Director: Ron Howard
Writer: Noah Pink
Stars: Sydney Sweeney, Ana de Armas, Vanessa Kirby

Synopsis: Follows a group of people fueled by a profound desire for change; in order to turn their back to society they leave everything behind and set their futures on the harsh landscape of the Galapagos.

The thought of living on an isolated island free from any and all standard responsibilities might sound like a dream to some. But also, an absolute nightmare to others upon actually seeing the location. But such is the cost of absolute freedom. To completely rid oneself of any notion of societal standards in favor of something larger could be an exciting prospect, but, like anything else, it comes at a cost. That cost, and whether or not it’s even possible to pay without losing oneself, is at the forefront of legendary filmmaker Ron Howard’s latest film. Eden, which celebrated its world premiere at the 2024 Toronto International Film Festival, feels unlike anything the filmmaker has ever made. This film swerves in many directions throughout its runtime. While it has that humanist hope Howard is known for, so much of it is shrouded with a curtain of real darkness. For it dives headfirst into the core of what makes humans tick, and holding up a mirror to the ways in which humans can devolve into savagery makes for not just a compelling watch, but a damning one.

Based on a true story, Eden follows a handful of individuals who find themselves living on an island in the Galapagos after they become disgusted by where society is leading. After World War I, “economic collapse and the rise of fascism” leads Dr. Friedrich Ritter (Jude Law) and his wife, Dora Strauch (Vanessa Kirby) to Floreana island. Ritter has one lofty goal in mind. With his escape from modern and traditional civilization, he aims to discover and expose the true  purpose of life. It’s an idea that sounds as if it’s been explored countless times; throughout cinema, but also by countless philosophers. Yet Eden excels in separating itself from merely questioning the notion of what makes humans act the way they do. It bounces back and forth between absurdly dark humor, genuinely thrilling sequences full of fright and tension, and most importantly, a profound curiosity on whether or not that purpose can truly be defined. Many would argue it cannot be. I believe this film does.

To be human is to be malleable. It’s a simple fact that must be accepted. When we first meet Ritter and Strauch, they seem a bit jaded. This may simply be due to the nature of their chosen lifestyle. But nevertheless, what’s clear is that they were remaining steadfast in the principles they have defined through Ritter’s manifesto on humanity. Mind you, they are certainly odd in more ways than one. Living on an island with nobody around in any direction can do that to anybody. But that doesn’t mean that introducing neighbors into the mix is the solution to such a problem. In fact, it’s this very development that begins to show what humans do when they feel threatened, challenged, or even just surprised with unexpected company. The Witttmer family; Heinz (Daniel Brühl), Margaret (Sydney Sweeney), and young son, Harry (Jonathan Tittle) show up on the island after being inspired by Ritter’s feats.

They come with good intentions, despite the marital dispute we later discover. Heinz thought it would be good for the family, Margaret simply followed along. If selfish desire brings people to supposed paradise, with no regard to those closest to us, can it really be envisioned as the perfect utopia? Perhaps that is what Eden is trying to say regarding the purpose of life. That we are placed into a set of circumstances by a variety of factors, and in turn, we must do all we can to survive within that situation. Could the purpose of life simply be the pure drive to survive at any and all costs? It’s a rather upsetting truth to confront. Operating in pure survival mode, it seems impossible to ever be content in life. And we see this deeply human inability to be pleased upon the arrival of Baroness Eloise Bosquet de Wagner Wehrhorn (a stand-out Ana de Armas).

It’s upon the arrival of the overbearing Baroness that the true form of Eden begins to really take shape. She is carried onto the beach like royalty, sitting on the shoulders of her two lackeys, who are head-over-heels infatuated with her. They’ll do anything she asks, and it’s not difficult to understand why. De Armas brings a wide-eyed excitement to the performance that masks a worrisome control freak bent on proving she has a name worthy of remembering. You can see how she’d be utterly lost when unable to bend the whims of those around her. But back on the mainland, she never had to worry about such things. It’s only when her power and essential mortal possessions, like food and water, are stripped away from her that we see cracks begin to form. And those cracks very quickly spiral into something far more worrisome. De Armas holds this entire performance together so damn well, producing laughs and angered disgust in equal measure.

So upon the arrival of the Baroness, her men set to work on building the foundation for a new luxury hotel right on the beach. But very quickly, her not-so-neighborly demeanor begins grating against the rest of the inhabitants on Floreana island. What is the purpose of life? Is it to hate thy neighbor? That’s written in jest, of course, but it is comical to see just how quickly Howard and writer Noah Pink’s film can turn neighbors against one another by the simple fact of cohabitation near one another. It’s almost outright proclaiming the age-old idea of one big friendly neighborhood is simply impossible due to the very nature of our most internal selves clashing up against one another. What is the purpose of life? Could it simply be to find peace? That’s a far more comforting idea to hope for. The only problem with that definition lies in another question: what happens when that peace is threatened?

