Director: Michael Angarano
Writers: Michael Angarano, Christopher Nicholas Smith
Stars: Kristen Stewart, Rosalind Chao, Michael Angarano

Synopsis: Rickey, an energetic and free-spirited young man who convinces Glenn, his long-time friend who’s settled into domestic life, to go on an impromptu road trip from Los Angeles to Sacramento.

Whenever I think of my small group of close-knit friends, I can’t help but feel lucky. I look back to a time when I considered my friend group to be massive. Growing up, I was a loud mouth who always wanted to crack jokes. But at the end of the day, I had very few people who I could actually consider a friend. We did everything together, but now, almost two decades later, we chat maybe once a year, and it’s the social pleasantries of saying happy birthday or something similar. As I said, to have the friends I have now makes me feel very lucky. A few of them I’ve known for half of my life at this point. But whenever I think back on those past friendships, I can’t help but feel a sense of yearning. Your first friends in life. They’ll mean something to you forever. But of course, as we grow up, we become different people in a way. And do those new sets of people still have what held the friendship together in the first place? With his latest directorial effort, Sacramento, the multi-hyphenate Michael Angarano makes the attempt.

I use that phrase because, more often than not, a lot of relationships are maintained through making an attempt. The effort of reaching out goes a long way. For a society that has now found itself structured around these instant communicators in our pocket, why do we sometimes find it so hard to reach out? It has never been easier in the history of human existence. But even still, we often don’t send that text or make that call. And I can write that not only from personal experience, but can confidently say that many of us have shared a similar sentiment. There may be a reason for not reaching out. But it could also just be the simple passage of time. That’s the case for Glenn (Michael Cera) and Rickey (Angarano), two lifelong friends who have grown apart in recent years. This may seem like a shock to Rickey, but Glenn tells Rosie (Kristen Stewart), his wife, the reason behind his choices. Beyond time merely pulling them apart, Glenn and Rosie are expecting a baby. And Glenn merely feels that Rickey has not made it to that stage of his life yet. Angarano plays the role of an immature free spirit. It’s not difficult to imagine he’s never really held a steady job or a long-term relationship. Part of it certainly stems from personal choice and feeling like he’d rather enjoy what life has to offer. And while we can still do that at any point in our lives, there does come a time when we need to accept the new responsibilities that come with time. From how we meet Rickey, it’s clear that he’s not ready for that commitment to maturity.

We first see him, alone in the woods, sitting naked on a chair. He hears somebody shout to him about his exposed genitalia with jest in her voice. They are separated by a lake, and decide to meet in the middle. Rickey jumps in without a second thought, only for Tallie (Angarano’s real-life wife, Maya Erskine) to change her mind. This is the story of how Rickey meets Tallie. We cut to hours later, and the two are sharing casual banter while quickly realizing they have nothing in common. But that doesn’t matter, because it’s apparent this is a whirlwind meeting of two people who have undeniable chemistry. We jump in time a year, and while Tallie is nowhere to be seen, this idea of a whirlwind relationship is again seen between Rickey and Glenn. The former shows up, unannounced, and asks Glenn to lunch. Glenn, a clear bundle of nerves and panic-related anger issues, is flabbergasted. This is added to when he sees that Rickey is driving the car they seemingly grew up driving together. It’s been all fixed up at a cost greater than the initial purchase price. It’s here we begin to feel sad for Rickey. Glenn merely wants to get the lunch over with, but Angarano plays the character in such a way that you can’t help but empathize with. He’s forcefully holding onto whatever friendships he can in whatever ways he can manage. One gets the sense that Glenn is the only person left in his life. And while Glenn and Rosie are expecting a child, it seems as if Glenn isn’t much different than Rickey. Rosie repeatedly says as much throughout the film, voicing her frustrations with Glenn’s inability to care for himself, or his lack of releases in the form of other relationships.

While this does feel like a film solely interested in the dynamics of adult male friendships, the ways in which Erskine and Stewart are relegated to the outskirts is a bit upsetting. They’re obviously both very talented and have great screen presence whenever in the film. But one can’t help but feel their characters are underserved. Stewart for example, is in maybe 5-7 minutes of the film, mostly to poke fun at Cera’s character. But in this comedy lies the opportunity for poignant observations from partners about immature men who feign having it all together. It just feels as if their lack of screen time undercuts the overall drama of the script at large. To flesh out both Rosie and Tallie a bit more would likely go a long way in making the entire cast of characters feel more three-dimensional. But even with such flaws, Sacramento is constantly charming, and consistently funny. 

Angarano and Cera play well off one another, and the film sticks with them for a large swath of its short runtime. It also plays up the pains that come with aging, even if we still may be considered young. I personally felt seen when Cera, fighting a hangover, details how he’s “only a man” when relaying the three beers and two shots he had. Sacramento examines this idea of aging affecting us all in different ways in ways that are often interesting, but always comical. Time may pull us apart, and aging certainly takes its toll on us all. But it’s with the company we keep, and the memories we have made over a lifetime thus far that will help us weather the storm in the end. Maybe we can revisit those connections we once held but let fall to the wayside. Maybe those once-a-year dinners or quarterly texts could grow into something beautiful again.

