years due to an illness one of them has. After a lengthy separation, these two souls, hindered in different ways, come together and put aside their severance upon the matter. However, it still lingers upon their many conversations; distance causes bonds to break slowly, yet these two still have a fire to it that curates a shared empathy and love for their memories together. First, we meet Ingrid (Julianne Moore), the novel’s previously unnamed narrator, at a New York book signing for the release of her new book, ‘On Sudden Deaths’. The novel seems to connect with plenty of people, particularly young women, one of whom asks Ingrid to sign it as an apology gift for her girlfriend. 

“It won’t happen again”, Ingrid inscribed to the young fan. However, these words also reflect Ingrid’s past and the experiences that will come further in the film. Some things won’t happen again, whether because of a mistake or because she won’t have the chance to do so on other occasions, whatever it may be. In this case, it is Martha’s (Tilda Swinton) diagnosis of stage three cervical cancer. The two have shared many moments throughout the years, including secrets, writings, and even a lover, later revealed to be played by John Turturro, who does not acclimate to Almodóvar’s way of storytelling. Ingrid and Martha fell apart when the latter went overseas as a war correspondent. But their works always seemed to tie them one way or another. 

The only thing is that through writing, you can feel the psychological state one is in, yet not one’s physical condition, which is why Ingrid feels guilty about not knowing about her condition and immediately reaches out to her. As a form of apology, she vows to visit her more in the hospital. The phrase “It won’t happen again”, a minute detail that can escape many viewers’ minds, makes its way into the narrative again. Memories begin to play on-screen of a time past when the two didn’t think it would run out. Looking at the scenes now, I feel like they are a dream, very distant yet palpable due to the actresses’ work. Catch-up conversations and shared experiences pile into scenes filled with character-defining and compulsory exposition. 

Of course, you know that the “filling in the gaps” of their relationship would be placed in the film one way or another. You see one of the main problems with The Room Next Door from these early conversations. In the past, Almodóvar’s pictures were coveted in emotion because of the dependence on the actor’s expressions–their mannerisms, facials, and eyes told the story hidden from us watching rather than using words to dictate this psychological pandering. You remember the scene in the coffee shop with Manuela and Lola in All About My Mother or the phone call between Salvador and Federico–another conversation between two people, like Ingrid and Martha, who have spent years distant after being connected deeply in the past–in Pain and Glory. 

These are just two examples of how the actors’ performances and pauses do more work than the screenplay on many occasions. It is full of fervor. The incandescent feeling they bring translates to the vibrant atmosphere of Almodóvar’s world, accompanied by a colorful set filled with blood-red walls, shining green seats, and sky-blue carpets. However, even though the actresses work well within Pedro’s scope in The Room Next Door, the reading is more loquacious than expressionistic. The Spaniard is in a verbose state in his first script in the English language, which has one thinking about what could have happened during its translation. 

The spiritedness of his work, which separates his oeuvre from that of other Spanish filmmakers, was also the reason for transcribing the screenplay to another language. Their stories are interesting, yet occasionally, a specific dialogue feels off-place. The spirited sensation building through the melancholy gets lost amidst the prating screenplay. During the hospital sessions, you see this the most; the most expository moments are hindered because Almodóvar reveals too much instead of slowly uncovering everything via his tender magic. The story regains power when the film switches from the busy streets to the lakeside. 

Martha’s treatments are not working anymore; the pain she feels is excruciating. Martha plans to euthanize herself with a pill she bought on the black market. The problem isn’t her indecisiveness of not wanting to go through with the act but doing it alone. She does not want to do this by herself. Martha asks Ingrid to accompany her on a quick retreat to a lavish lakeside housing to cement the deed. The film takes its title from the room in which Martha will take the pill as Ingrid awaits her final breath. Deeper secrets are revealed about their lives, whether their marital status or estranged daughters; the latter comes up as a ridiculous late third-act reveal that does not work. 

The interesting factor from these broader conversations is how Almodóvar explores death and creativity–and how they intertwine. It is fascinating that death seems like the pet topic of many films screened at this year’s New York Film Festival. There are many films about our fear of death and worries about what happens after, all of which are seen differently. Almodóvar has covered the topic before, although none explicitly discussed existential angst. More so, the topic is felt in the background of his works rather than the central theme. Ingrid is a character who is very much afraid of dying. It is one of the reasons why she attaches herself even more to Martha and her decision to die by assisted suicide. 