In that threat to peace comes some of the most thrilling sequences of Eden. It’s in these sequences that we see what humans are truly capable of. And it is here, in this human potential, that I believe lies the answer to Ritter’s question regarding the purpose of life. Or at least, what Howard and Pink feel it is. These sequences (which will be written around somewhat vaguely to avoid spoilers); some triumphant and some cold-blooded, show what humans are truly capable of. When pushed to the limit, stripped of all that modern society has to offer; when it is merely humanity and the very essence of the world around us, we reveal our true selves. As humans, we believe we can beat the odds. That we are the exception to the rule. Shocking revelations make way for cathartic truths about the cast of characters we have lived with for some time on this island. It would appear humans are full of abilities both monstrous and animalistic, and it’s not until coming to peace with those mentalities that we can maybe accept how quickly our principles can fall to the wayside.

We see how this purpose to exist in a pure form breeds contempt, jealousy, and greed. As the Baroness representing modern living rears its ugly head to co-opt all the island inhabitants have built, the ugly truth comes to light. The actions of Ritter, Strauch, and at times, the Wittmer family may be damning for the future of humanity. But it’s just a means of survival brought out by the desperate need to fight against an imposed order designed to split society in half: those who have, and those who do not. And those who do have will do all they can to guarantee they remain in such a position. So who are we to blame the others? Perhaps the purpose of life is merely accepting that it’s impossible to do anything aside from look out for oneself and the immediate family we hold dear. Is that a bit of a savage outlook on humanity? Perhaps, but this humanity appears to be all that we have, one way or the other. Maybe the purpose of Eden is all about forcing us to accept that it, and we, are flawed. Yet even still, we fight for it to prove otherwise.

Eden celebrated its world premiere at the 2024 Toronto International Film Festival. For more information on the film, head right here.

Grade: B+

Director: Mike Flanagan
Writers: Mike Flanagan, Stephen King
Stars: Karen Gillan, Jacob Tremblay, Matthew Lillard

Synopsis: A life-affirming, genre-bending story based on Stephen King’s novella about three chapters in the life of an ordinary man named Charles Krantz.

As I sat at my laptop, wondering how to begin writing about Mike Flanagan’s latest film, The Life of Chuck, two different anecdotes popped into my head. Neither are necessarily thrilling, but they both are oddly linked to the film in question, which celebrated its world premiere at the 2024 Toronto International Film Festival. The first is closer to an observation than anything else. More like a sparse recalling of a memory. I can’t quite pinpoint the first time I stumbled onto Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself.” But the one thing that stuck with me most from the legendary poem is, of course, “I am large. I contain multitudes.” I remember finding it so distinctly profound at the time, and from time to time, something I’ll watch or read will reignite that memory of discovering it. So to hear it read verbatim in The Life of Chuck was quite the shock to the senses. It primed my emotions for something I was not prepared for, which I will get to in a bit. If I walked away with anything from this film, and I walked away with a lot, it’s that there’s no rush. We’ll get there. The second thing I began to think about is how long it’s been since I went dancing.

Sure, I love to dance whenever the feeling arises. If I’m commuting to work, I’m likely moving some part of my body on the platform or train as I wait to get to work, home, or more often than not, the movies. But I mean fully dancing all night long. For a time, I remained in the contact list of a friend’s phone as “Dancing Alex.” I always found it comical, but what can I say: the only activity I love more than dancing is watching movies, and the former has a better ring to it, I think. Anyways, the reason I bring that up is because, during one extended dance number that breaks out randomly in The Life of Chuck, I was again not prepared for the flood of memories and emotions that Flanagan would pull out of me. Yet there I was: misty-eyed and bordering on full-blown weeping in a sold-out theater, surrounded by strangers I have never met, colleagues and friends, and some of the most cherished artists of my life. And something rang in my head that Flanagan said when introducing the film. He made note that life is “all about moments,” and that it’s important to not only make note of those moments, but to hold onto them. And experiencing this film for the first time is a moment I will certainly never forget.