Sacramento celebrated its world premiere at the Tribeca Film Festival in the U.S. Narrative Competition section. More information on the film can be found right here.

Grade: C

The so-called “Midnights” section at any given film festival offers audiences a slate of films that aim to “shake things up”, or to stray from mainstream programming. Something like Celine Song’s Past Lives doesn’t quite strike that chord, but movies like Jane Schoenbrun’s I Saw the TV Glow and Chris Nash’s In a Violent Nature most certainly fit the bill. At the Tribeca Festival, the films and the names involved in their making are on the smaller side, but the program is nonetheless stacked; frankly, its Midnight entrants are all the more intriguing for the festival’s overall makeup.

Take Mars, for example, the latest raunchfest from the comedy troupe, “The Whitest Kids U’ Know”. The animated comedy follows a ragtag group of civilians that has been randomly selected by a billionaire named Elron Branson to take a trip to the red planet for shits and giggles. The film’s main character, Kyle, is something of a stick-in-the-mud dentist who is bored with his life, wishes to be rid of his maniacal fiancé, and needs an easy way out. This fantastical sweepstakes couldn’t have come at a better time, and his selection to join the crew sets off a slew of inane and insane gags that essentially turn a lesser Adult Swim skit into an 80-minute feature. 

Originally conceived as a live-action film by the group’s co-founders Zach Cregger (the writer-director of 2022’s Barbarian), Sam Brown, and the late Trevor Moore, Mars is silly, stupid, and wholly inappropriate. In other words, it’s quite literally what any Midnights section inclusion should set out to be. Elron Branson, the aforementioned billionaire behind this galactic extravaganza, has an obvious inspiration (or two) for his name, and is eager to tell anyone and everyone about how important it is that space travel has now been privatized in a manner that makes it out to be like a resort vacation. He gives every invention of his an acronymic name, including T.W.G.P.O.B.S.O.T.C.F, which somehow translates to “shower”, but actually stands for “There were good people on both sides of the Charlottesville fiasco.”

Evidently, Mars grows tired after a while. The “Family Guy”-style comedy and animation, the latter of which coming courtesy of the film’s director, Sevan Najarian, is far more fitting for a movie of this nature than whatever live-action plans the Whitest Kids had in mind, but its comedy is an exhausting blend of vulgarity and pop culture references that expired months ago, long before the spaceship’s 3-D food printer – known affectionately as the “Murdered Midwestern Homosexual Teenager” – could generate it for consumption. My audience was entertained for a time, but plenty of viewers beelined for the exits before the credits rolled. Such is life at a festival premiere.

A similar fate awaited Daniel Oriahi’s debut feature, The Weekend, a thriller about in-laws. (“My kind of movie!”, said no one ever.) This Get Out-inspired drama chronicles a tense, discomfiting journey of a young Nigerian couple back to the male’s home village where the family he chooses not to associate with – for reasons unknown – still resides. Luke (Bucci Franklin) is engaged to Nikya (Uzoamaka Aniunoh), a beautiful woman who, having been orphaned when she was a child,  is desperate for a familial connection. Nikya thus urges Luke to reconcile with his parents and sister, and they return to his childhood home to discover that his family is upholding a facade to mask the darkness at its core.

If you’re imagining Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner by way of… well, any example would give The Weekend’s central-if-obvious twist away. (But let’s just assume that you’re on the right track.) It’s a debut that Oriahi proudly calls “completely, 100-percent Nigerian,” a fair statement about a film that, for all the posturing one of its characters does about being “a man of substance” over the course of its bloated, 117-minute run time, lacks meat despite all the bones it discards in its unfolding wake. Its primary conceit is telegraphed within an inch of its life, to the point where audiences might feel foolish for having believed it was too easy for the film to fall back on. Guess again; The Weekend’s intentions were painstakingly clear from the very beginning. Stylistically, it’s an achievement that shows promise for its filmmaker. Narratively, it’s as weak a film as I’ve seen at a festival in recent memory.

Better than both films combined yet somewhere adrift in a tonal space is The Shallow Tale of a Writer Who Decided to Write About a Serial Killer, a title so tailor-made for a Midnights’ premiere that the only reasonable explanation for its placement under the Spotlight Narrative umbrella is the fact that it stars Steve Buscemi, John Magaro, and Britt Lower. Writer-director Tolga Karacelik’s third feature is the shallow tale – yup – of a struggling writer named Keane (Magaro), whose marriage to Suzie (an acidic Lower) is in complete shambles when he encounters Kollmick (Buscemi), a man claiming to be both Keane’s biggest fan and a retired serial killer. In a drunken act of desperation, not to mention that Kollmick’s presence in their home unsettles Suzie’s sleep, Keane decides not only to write about this serial killer for his next book as opposed to the love story circa 40,000 B.C. he’d previously been toying with, but he convinces Suzie that Kollmick is a marriage counselor there to help them sort through their problems.