Her frustrations and dread-induced panic immediately come into play upon seeing her dear friend in that state. Internally, Ingrid questions the reasonings of Martha’s use of the pill. By talking with one another, listening, and recording memories and experiences in her mind, Ingrid understands her decision. Ingrid believes that she is too afraid to do such an act but realizes that people must be given a choice to end their own lives if the pain, in this case from stage three cervical cancer, is too unbearable to endure and the procedures don’t have any more effect. Martha and Ingrid are writers in different branches of that world, one scribing about war and the other more novelistic pieces. However, the two equally feel that their lives in that profession made them see everything differently. 

Ingrid listens to Martha’s stories about her experiences in various fields, including falling in love with one of them. As Swinton delivers her monologues, Moore is put to the sideline in an understated role. But she captures that appreciation and carries out the memories with a pretty subtle whisper to her breath. You see how Ingrid understands that she must cherish this little time together they have left together. It grows a tad repetitive. There is an echoing of these scenarios throughout the film, which makes it less cinematic or without that splendor one is accustomed to seeing from Almodóvar. Regardless, the director’s purpose and crux are clear. 

As he stated moments after he won the Venice Film Festival’s top prize, the Golden Lion, The Room Next Door is a criticism of the countries that have euthanasia as an illegal act. Like his previous feature, Parallel Mothers, Almodóvar speaks about political and societal topics through the melodrama he is known for, which covers the film with a second layer to the narrative and the characters’ interactions. It is more evident here than in his aforementioned 2021 movie. However, the effectiveness of this commentary is still rising. For that, I applaud him, although I wish he had added his usual subversiveness when speaking about the topic and death in general. 

One of the things I have been finding quite fascinating is the recent rise of filmmakers, most of whom have been in the industry for decades, speaking about mortality through the self-analysis of their grieving processes. The most recent examples are Paul Schrader with Oh, Canada and David Cronenberg with The Shrouds, both coincidentally playing at the festival’s Main Slate alongside Almodóvar’s film. The former adapted the book of one of his closest friends to honor him and reflect on his past, riddled with secrets, his present affected by illness, and what the next couple of years will look like. It is very personal, more so than one would expect. Through the story of a fictionalized character, Schrader taps into his own travels, successes, and sorrows in a beautiful and tangible piece that is unlike anything he has done before. 

The latter has Cronenberg trying to pour his heart out in cinematic form after the passing of his wife, creating a unique concept about seeing your loved ones decompose and interlacing it with a conspiracy theory. This theory is not meant to be looked at at face value; it is more so the reflection of one questioning existence, life, and death–the various stages of grief, mourning, and broken hearts. These are two of the most recent unique portrayals of acclaimed veteran directors tackling death in a visionary and personal manner. Then there’s The Room Next Door, which does have Almodóvar’s stylistic panache that covers all of his sets in such beautiful colors that reflect the vivacity of the characters while creating a parallel to the downheartedness they are currently facing. 

Regarding looks, Almodóvar knows how to make his works pop. But this latest one does not add that personal layer about his thoughts and insecurities about mortality and loss. You get a minor taste of it, albeit punctured in a weak screenplay that fails to handle one character’s acceptance of death and the other’s rejection. The aforementioned films had an intense personal attachment in each moment. The Room Next Door does not contain such outside of the melancholy that rises through the melodrama mold. Considering how poignant and emotionally commanding his two previous feature-length projects were in spades, it is a shame this is the case. This film got lost in translation.

Grade: C

Director: Mike Leigh
Writer: Mike Leigh
Stars: Marianne Jean-Baptiste, Bryony Miller, Sophia Brown

Synopsis: Ongoing exploration of the contemporary world with a tragicomic study of human strengths and weaknesses.

While watching Mike Leigh’s latest film, social media came to mind. A common trend often seen nowadays among viral videos is recording strangers causing a scene in public. It’s nearly the same format every single time. There’s a crowded setting where the recording starts a few seconds into the outburst. The location is interchangeable: a restaurant, a department store, a public gathering. And often, the reaction of the viewer or those around the person causing a scene is identical. Those in the video and those watching cast judgment on a complete stranger. We wonder who raised them to behave in such a way. We speculate as to the circumstances that caused the outburst in the first place. It’s shared amongst our circle or our social media feed, and on goes the day. Now, I am not saying shouting at employees or strangers is remotely justifiable. Actions can be reprehensible whether we intend to let our emotions get the better of us or not. But Hard Truths, which is celebrating its U.S. Premiere as part of the Main Slate of the 62nd New York Film Festival, sets out to examine the type of person who may behave in such a way. And of course, it’s not as cut-and-dry as an out-of-context video on social media would like us to believe.