The film begins, funnily enough, in the least dramatic way imaginable. In fact, the first half of the first act of The Life of Chuck plays out like a full-blown comedy. If David Dastmalchian popping up for a single scene acting despondent about losing access to an NSFW website doesn’t leave you with full-on belly laughs, I don’t know what to tell you! The jokes are flying as Flanagan loosely sets up the frame of his film. And built into the very foundation of its structure is comedy, yes. But there’s also a massive amount of intrigue. It almost instantly tugs at the curiosity of the audience, introducing a litany of ideas that will be explored over the course of a lifetime. But Stephen King’s short story of the same name, and this film, both share the key idea of some mysteries being better off unsolved. In fact, The Life of Chuck fully embraces the notion that there are countless mysteries to be found within the human experience. Does seeing some of them go unsolved make the experience any less? It seems like Flanagan and King don’t think that to be the case. The world is chock full of mysteries, both intimate and grand. Why do some of us wait until it’s too late to say what matters most? Why do terrible tragedies happen to good people? Why do nightmares exist? Within The Life of Chuck, but also within the life of Charles “Chuck” Krantz (Tom Hiddleston), lies countless questions such as these, and many more. Not all of them are answered, but it’s not due to a faulty script. It’s wholly intentional. This is the legendary King we’re talking about. The man has built an entire career off the idea that we can’t always tell what’s awaiting us in the dark. And it’s not until we step directly into it that we can figure it out, or be absolutely terrified by what’s discovered. But there’s sometimes a third option in King stories. And as I’ve gotten older, I find myself being more and more drawn to it.

Over a wildly successful and beyond well-established career, King has provided us with some of the greatest stories ever conceived. He has terrified millions of people throughout his life, myself included. But many of his novels have also caused us Constant Readers to weep. He has the ability to shift from horror to intense drama and earnest existentialism at a moment’s notice. Much of it is present in his full-blown horror stories, but when he crafts up something potently human like The Shawshank Redemption or 11/22/63 or Fairy Tale or The Life of Chuck, it feels extra special. And it serves as a reminder that, in life, what we expect is not always what we might need. Sometimes it’s the surprises that affect us more than anything. And it shouldn’t necessarily surprise us at this point in his career that King can craft a plethora of stories within different styles and genres, but the ways in which he goes about them basically always catches me off-guard in the most exciting ways imaginable. The Life of Chuck, in arguably its stand-out sequence during the second act, does just that. At the turn of a hat, Flanagan is able to craft a sequence so dazzling and exciting that, before you know it, you’ve found yourself getting choked up over what it leads to.

During the second act, narrator Nick Offerman details the innermost thoughts of a busker playing her drums. While her hat remains free of tips, the narrator clues us in that she’s not particularly worried. In her mind, “There’s time.” For a film that opens up with supposedly the very final moments of the planet, it’s a darkly comic idea to frame a sequence around. Due to the story occurring in reverse chronological order, there’s not much time at all! But don’t we all know that already, regardless of how it might actually happen? Maybe the universe itself won’t implode before our time is up. But on an individual level, we all know that, eventually, there is an end. Knowing that, the question then becomes whether or not we’ll be able to accept it. And that’s obviously incredibly tough for some. Myself included. But if we know it’s all going to be over someday, why not try and go out on top? If the inevitable cannot be changed, we shouldn’t let the house simply walk away with all the joys of winning. Let’s try and go out smiling, or at least try to go with memories held tightly enough to make us smile in those final moments.

So upon seeing Chuck walking in her general direction, the busker finds a way to lure him in. And in an impromptu shift of the downbeat, she’s surprised at the reaction she sees. Quite frankly, the entire audience was equally shocked. Chuck even appears shocked, acting more possessed than dancing of his own accord at times. For the next seven minutes or so, Flanagan indulges his viewers with something that every fan of Hiddleston’s would love to see: an extended dancing sequence with him dressed in a full suit. To be quite frank, it’s incredible. It feels like one of the best musical numbers in a very long while. And the reason for this isn’t just because of the choreography and direction (which are both great!). It’s because, in this sequence, Flanagan captures something deeply genuine. Despite being a sequence that undoubtedly had tons of prep work going into it, he is able to somehow bottle up the beautiful nature of impromptu feeling and release it on camera. For this sequence, you do believe as if Chuck, and by that nature, Hiddleston, has been completely swept up in the rhythms and beats being carried to his ears. There’s a joy present in the dancing here that doesn’t feel scripted. It’s an undeniably charismatic performance in a film full of them. It’s a beacon of hope. We know that Chuck doesn’t have much longer to live. He might even have a suspicious feeling. But in that very moment, when that very particular beat is heard, that’s a worry for the future. And when we arrive at the future, realizing that the final moment is soon upon us, we’ll hopefully have something to look back upon. Something like this moment. Hopefully, that joyous memory will be enough to walk through the door smiling.