Not only are Keane and Kollmick the very real names of two very real characters in a movie, but Magaro and Buscemi turn this absurdist two-hander into an off-the-rails dark comedy that seems predestined to find its cult audience in due time. Buscemi turns in a wickedly curious performance as a man I can genuinely believe once killed for pleasure and now finds himself just itching to plop into his worn-out recliner to watch the Mets, while Magaro flexes his leading man muscles so vigorously that I can almost see them bursting through his knit cardigan. And yet it’s Lower who steals the show, remaining icy and suspicious in equal measure as Keane’s actions deserve more suspicion and more frigidity in response. It’s as if Lower’s innie, to reference her character on Severance’s nightmarish fate, found herself in a loveless marriage with a pompous, flailing intellectual. Brava, I say.

The Shallow Tale’s “sinister” elements – you know, those involving a retired serial killer – never land without a laugh lingering around the corner. A batshit sequence involving a man screaming at a llama about potatoes somehow doesn’t feel out of place; a taxidermied feline friend called Ada attends Keane and Suzie’s therapy sessions, and they’re meant to talk to her. Somehow, Karacelik’s feature ends up playing out like Zachary Wigon’s Sanctuary on ketamine. All the more shocking: Somehow, it works.

You won’t find three films that are more “different” with a capital “odd” at Tribeca this year, but isn’t that kind of the point? Festival programs are meant to subvert and challenge our expectations, if not to render them moot altogether. That this round of Midnight selects – along with The Shallow Tale, too fun to be left out – succeeds in doing so even without the films themselves achieving success is a testament to the section’s nature. Its films are odd, meant to be watched in the dark, and meant to make your jaw drop. Who cares if they actually screen at 9 p.m.? It’s the thought that counts.

Director: Nnamdi Asomugha
Writers: Nnamdi Asomugha, Mark Duplass
Stars: Nnamdi Asomugha, Aja Naomi King, Melissa Leo

Synopsis: The story of an event that disrupts a family dynamic and begins to dismantle the illusions of their lives.

When watching Nnamdi Asomugha’s debut film The Knife, I couldn’t help but think of the line of logic Alfred Hitchcock often discussed. The king of suspense for a reason, he was of the belief that if the audience knows the truth within any given scene, it would create far more tension. Surprises that come out of nowhere to blindside you are obviously exciting. But with a film like this, so packed with tension and suspense, it leans into the former idea of suspense. And it does so time and time again, making for a taut drama that takes place in a single location over a handful of hours. The Knife is partly about how every choice, regardless of intent, has a consequence. But it’s equally about how there are systems in place that make people feel as if certain choices have already been made for them. So rather than act from within, a decision has to be made based on survival instinct. It makes for a film that’s socially potent and observational. It also puts the audience in the driver’s seat as far as interpretation. Asomugha merely presents a scenario to the audience, and lets us fill in the blanks. Even upon seeing the film, we too make a series of choices that affect what we think of The Knife. The focus on choices and consequences is something we hear from Asomugha himself as Chris, a man working construction in his own home. Upon finishing what one can imagine as a hard day’s work, Chris prepares to get into bed just before 1AM without waking his wife Alex (Aja Naomi King). He may not have been entirely successful in that regard, but it doesn’t matter. His entire house will be awake and on high alert within the hour. After Chris awakens to noises coming from the kitchen, he finds an unresponsive woman facing away from him. And just when the audience is fully primed to receive a jump scare, Asomugha delivers his title card.

We hard cut back to the bedroom where Alex wakes up to another loud sound. She walks into the kitchen to see Chris shaken up, with the woman lying face down in front of him. Asomugha wastes no time taking this film exactly where it needs to be. Barely over 80 minutes, The Knife is a briskly paced drama packed with thrills and real-life observations on fictional horror versus realistic horror. This isn’t a home invasion film in the traditional sense. The immediate and clear threat of being awoken to a stranger in your home is quickly dispatched. It’s only upon the arrival of the police that the real threat of this film begins looming over the characters. There’s a palpable sense of hesitation to call the police once the adrenaline settles for this family of five. But, against their better judgment, they decide it’s the right thing to do. And now framed like a vampire film, the possible evil has been invited into the home. All Chris and his family can do now is prepare in the way they best see fit. For one of his daughters, Ryley (Aiden Gabrielle Price), she feels that all they need to do is tell the truth. But this is far from a fairy tale or fantasy film. Upon Alex making a last-minute decision, she reminds a rattled Chris that he is a Black man in America. With police pulling up to their home in the middle of the night, the truth is unfortunately not something as clear-cut as Ryley believes it to be.

And thus, The Knife positions itself as a horror/thriller of sorts. But the real nightmare for our lead family takes place after the initial premise is behind them. What makes this film such a remarkable and powerful debut is that the home invasion the film is most concerned with is the one that’s reluctantly invited into the home. The real threat stems from dialogue delivered by Officer Padilla (Manny Jacinto) and Detective Carlsen (Melissa Leo). Both veiled and wildly overt, Asomugha’s film doesn’t mince words when it comes to how subtle, or unsubtle, it wants to be. Its ideas, and the ways it goes about delivering them, are clear-cut. Any time the police in the film attempt to skirt around saying what they’re really trying to say, it becomes all the more menacing.