Once again, it feels important to reiterate that under no circumstances should anybody ever feel justified in verbally accosting a stranger because of being unable to keep their emotions in check. It’s unfair and downright cruel. We all have bad days, and it’s up to the individual to manage those emotions in healthy ways that don’t negatively affect the people around them. In writing that understanding, there are legitimate reasons for some mental and emotional breakdowns. Just because lashing out at somebody is not justified doesn’t mean they can’t be understandable. Hard Truths takes this challenging push-and-pull of the truth about reality, and forms an entire character piece around it. Leigh, in all his curiosity and empathy for the human experience, challenges his audience through Pansy (a fantastic Marianne Jean-Baptiste). Her on-screen introduction is the cinematic equivalent of a tornado. Think the sheer energy of Twisters, but balled up into a human who is completely pent-up with stress, panic, anger, and hypochondria. She’s taking an afternoon nap as serene as can be, before practically rocketing out of bed and racing to the window with fright at the sound of… pigeons. Instantly, Leigh’s quaint imagery of a neighborhood street during the opening crawl of the film is jolted away. All we’re left with is Pansy. And Jean-Baptiste delivers a powerhouse performance designed to intentionally alienate audiences from the outset.

The challenge any filmmaker faces is getting audiences on the side of their protagonist over the course of a runtime. In Hard Truths, Leigh seems as if he’s crafted himself quite the challenge. For the entire first half of the film, Jean-Baptiste practically bowls through anybody and everybody in her path. Barely letting anybody else get a word in, it’s a statement-making performance full of brash venom being tossed at whoever is in her vicinity. Nobody is safe, from dentists and nurses to grocery store clerks, neighbors, and strangers in parking lots. Pansy’s husband and son seem to have learned better after years of this behavior. At the dinner table where not a moment of peace can be found, their eyes appear to have glazed over as Pansy rattles off all her rage-fueled observations made during the day. With each passing scene, Leigh makes it abundantly clear that her behavior and actions are becoming more frustrating and despicable by the day. The audience must trust that the legendary filmmaker knows what he’s doing, because just as we’re made to feel like we can’t possibly handle such outbursts any more, Leigh pulls out the rug from under us. But prior to this shift, there are countless moments littered throughout Hard Truths that reveal its hidden hand.

As Pansy goes through her daily errands, Leigh will occasionally cut away to the rest of the small cast. Pansy’s sister, Chantelle (Michele Austin), is a hair-dresser raising her two daughters alone. Leigh will transport us to either her salon or home, and the stark difference in tone and look alone should scream where Leigh is hoping to lead his viewer. Gone is the fear-fueled hush and stark, monochromatic look of Pansy’s home. Whenever Chantelle is present among her daughters or customers, there is such colorful joy bursting off the screen. It’s a clear boon to the energy Pansy brings to the table. Whenever Leigh cuts back to Pansy anywhere, the audience. with bated breath, fears her next outburst. It’s not until a certain encounter that Leigh finally breaks open his lead character, and the film as a whole, to reveal his thesis. This extends beyond a person merely lashing out at the world around them. Hard Truths is all about how people come to terms with the circumstances that end up coming to define their life and relationships.

Leigh morphs a humorous film about the sheer lack of interest in social niceties into something devastating and relatable. Hard Truths becomes a study in human empathy. Riddled with emotional pain and frustrations, Pansy goes from being seen as the human embodiment of a hurricane to a woman frightened by her loss of liveliness. She is haunted by the moments that seem to have broken her ability to enjoy the life she has found herself in. To be human is to come to terms with the notion that there are hard truths about life. Things happen, and they can sometimes irrevocably alter us as people. The simple truth Leigh is setting out to make clear is that life is hard. There are moments where we all walk on eggshells as we do it best to navigate our emotions. It’s important to accept that there will be times where we fail. Despite that, we have to do our best. If we push past the pain and raw emotions coursing through our minds, there are wonders throughout the world just waiting for us. One of the final moments of the film involves Pansy’s quiet son, Moses (Tuwaine Barrett). It’s such a tender moment in a film. where he’s intentionally resigned for essentially the entire runtime. As noted at the top of this piece, Pansy is rarely ever justified in her actions. But it’s easy to forget just how quickly we can all reach a breaking point when refusing to engage with the moments in our lives that have devastated us. Importantly, Leigh reminds us with Hard Truths that it’s never too late to take a deep breath, look at all the potential love we still have left to both give and receive in the world, and go forward into a new day and a new era.

Hard Truths celebrated its U.S. Premiere as part of the Main Slate of the 62nd New York Film Festival.

Grade: B+