As the film comes to a close in its longest act, we see Chuck as a young boy. Chuck isn’t present for much of the film, but his presence is obviously felt. And it’s here, in the final (but chronologically first) act, that we learn all there is to know about the man (or in this case, the young boy). After all this intrigue built up for a man popping up across billboards, radio stations, television broadcasts, and seemingly other-worldly beacons, who is Chuck? He’s just a boy. A boy who loves to dance, and watch musicals with his grandma, and occasionally, do math with his grandpa. He has the same curious mind as any other young child. He has the same charm, and the same worries, and the same occasionally mundane stretches of time that we all deal with as children. But, and this is the beauty of much of King’s work, he is everything. Not just to the story, but to life itself. Whether or not we feel it, all of us have a story. And all of us contain the entire history of the time we live through. As Whitman writes, and as Chuck’s teacher (the ever-charming Kate Siegel) displays to him, we contain multitudes. Aspects of who we are may contradict themselves, but so what? Life is more exciting if we embrace all that comes our way and find the ability to shift to what a scenario may deem necessary. Towards the end of the film, Chuck’s grandpa (a great Mark Hamill), breaks down a very academic-minded way of approaching life.

And he’s not wrong in a way. The mystery of life, in all of humanity’s quest for understanding in the hopes of feeling larger than it is, can be broken down rationally into formulas and mathematical solutions. But that’s not all there is to life. It’s simply too expansive and too ever-changing to be distilled into a clear-cut definition. With life comes a sense of pure feeling. There are some things that we just do because they feel right. Walk miles with a stranger. Break out into dance on the street. Open a locked door in our home because our curiosity overwhelms our fears of what’s on the other side. There’s no correct formula to living life. There’s just taking the day as it comes, day in and day out. And we do all of this knowing what will happen someday. Flanagan repeats an idea several times throughout the film: “the waiting is the hard part.” But here’s the thing about life: that’s the only part we have. If all we can do is wait, at least let’s make it the most entertaining and joyous and moving wait of our lives. Despite being a film centered around the death of everything, the life-affirming core of The Life of Chuck might very well prove this to be Flanagan’s masterpiece.

The Life of Chuck celebrated its world premiere at the 2024 Toronto International Film Festival. For more information on the film, head right here.

Grade: A

Director: Melanie Oates
Writer: Melanie Oates
Stars: Michaela Kurimsky, Elle-Máijá Tailfeathers, Peter Mooney

Synopsis: Follows an unassuming Newfoundland woman whose online persona strains her community relationships after its exposure.

Those who know me know that I’m a city dweller for life. Born and raised in New York, I feel deeply out of place if I’m not near bustling streets, an immense amount of noise pollution, and man-made monoliths that stretch into the sky. But I’m an absolute sucker for coastal towns. There’s a beauty and charm to them that is undeniable. And as a fan of cinema, it certainly helps that coastal imagery is about as photogenic as nature can get. But there are also much deeper reasons to love such locales. Practically all homegrown, there’s a sense of real reliance on those around you. The whole town prospers when the individuals within help one another thrive. But along comes the Canadian film Sweet Angel Baby, celebrating its world premiere at the 2024 Toronto International Film Festival to disprove that very notion myself, and likely others, share. In fact, Melanie Oates’ film questions if that sense of community is even possible in such a judgmental, hyper-connected society like the present we currently find ourselves in. 

The film opens on that exact delight that draws people into coastal towns. Crashing waves on natural rock structures, beautiful greenery, some of the freshest food one could hope for. And of course, it’s a town where everybody knows everybody. In one establishing shot, Oates basically captures the entire town in a single frame. While that may seem great to somebody just passing through, it would obviously be a nightmare for anybody hiding parts of themself from the world. And that’s the exact predicament Eliza (Michaela Kurimsky) finds herself in. Between her closeted sexuality and secret Instagram account where she posts nude photos, Eliza does all she can to keep out of the limelight for the wrong reasons. And the way Sweet Angel Baby handles this element of Eliza’s character is one of its many strengths.

In a lesser film, it feels like the easy-way-out for inciting drama would be to make Eliza a social outcast within the town. Somebody who keeps to herself; somebody recognizable yet never fully known. Oates fully leans into the complete opposite. Eliza is a beloved member of the community. She leads the charge in setting up a fundraiser for the local church. She seems to show up to work quite early for general upkeep, taking pride in the moments that others may never notice are getting done. She even brings freshly chopped wood to her neighbor daily. It seems that despite being so forward-facing, Eliza enjoys her private moments just as much. And don’t we all? More importantly, don’t we all deserve to have something we keep solely for ourselves? Kurimsky gives an undeniably vulnerable, internal performance, but the way she balances that with her more outgoing one is where the magic of the film lies. It’s the type of performance that draws an audience in plenty, but leaves just enough distance to remind us that we only know as much as the character and the filmmaker allow us to. And here enters Sean (Peter Mooney), an enigma to throw a wrench into the mix of all Eliza has done to protect herself.