One of the more interesting ideas at play within The Knife keeps coming back to the truth. We hear it from Ryley before the police show up, and Detective Carlsen repeats it often. The most surefire way to wrap this long night up would be to detail exactly what happened, and all would be well. But again, this is a film that doesn’t heighten itself to lean more into genre trappings or cinematic sequences. The suspense and tension stem from a very real threat revolving around the truth. At its very core, the truth obviously does matter. Both Chris and Alex likely agree with their daughter. But they are also aware that the police now circling around and isolating their family members from one another are part of a system that feels created to blur the truth. What happens when the system we’re supposed to turn to and trust wholeheartedly instills a very real fear into telling it? By its very nature, it warps into something worse than unjust and immoral. There’s a true horror to the villainous creatures who embrace their monstrous qualities. But there’s something far more sinister to be found in the villain who sees themselves as somebody delivering unbiased judgment and honor. Asomugha makes it clear that Detective Carlsen is a good detective. Leo’s performance also goes a long way in making sure the audience never really knows what direction her character will go in. But again, The Knife doesn’t find the need to be cryptic or subtle. It merely exists in the real world, and makes her actions as gray and questionable as the rest of the family, and the world at large when formulating our own responses.

The Knife may take place in a single location, but it’s very representative of the society in its most current state. Too often does discourse end up circling one of two drains. But within nearly every scene of this film, Asomugha understands that reality is far more complicated. The choices any one individual makes might stem from a dozen different thoughts racing through their mind. What may seem like self-preservation to some may read as a critical error to others. Something as clear and straight-forward as self-defense during a break-in turns into an incredibly charged interrogation; Detective Carlsen goes so far as to proclaim as much to Alex when speaking with her. The choice to help an intruder has now begun to work against this family. To see such a response from those called in need of help is upsetting and disheartening. Asomugha’s film doesn’t have an easy way out. It just has a series of choices that, one way or the other, need to be made. And the fallout of those choices is what his debut film so perfectly captures.

The Knife celebrated its world premiere at the Tribeca Film Festival in the U.S. Narrative Competition section. Tickets for screenings and more information on the film can be found right here.

Grade: B+

Director: Joel Potrykus
Writer: Joel Potrykus
Stars: Scott Ayotte, Melissa Blanchard, Joshua Burge

Synopsis: Two friends take a trip through a Michigan forest, intent on carrying out a disturbing pact. When their plan fails, one confronts unsettling repercussions at home.

Joel Potrykus’ Vulcanizadora begins with two men, Derek (Potrykus) and Marty (Joshua Burge), trudging through the woods. If working off appearances alone, Derek appears competent, at first glance. He’s got all the necessary camping gear strapped to his person, and seems to be leading the duo with a destination in mind. Marty, on the other hand, is in a world of his own. He’s got nothing but a drawstring backpack, and a hoodie tied around his waist. He couldn’t look less prepared to spend any amount of time in the woods. And thus, from the very first gorgeous frame of Vulcanizadora, Potrykus plants a question in the mind of his viewer: What are these two doing here? And he doesn’t answer that question for quite some time. To be honest, the way Potrykus goes about actively avoiding the intrigue of this setting is a marvel in its own right. It’s one of many wildly exciting aspects of this film. So consistently did it upend any expectations, that by the time its most shocking sequence left me reeling, the remainder of its runtime washed over me in the best way possible. But we will get to that in time. For now, it feels right to pull a page from the book of Vulcanizadora, and merely exist in the intrigue.

Shot on 16mm in the woods and beaches of Michigan, this film is an absolute beauty. Yet it feels odd to use that word to describe a film such as this. In that regard, Vulcanizadora is so multifaceted. It’s a film that, at barely 90 minutes, is able to shapeshift repeatedly. Yet through every change, one can’t help but feel the despair wringing out of every frame. There’s a shot early on in the film that has the two friends (if you can confidently call them that) playing with fireworks. Though, after a while, they skip the traditional method of using them. Instead, we see a pile of the guts that make up the firecrackers. Upon lighting them on fire, they begin rapidly expanding, seemingly being birthed from the flames of Hell to consume everything around it. As a choir kicks in, any sign of greenery and light is replaced by the all-consuming flame, and an ever-growing substance that seems to feed on the very earth around it. It’s an image that you can’t look away from. Yet it feels so haunted and wrong. To me, it’s the defining image of the film. As we come to learn, this trip isn’t merely for two friends to bond and explore the woods. There are ulterior motives at play, set in motion by some of the most powerful emotions imaginable. Any sense of comedic flair injected by Potrykus’ goofy Derek takes on new meaning as we learn more and more. But even at its darkest, Potrykus’ film never shies away from the humorous elements. This is as much a jet-black comedy as it is a gripping psychological horror. It’s in these opposing tones that Vulcanizadora bombards you with repeated blows of brilliance.