Just because everybody knows everybody in town doesn’t necessarily mean they all speak to one another. Sean seems to be all that on the surface. But Eliza and her secret-partner Toni (Elle-Máijá Tailfeathers) do all they can to steer clear of him. A quick greeting or momentary small talk is all we really see. We are firmly team Eliza in this film, and Oates makes it abundantly clear why Sean should be avoided. Mooney plays him as a guy who doesn’t really feel too much shame in his thoughts and actions. He’s revealed to be the worst type of sleazeball: one that doesn’t really register they are one. His actions speak volumes, and there are moments both subtle and blatant that make you want to groan in annoyance and disgust in that particular way cinematic bozos make you feel. The blatant moments are the ones that may make an audience revolt at the sheer thought of Sean, and though it’s obviously predictable, Oates makes the development feel potent. It displays a strong grip over the script and a confidence that your actors can effectively translate a range of emotions the audience knew would be coming.

By its final act, Sweet Angel Baby expands far beyond a personal, intimate story. It begins to morph into an indictment on the hypocrisies of society and towns that look like this one. There are double standards aplenty to be found in the reactions of varied townsfolk. Sean escapes any criticism by way of simply being a man, while Eliza is picking up the pieces of the life she sees slowly slipping away. It’s as if the people she has grown up around her entire life can no longer recognize her. And it’s a concept that’s both saddening and frightening. How can people be so set in their beliefs they can turn on a person they proclaimed to love? How could anybody ever justify such behavior, especially when they aren’t harmed in any way whatsoever? With Sweet Angel Baby, Oates reminds her viewer of the unfortunate truth that some people are, ultimately, set in their ways for life. And with that revelation comes a choice that needs to be made. What is better? To be shunned and knowingly spoken about behind your back? Or to embrace any and all vitriol, regardless of how hypocritical on their part it might be? There’s much to be angered by in this film, understandably when reactions start flying across town regarding Eliza’s life. But Oates also provides such sweet moments of those who will still defend her. And those silently touching ways families stick by one another are powerful. There’s certainly a juxtaposition even amongst those who are mostly unbothered by her life, but those moments are essential for the finale of Sweet Angel Baby. For all the sadness and anger this film has to throw on societies and the people within them that have deemed certain ways of living “improper”, Oates chooses to focus on a moment of triumph. And it’s wholly welcomed and appreciated.

Sweet Angel Baby celebrated its world premiere at the 2024 Toronto International Film Festival. For more information on the film, head right here.

Grade: B+

Director: Alex Ross Perry
Writers: Stephen Malkmus, Alex Ross Perry
Stars: Stephen Malkmus, Scott Kanberg, Joe Keery

Synopsis: Documentary about the American indie band Pavement, which combines scripts with documentary images of the band and a musical mise-en-scene composed of songs from their discography.

Pavement is a band that a specific niche of ’90s kids and 2000s rockers adore while the rest of the world ignores. Their songs were the score to the lives of the youth that Richard Linklater described as “slackers” in his 1990 feature film titled after the description. And that is no dig at the band itself. Their records appealed to that group of teens and were their probable introduction to the vast indie scene. But Pavement is not recognized for that. It was a group that was forgotten, and years later, the world reassured and welcomed them back to the scene, which is why their reunion tour received plenty of attention. 

Most of these bands from the ’90s have gone through the same journey of rediscovery by a new generation that appeals to them for the same reasons as the original fans did back then. Pavement’s feels different; it has a more sincere revelation, even if the 2020s surge began with the rise in popularity of one of their B-sides in TikTok, ‘Harness Your Hopes’. Yet, I still feel that they are not given their deserved merit. Now, they are the subjects of a double-sided, metatextual project, Pavements, that is one part documentary about their discography, impact, and recent reunion in 2022 and one part fake fiction observation on what could have been–selling out to the masses–and their wayward demeanor through mockery and admiration. 

The director helming this project is Alex Ross Perry (Her Smell, Queen of Earth), a talented and stripped-down filmmaker who has made his name by crafting peculiar pieces that tend to work when they aren’t supposed to due to their tone and genre shifts. Pavements is another addition to the list. The film contains his style and spirit. But actually, it is the fan side that predominates the direction, immediately noticeable upon the tagline “The World’s Most Important and Influential Band” and his words on the press notes, where Perry talks about how the group deserves their flowers because there hasn’t been a band like Pavement. And he is right. 

Their use of irony and introspection in their lyrics mixed with the nonchalant of their lo-fi slacker aesthetic silently influenced a new generation of artists (Cate Le Bon, Car Seat Headrest, Snail Mail, Destroyer, just to name a few) that the response to it does not measure up with their current sidelined placement. I may not be their biggest fan in the world, but they deserve to be considered one of the top bands of the ’90s. Due to such disregard by the masses (and other reasons later to be explained), Alex Ross Perry made Pavements–a tip of the hat for the underground heroes and a beautiful, outright creative portrait of their essence, the slacker repertoire, and the music world they shaped one shrouded pop record at a time. 

This doc hybrid is pitched to the viewer as “the documentary that may or may not be entirely true, may or may not be totally sincere, and may or may not be more about the idea of the band–or any band–than a history of Pavement”. That convoluted sentence leaves you questioning where things might be headed. But nothing can prepare you for the dissection Perry does of the band, rock docs, and biopics. The Her Smell director picks apart the worst tendencies of the Oscar-showered projects and mocks them to oblivion by providing artistry and vision to this film, leaving behind the Wikipedia rundowns and alignments for a more freeform approach. 

If it isn’t apparent, Pavements is about the band Pavement. If you know about them, you are up to speed in some regards. If you don’t, Perry has more than covered you. He presents you with their history through archival footage of their beginnings and decades-later reunion, as well as covers of their songs from up-and-coming bands (which serve as an honor for the new generation that has embraced them). The members (singer Stephen Malkmus, guitarist Scott Kannberg, bassist Mark Ibold, and drummer Steve West), past and present, records, and slacker rock style are all given an introduction so that later Perry can delve deeper into their significance. 

Their music does not appeal to every soul so you may be detached from the documentary. Perry recognizes that and thoroughly admits it. But one of the many tricks he pulls to turn the rock biographical portraits upside down is sharing his perspective on why the subjects are important not only to him but the music industry overall–with frontman Malkmus learning the meaning of Pavement in his life by reflecting on the multiple breakups and reunions as they reach more fame through new generations. Documentaries about rock music mainly consist of a by-the-numbers structure or “you had to be there” nostalgia trip that teaches you about the subject at hand. Yet, it is all information widely known by the great majority. 

You are given one fact after another and no insight into what made them these thunderous forces in the industry, whether they are celebrated by the public or recognized by a more niche crowd. Pavements does the opposite. The film is rooted in the acclaim that made their style and musical posture recognizable and admirable. Perry manages to do such a thing by adding self-referential and unfeigned remarks on them via three different scenarios–two being real while a third one isn’t close to being such and with a purpose. The first is a museum exhibition called PAVEMENTS: 1933 – 2022, featuring memorabilia and “rumored” relics of their actual and imagined history. 

This is where reality and fiction begin to intersect. Tokens of forged past cross paths with the knowledge of the fans attending the museum. It is all done with that ironic wink that Pavement’s lyrics contain. Beneath the surface of that experimentality, secrets are waiting for the right person to explore. Nonsensical wordings on a wall dedicated to old notebook pages may seem unimportant. However, these pages in the union tell a story about their creative process and personalities. The same happens with the old tour posters and cover art variants you see in the background. Yet, the writings have more potency and definition, like each wall is a gateway into their minds at the time. 

The second is a workshop stage musical named after one of their most popular records, “Slanted, Enchanted”. There is no dialogue, only covers of Pavement songs played to capture the inner feelings of the characters singing them–the vibe rather than exposition. The story is simple and cliched: a boy falls in love, becomes famous, and ponders about that lost love. The interesting element in this on-paper trite concoction is how Perry and the band capture the aesthetic of their records through the restrictions of an off-Broadway play. And it is enjoyable watching it, charming in its low-budget contractions–like a giant pair of mache scissors appearing during ‘Cut Your Hair’, and jokes in its depictions of melodrama in the musical venue. 

The third project is the most random yet self-referential of them all: a faux biopic about Pavement called “Range Life”. That “film” within a film starts with the likes of Natt Wolf, Logan Miller, and Fred Hechinger as band members and Jason Schwartzman as Matador Records head, Chris Lombardi. But the standout, and most commanding of them all, is Joe Keery as a brooding Stephen Malkmus. Seeing scenes from it as a “For Your Consideration” tag pops up, Keery immensely commits himself to the role. Keery even believes he is becoming the Pavement frontman; at one point, he mentions that an exorcism is needed to remove his essence from his future roles. These are hackneyed clips, yet with a purpose. The “Range Life” sections of the film mock modern biopics. 

Keery is once asked what a special biopic is and answers Bohemian Rhapsody, one of the worst examples of the rudimentary list, or, in other words, the ne plus ultra of horrid biographical portraits. Many multi-layered jokes critique the Hollywood machine’s laziness. These projects need directors interested in the subjects to cover them thoroughly with a distinctive touch. All of this, and more, is done by Alex Ross Perry and Stephen Malkmus. They team up to show the world why Pavement means something not only back then but in today’s world, driven by consuming content quickly without digesting any of it. 

Pavements might not be the epitome of rock documentaries or biopics. However, the project can probably pave the way for other filmmakers to craft more inventive portraits of fascinating musical figures with flair and ingenuity instead of million-dollar checks. (I am dying for a project like this about Chelsea Wolfe, Laura Nyro, or Portishead.) Alex Ross Perry culminates Pavements by giving the band their deserved flowers–and a new light shines on them because of this strange, informative concoction.