So much of this film operates in the unknowns of life. What’s going on in the minds of those around us? Can we rely on them in an essential moment if they aren’t as steadfast as us? What really awaits us in the next life? These questions are all posed in Vulcanizadora both matter-of-factly and silently. This is a bleak, nihilistic film. It fully embraces the line of thinking that the possibility of infinite nothingness is more enticing than the possibility of another day of feeling awful. In the first half of this film, Marty remains a silent and unreadable force. The most memorable sentence we hear from him is one that seems to both unlock his character, but also open up an entirely new bevvy of questions. “Nothing matters anymore.” It’s a phrase that can be found in many films, novels, songs, etc. Yet in this context, which at this moment of the film is a complete lack of any context whatsoever, it remains bone-chilling. The simple reason? It’s the first time that Potrykus’ film ever reveals the darker hand it’s hiding. And from the moment Potrykus puts his audience on edge with suspicion, it’s already far too late. We’ve already become too charmed by Derek’s ridiculous antics and mystified by Marty’s glances of annoyance and steadfast determination. In the opening section of the film, it’s legitimately laugh-out-loud funny. And a mere 30 minutes later or so does the realization hit that the laughter stemmed from unease. And only a few minutes after that, all we feel is dread. But what comes after?

One would expect the midpoint of Vulcanizadora to be the climax of a lesser film. Instead, Potrykus uses it to both recontextualize all we’ve seen thus far, while also completely shifting the lens of what’s to come. Marty finds himself alone, in a world that he feels ought to punish him for all his actions. Yet he is unable to find solace at every turn. Forced to live with the weight of his actions, Marty is a man grappling with his innermost thoughts. It harkens back to something Derek mentioned earlier in the film about a man who temporarily experienced death. He said Hell wasn’t constant torture with fire and brimstone. Instead, it was just a place that felt like an eternity of everybody feeling nervous and worried. That may sound like some people’s daily life due to the anxieties of a rapidly changing world, but Marty begins to experience it on a profoundly real level in the back half of this film. But this line seems to also stem from Potrykus’ initial idea that birthed his film. In a statement regarding the film, Potrykus said, “Vulcanizadora is my most heartfelt and personal, but not in a good way. It’s my most sincere and emotional, but also my bleakest and most haunting.” This being Potrykus’ first film in 6 years isn’t the only major development that occurred in his life. In that time, he has become a father. And with that came an entirely new range of worries that seems to only unlock upon having a child.

For some people, they see the human experience as a straight line. We follow that line until, eventually, it comes to an end. When bringing a child into the world, I have to imagine that you see that line in a completely different light. You become hyper aware of just how short it is, or just how easily it can be cut short. You try to stretch every possible fiber of distance in the hopes that you can improve the path your child takes. If life is all just one big game we get to play, when a child comes into our life, we’re now playing for keeps. The stakes rise exponentially, and those stakes are felt throughout Vulcanizadora. Here we have Marty, a man who is grappling with the idea that he has permanently altered the life of a child who hasn’t even grasped the concept of life yet. The ways in which Burge highlights such a weight on Marty is palpable. Looking for any semblance of relief, we sometimes won’t be able to find it until we embrace the notion that the universe’s plans aren’t in our hands. But I can only imagine what that fact must feel like in the mind of a father. We can search endlessly for ways to escape our current experiences. But sometimes, we just have to accept all that comes with the dread we feel, and hope that we’ll make it through to the other side.

Vulcanizadora celebrated its world premiere at the Tribeca Film Festival in the U.S. Narrative Competition section. Tickets for screenings and more information on the film can be found right here.

Grade: A-

Director: Tiffany Paulsen
Writer: Dan Schoffer
Stars: Jenna Ortega, Percy Hynes White, Adam Rodriguez

Synopsis: It tells the story of two teens who meet and fall in love over four days of the year.

Romantic dramas like Tiffany Paulsen’s Winter Spring Summer or Fall are rarely offered without good intentions. They tend to be easy to consume, disposable but not often toxic. They aim to either feel familiar or to show viewers a fantastical version of what love and lust “could” be if relationships were meant to unfold cinematically. Films of this ilk already overpopulate 2024’s release calendar, from The Idea of You and Música to The Greatest Hits and Players. Of note: Each of those four titles belong to streamers. 

Perhaps that’s an indication of Winter Spring Summer or Fall’s fate, and that’s before we note that the queen of Netflix, Jenna Ortega, helms the relatively empty drama in question. She stars as Remi, closer to a lab creation than a real character. Remi has just completed a fellowship at Google, has never partied, and is debating between attending Columbia and Harvard after high school. (They’re both safety schools.) While on the train en route to a tour at the former Ivy, she meets Barnes Hayworth (Percy Hynes White, Ortega’s Wednesday co-star); Barnes’ name was generated by an artificial intelligence software masquerading as F. Scott Fitzgerald’s personal library. He doesn’t want to go to college, is a soulful, tortured stoner lookalike, and represents danger to all things educational.

The makings of their will-they-won’t-they affair aren’t any more original, despite the natural chemistry Ortega and Hynes White have evidently built up over the course of a few years as screen partners. This New Jersey Transit meet-cute, as infuriating as it sounds, begins thanks to Barnes’ familiarity with Remi due to the fact that his best friend PJ (Elias Kacavas) lives across the street from Remi’s family. Barnes attempts to penetrate her steely facade by making her a playlist solely featuring the tunes of the Talking Heads, as 18-year-olds are prone to do. After Barnes directs Remi to an express train instead of a local, she lightens up a touch, and an acquaintance-ship is born. But she has “a lot of important things going on” that she won’t neglect in favor of “some cute guy I met on a train.” This can’t happen.

Until, of course, it does. Why else would we be watching? Over the course of what the film’s synopsis calls “four days”, but would more accurately be considered four seasons, this duo falls in love. David Byrne and Buffalo Tom croon as these teens, who do manage to pose as teens despite being in their early 20s, gaze longingly into each other’s eyes and dream about saving turtles in Costa Rica. (Yes, really.) Yet despite the aforementioned connection between its stars, Winter Summer Spring or Fall is hardly ever convincing, let alone natural. Its script, from Rizzoli & Isles writer Dan Schoffer, is clunky and rote, with supporting characters like Adam Rodriguez’s “Dad” and Marisol Nichols’ “Mom” that are forgettable to the point that they might as well be nameless. 

Clearly influenced by Richard Linklater’s Before trilogy, Paulsen and Schoffer’s right-place-wrong-time tale lacks the instinctive quality those masterworks, well, mastered en route to becoming cinematic treasures. It’s not that influences for one’s original film should be frowned upon, but when the references in question become an overwhelming framework yet fail to replicate everything the better film possesses in abundance, the new property suffers. Ortega and Hynes White aren’t to blame for their inability to be Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke; Winter Spring Summer or Fall is wholly to blame for trying to roll Sunrise, Sunset, and Midnight into one Y.A. weepy.

While Winter Spring Summer or Fall will likely nab the championship belt for being the cheesiest, most mainstream title you’ll find at a major festival this year, it will invariably fall victim to a destiny as old as time: When a frustratingly vacant romantic drama falls in the content forest, and no one is around to watch it, does it make a sound? Once it lands on whatever Paramount+ plans on becoming, will fans of Ortega’s filmography pony up their subscription dollars for a film more likely to inspire fan edits on Tik Tok than it is to inspire a future sequel from Colleen Hoover’s production company? (Derogatory.) The film’s true gift is its conclusion, not for breaking any new ground nor for any shocking revelations, but for the fact that we won’t be forced to watch its lifeless liaison unfold any longer. It was always a road to nowhere; no one will blame you for not wanting to come along.

Grade: D

Director: Rachel Wolther
Writer: Rachel Wolther
Stars: Aristotle Athari, Chloe Cherry, Catherine Cohen

Synopsis: Neighbors prank each other, situation escalates comically amid NYC apartment complex’s cutthroat politics, exploring absurdity of conflict between residents.

To live in New York is to deal with annoying neighbors. In most cases, the way it’s dealt with is just by ignoring it. I think back to the time when I lived beneath somebody who lived alone, and he would just shout in anger at all hours of the day and night. Having barely, if ever, interacted with him, I could only assume it had to do with the video games I could hear being played, or his professional life. If you’re wondering what that profession might have been, I can assure you it’s as nightmarish as you could imagine. Yes, he was a DJ. And no, the mixes my roommate and I became privy for the two years there were certainly not great. The constant loop of thrumming bass, over and over and over. It was awful. And what did we do about it? The same thing most New Yorkers tend to do: complain about it to everybody. Except, of course, to the person causing the problem. Personally speaking, that’s far too confrontational. I am of the belief that dealing with it internally is the best solution. We did once leave an anonymous note requesting, at the very least, that the loud music was played during reasonable hours of the day. Headphones do exist! It got better for a week or two, before starting from scratch yet again. The same bass looping ad infinitum.

What was I to do? Eventually, the bass became the soundtrack to my own thoughts about this stranger. Here’s a person who has no presence in my life, yet fundamentally affects my day-to-day thoughts on some level. It forced me to become curious about what he’s doing when he’s not DJing. The behavior of screaming into the void makes you wonder how self-aware he truly is.. I moved out of that apartment, and am living in a much quieter, and nicer, building. I haven’t thought about my DJ neighbor since then, but Rachel Wolther’s The French Italian certainly brought those memories back to me. And it’s in the curiosity and self-imposed helplessness of a New Yorker that this film lives. Valerie (Cat Cohen) and Doug (Aristotle Athari) live in a rent-controlled brownstone on the Upper West Side. Their idyllic safe haven quickly falls apart when their downstairs neighbors begin constant screaming matches and karaoke sessions. It’s an immediate way to garner sympathy and mine countless comedic moments. It’s in this central conflict that Wolther’s film takes shape, and examines the question of whether or not people do have self-awareness regarding their “private” lives.