Grade: B

Directors: Guy Maddin, Galen Johnson, Evan Johnson
Writers Evan Johnson
Stars: Cate Blanchett, Charles Dance, Rolando Ravello

Synopsis: The leaders of seven wealthy democracies get lost in the woods while drafting a statement on a global crisis, facing danger as they attempt to find their way out.

Guy Maddin, the Manitoban maestro of things strange, psychosexual, and dreamlike might not be the first director one would consider directing a satire about a G7 Summit gone wrong in Germany; but after experiencing Rumours it is hard to imagine anyone else could have made it. Maddin teams up with brothers Evan and Galen Johnson (who he worked with on the astonishing homage to genre cinema The Forbidden Room) to make a satirical comedy of manners reminiscent of The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie doing for global politics what Buñuel did for group dining.

In a glorious Saxony forest retreat, representatives of the seven most prosperous democratic countries on the planet get together to draft preparatory points for a joint statement about the current ‘Global crisis.’ Cate Blanchett plays German Chancellor Hilda Ortmann dressed in a less severe Angela Merkel power suit. Charles Dance is U.S. President Edison Walcott – a man who is clearly past his prime but unwilling to let go of power. Denis Ménochet is French president Sylvain Broulez, who is the epitome of post-structural Gallic pretension and anxiety. Nikki Amuka-Bird is Cardosa Dewindt, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom who is surely as fantastical a creation as the giant brain later found in the forest as one cannot imagine the people of Britain voting for someone half as competent as Ms Dewindt. The Italian Prime Minister Antonio Lamorle (Rolando Ravello) an unassuming good-natured fellow. The Japanese Prime Minister Tatsuro Iwasaki (Takehiro Hira) even more unassuming. And rounding out the quotient, as the film points out, is the Canadian Prime Minister Maxime Laplace (Roy Dupuis) a man-bun sporting, sexy silver fox, tragi-romantic drama king – irresistibly attracted to strong women (most of whom hold high political positions).

Before they reach their well-catered, built for purpose gazebo, the politicians stop at the archaeological excavation site for a bog man whose severed penis is wrapped around his neck. A punishment from the tribe for failure of leadership is posited. A quick photo op with Mr. Iron Age and it’s off to work, which mostly consists of them gossiping, throwing barbs at each other, and congratulating themselves for being generally civil. The United States enjoys telling France no one is going to read another one of his tiresome monographs on psychogeography. Italy admits that his greatest regret was wearing a Mussolini costume to a party for which France forgives him. Japan talks of how he wishes he’d learned to ride a horse. France mocks Canada for being insufferable, but Germany explains how Canada is about to lose his position for the dreariest scandal regarding something to do with carried interest and property holdings. Canada is getting increasingly drunk and not adding much to the preparatory notes but adding a lot to the drama and getting Germany a flushed and horny. 

They’re all so involved in their useless note making, arguments, or insular obsessions that they fail to notice no one has come to top up their wine when the bottle empties – in fact no one is around at all. They’ve been abandoned, which baffles them. More baffling are encroaching zombie bog people (thankfully not protestors) hanging from trees or masturbating in a full circle jerk around fires. They can’t reach anyone via their phones (Italy forgot to bring his) and France ventures back to the villa to find the unthinkable – they’ve been locked out. An apocalyptic event has occurred the audience infers, and the sheltered nitwits might be all that is left of humanity.

France tries to put it into some kind of semiotic order and develops a sudden injury, meaning he has to be carried by manly Canada. Italy keeps offering pocketed cold cuts from the table. England is still trying to focus on getting the notes for the statement prepared. America would like to continue his nap if possible. No one can work out why America has a silver spoon British accent. Japan drifts along. Germany feels responsible. 

A brain the size of a hatchback appears in the forest (definitely a male brain France proclaims because no female brain could reach that size) and Alicia Vikander’s President of the European Commission, Celestine Sproul, sits atop it speaking what seems to be gibberish but is Swedish (and prophetic gibberish). Her presence sends Canada into a tailspin as they were once lovers and he’s having trouble getting over her, although not so much trouble that he couldn’t engage in a quickie with Germany in the woods earlier.

Guy Maddin is swinging at low hanging fruit as the ineffectual leaders undertake a long and, in their minds at least, treacherous journey back to civilization. The only guide is a now sentient AI chatbot designed to catfish pedophiles, disproportionately represented among the political class. To get directions they need to type suggestive codewords so it will respond.

Swirls of Enya’s “Exile” drift on the soundtrack as Canada and Japan undertake a distinctly anti-climactic heroic act, getting a small barge from one bank of a shallow river to the other. The otherworldly colors beloved by Maddin and the Johnsons (pinks, purples, neon greens) light up the tortuous path where the economic leaders of the free world alternate between histrionics and history lessons about previous world economic summits. It’s all deliciously berserk, ludicrous, but in some regards possibly the most co-operative and unified any G7 summit has been in our reality.