The film opens with a delicious looking spread of baked goods from the legendary New York establishment, Zabar’s. Valerie and Doug are on their way to a friend’s dinner party with it. Upon arrival, they make the outrageous claim that the cookies are all homemade. It seems like a spur-of-the-moment decision on Valerie’s part, but Doug instantly backs her up. If this film is bolstered by anything in its rough patches, it’s in the relationship between our two leads. Described by another character as having achieved “mind-meld”, the two are completely in sync with the idiosyncrasies of one another. It’s incredibly endearing, even as Wolther slowly reveals the layers showing these lead characters aren’t necessarily bastions of moral integrity. The main reason we accept these two characters as the leads is because they’re who Wolther introduces us to. Going back to thinking about my DJ neighbor upstairs, I’m sure there were occasions where my films were played a bit too loud for his liking. Or maybe we did have a gathering that ran a bit too late. If we’re operating under the assumption that most people live their life as if they’re the main character, the chances people see their own harmless actions as being in the wrong are highly unlikely. So yes, once Valerie and Doug hear “La Bamba” (the perfect song for such a scenario) sung for the umpteenth time, the audience immediately sides with the two in their quest for revenge.

Admittedly, the central scheme The French Italian revolves around is a funny one. It makes for some really great gags, especially from theater actor/friend Wendy (a stand-out zany Ruby McCollister). Valerie and Doug decide to stage a fake play in order to lure ex-neighbor Mary (Chloe Cherry) into an audition and learn more about her, before eventually confronting her for the pain she and her partner had caused our protagonists. And while this makes for a lot of escalating hilarity, the film does feel at its strongest when grappling with these annoying neighbors through the lens of Valerie and Doug’s imagination. There’s perhaps nothing more relatable than crafting stories around the complete strangers in our lives who we just so happen to see or hear of regularly. And in that regard, we would learn just as much about Valerie and Doug through their “dissections” of the people around them. Some of the funniest sequences of the film involve just Valerie and Doug’s expressions trying to pinpoint their neighbors’ ins and outs, or an event that lies unseen and unheard to the audience. 

New York, and the world at large, is full of enigmatic individuals we’re likely to never fully engage with. But that allows our imaginations to run completely wild and make up stories about who they are. In the fantastic riffing between Cohen and Athari’s performances is what allows Wolther’s film to occasionally soar. These two people are wholly committed to their own views of themselves. When thinking of the self-awareness I mentioned earlier, these characters have none. What’s worse; they feign having it, making their rationalizations amongst one another all the more funny. In reality, their scheme alone proves that they’re not all that great of people as they think they are. Constantly talking about having one’s life together doesn’t equate to the lengths in which they take their stunt. The goofiness in which they go through life feels like a very clear diversion from the anger and resentment they feel about their situation. But it feels like Wolther’s script is less interested in examining that than it is mining potential jokes for all they’re worth. It’s a comedy, so it can obviously coast on just being funny. But by the conclusion of the film, it does feel like The French Italian would benefit from an even slightly deeper layer of examination. But when Wolther’s comedic strengths do hit, it’s laugh-out-loud funny.

More than anything, The French Italian must be applauded for being a straight-up comedy. There’s obviously no issue with blending genres together, but so few comedies nowadays feel as if that’s all they are aspiring to be. And Wolther, who when asked about the conception of this film, expressly voiced her anxieties of feeling like a hack, admirably commits to being a goofy comedy. It builds up situations that are then comically torn down. It also happens to feature a variety of wonderful performances from many recognizable New York character actors. This is a New York film through and through, even going so far as to disrupt a dolly shot abruptly in fear of a rat encounter on the street. It’s moments like those, or in Cherry’s performance as a wildly obtuse actress, or the loving jabs taken at improv and poorly conceived plays, when Wolther’s great sense-of-humor can be felt. New York is such an odd place to live, and every day here provides us with a new ridiculous story to tell our friends and loved ones. While it does feel like The French Italian writes itself into a corner at times, the sheer ridiculousness of it all, and the countless laugh-out-loud performances within, make it a worthy film about one of the many painful New York experiences.

The French Italian celebrated its world premiere at the Tribeca Film Festival in the U.S. Narrative Competition section. Tickets for screenings and more information on the film can be found right here.

Grade: C-

Director: Yannis Veslemes
Writers: Dimitris Emmanouilidis, Yannis Veslemes
Stars: Dominique Pinon, Julio Katsis, Panos Papadopoulos

Synopsis: Three brothers build an unusual time-machine in order to bring their long-dead mother back to life.

Two things come to my mind when thinking about the “Greek Weird Wave”. The first, is critically and commercially beloved Greek auteur Yorgos Lanthimos. The second is my gratitude. As a cinephile, there’s nothing better than having the ability to explore the entire world, and time itself, through film. So as a Greek, with Lanthimos being my real introduction to Greek cinema, it allowed me to see my country of Greece in all the years I hadn’t been able to make a return visit. I’ve since changed that, but going back to Greece, and the rising prominence of Lanthimos’ career, has only fueled my desire to devour more of Greek cinema. Enter She Loved Blossoms More, Yannis Veslemes’ drug-addled journey into, and eventually through, grief. And remaining true to the stylistic wave of films mentioned earlier, Veslemes’ film is as weird as can be. But it avoids being weird merely for the sake of shock, and is not without its earned merit when it comes to capturing a distinct on-screen vision. 

The film doesn’t so much open as much as it just throws the viewer into the fray. We see three men, who are quickly discovered to be brothers, living together. We barely see the entire house they’re in, but you get the sense that it’s massive. It’s also clearly dilapidated. It’s the type of oversized house that, if you’d pass by it as a kid, your brain could only imagine the most shocking of horrors and mad science that’s happening within. This thought burrowed its way into my brain early on in the film, and from there it only expanded, thanks to Veslemes’ commitment to style and tone. And this thought wouldn’t be an unfounded one if looking from the outside in. By the time we are introduced to these brothers, they’re clearly operating on the level of mad scientists. Hedgehog (Panos Papadopoulos), Dummy (Julio Katsis), and Japan (Aris Balis) are clearly skilled. They have the ability and wherewithal to build a makeshift laboratory in the name of their objective. What they’re doing should be impossible, but by the time we meet them, they’re on the verge of something equal parts marvelous and frightening. But even so, these three are clearly struggling to take care of their most basic necessities. 

For example, cooking falls to Dummy. He pulls mystery meat out of the freezer, unsure not only of what it is, but when it was from. He barely hears the criticisms his brothers fling at the poor taste and even worse smell. The three are going through something major. They have lost their mother, who is seemingly buried in the backyard. Coping with such a loss has channeled their focus into a single task. The only thing that seems to sidetrack them is the copious amount of drugs they consume. It’s in this barrage of drug usage that Veslemes is able to capitalize on what makes She Loved Blossoms More a stand-out genre flick. One only needs to take count of just how many disparate elements come together to form something unique. The opening credits play over imagery that brings gritty, dystopian sci-fi to mind. We see built hardware that appears to have been thrown together with whatever scrap was around. Then the score, also by Veslemes, kicks in, playing out in ways that resembles what a hyperactive mind would conjure up when reading a mystery novel. It’s music that would play in the lair of a villain in a B-movie. There’s filmic-inspired footage intercut throughout the film, with heavy film grain brushing up sharply against the active digital imagery that makes up everything else. This footage is used sparingly, but it’s certainly effective. There are practical effects all throughout that blend in nicely with the psychedelic digital trickery on display. Veslemes throws a lot at his audience. But it’s in this disarray that his thesis appears to take shape.

With constant distortions blurring across the screen and such stylistic choices meshing together, it’s made abundantly clear how fractured the minds of these individuals are. If the drugs they’re taking to numb their grief isn’t enough, their singular focus is all that’s propelling them through it. The work in question? Building a machine that can bring their mother back to life. And this machine just so happens to be built from the shell of their mothers large wardrobe, still full of the clothes she left behind. Is this a way for the filmmakers to save some money on building an entire contraption? It’s possible. Yet Veslemes’ film makes many pointed comments that directly link the grief these brothers are feeling to the wardrobe itself. The pain they feel is palpable, and any viewer can sympathize with the lengths to which they are going. To see items once owned or used by those who are no longer with us carries massive impact. “It’s just a closet” is said at least twice in the film. In both distinct instances, the response is the same: “It’s more than that.” But in both sequences, the meaning behind these exchanges is flipped. In the first, it serves as the idea that yes, this is a machine that can actually bridge the gap between space and time. But the second meaning is far more potent. It’s not just a closet. It’s not just a machine they built either. It’s their mom’s closet, full of memories ingrained within the fibers of each thread of each article of clothing. We remember those who are no longer with us by what they leave behind.

I mentioned the use of filmic photography earlier. Most commonly associated with home movies, the film gauge looks like 16mm. In particular, it evokes a certain sense of nostalgia. And in She Loved Blossoms More, Veslemes uses it in such a way that appears to distort time itself. Hedgehog finds himself aimlessly meandering around the house, and we follow him through the lens of a handheld film camera. It’s as if we’re witnessing something we shouldn’t have access to. We’re watching a child grieve for his mother. It’s in deeply painful or anxiety-inducing moments when we may feel outside of ourselves. And through this camera, the film scarily captures an out-of-body experience. These brothers, however brilliant they may actually be, are still on a quest that will likely end in folly. Yet they find themselves caught in the hubris of their own efforts. For even the most brilliant mind there is, some forces are too cryptic to ever be understood. They most certainly cannot be altered or reverted. In grief, we may find ourselves obsessed over simple ideas. The most universal idea of all sets these brothers off on their path: they want to bring their mother back. It appears to be a vicious cycle. These brothers are not the only ones caught in it.

Throughout all of time, there are those who have lost loved ones. It’s as if history is an endless loop of grief. And everybody will surely react in their own way. Can the loop ever be broken? When thinking about the answer to that question, I return to one of the first lines spoken in the film: “I remain optimistic about the future.” It may not provide a concrete answer, but there’s certainly hope in knowing that one way or another, we always find our way through to happier days lived in memory of those who are no longer with us. If we hold onto those objects and those memories of our loved ones, we are bound to get through the roughest patches of grief. For as creepy and off-putting as She Loved Blossoms More can be at times, there’s hope to be found among even the most upsetting of places.

She Loved Blossoms More celebrated its world premiere at the Tribeca Film Festival in the Escape from Tribeca section. Tickets for screenings and more information on the film can be found right here.

Grade: C+