Rumours brings it all home with an excellent and caustically pompous finale. All the madness had meticulous method. Other than The Saddest Music in the World (2003), Rumours is Guy Maddin’s most accessible film in terms of having a standard narrative structure. It also features big name stars like Cate Blanchett, Charles Dance, and Alicia Vikander along with well regarded international character actors (including a late appearance by Zlatko Buric). The jokes can get stretched thin in places, but they come back with a round punch especially when delivered by Blanchett or Dance.

Rumours is black comedy cloaked in gloriously lurid colours. Combining elements of slapstick with absurdism and pointed commentary on the precariousness of the contemporary world. It doesn’t matter which ‘Global Crisis’ the summit was making a joint statement on – it could be environmental or economic collapse, or diplomatic relationships failing. How exactly did the world end? Rumours posits it’s probably already over, so at least we should laugh while swallowing the cyanide pill of truth. 

Grade: B+

Director: Rachel House
Writers: Tom Furniss, Rachel House
Stars: Elizabeth Atkinson, Terrence Daniel, Reuben Francis

Synopsis: Explores the journey of three young people as they seek solace under the watchful gaze of the Taranaki mountain and companionship in the spirit of adventure.

Rachel House is a treasure. A legend of Aotearoa cinema and theatre. With her directorial debut, The Mountain, she adds blinking fine filmmaker to her legendary status. Having worked with kids since early in her career, for example Niki Caro’s Whale Rider through to her lovely turn in Taika Waititi’s Hunt for the Wilderpeople, it seems a natural fit for her to build her first film around the adventures of lonely and adventurous children.

Sam Walsh (Elizabeth Atkinson) has cancer. She’s in the hospital more often than she’s home. But she’s been training to be a warrior woman and she’s making a jail (hospital) break so she can climb her mountain – Mount Taranaki. Along with teen cancer survivor Peachy (Sukena Shah) she hatches a plan to get out and keep her mother, Wendy (Fern Sutherland) unaware of her absconding. On the roof of the hospital, she releases her collected hospital gift store balloons, hoping they will reach the mountain. They contain a message. “Let me live.”

Mallory Potts (Reuben Francis) live with his dad Hugh (Byron Coll). His mother recently passed away and they’ve relocated to a new town. Neither Hugh nor Mallory know how to adjust to their new lives. Mallory imagines he might make some friends but he’s a bit timid and right now all he has is his depressed dad and talking to his mum to keep him company.

In one day, he meets his neighbor, the charming protector of Mother Nature, Bronco (Terrence Daniel) who keeps finding Sam’s balloons over Inglewood (“Blinking disrespectful”) and Sam herself. Sam is going to her mountain Taranaki Mounga. In Māori culture, “A mountain is living family. When you’re Māori they’re your ancestors. They hold knowledge,” Peachy points out to Wendy who freaks out when she works out Sam was left the hospital. Wendy hasn’t helped Sam understand her Māori identity, so Sam has imagined it on her own. 

Sam somewhat press gangs Mallory into helping her get supplies for her journey. She’s planned a bit… she has a map, a list of supply needs (mostly chocolate, marshmallows, and a gun), and a fierce attitude. Mallory decides to help her chatting with his mum about the pros and cons (pros: she’s adventurous, cons: she wants a gun). Hugh arrives home and talks to his wife about how he’s a lonely, soggy, loser. Overhearing his dad, Mallory is galvanised not only to help Mallory, but to ensure he’s on the journey with her.

Sam is bossy as hell, but she realizes she needs Mallory at least as her sherpa, so she conditionally agrees. Bronco, who has been tracking down Sam’s balloons polluting the environment and skipping school to see if his constantly absent dad Tux (Troy Kingi) notices, meets Mallory and Sam along the way. Invited to join them, the three undertake a magical, perilous, joyous, and emotional journey to the ancestor.

Sam’s journey is informed by faith; faith that her Mounga is testing her to find her worthy, and when she proves herself so the ancestor will want her to stay alive. With her stick, Woodface, and a lot of attitude she corrals Mallory and Bronco into facing the ‘obstacles’ Taranaki has put in place. Mallory is possibly the least brave of the two, but he believes his mum is watching over him and he needs to feel some frisson of life. Bronco is “millions of miles away from home” (not literally, he’s just in another part of Aotearoa) but all of Aotearoa is sacred to him. Spiritually connected to his Māori heritage on a profound level, he’s wise, positive, and gentle as well as a bit of a rabble rouser. Sam is quietly jealous of Bronco’s understanding of who he is, but she’s also open to learning from him. 

Meanwhile, the parents realize their kids are gone. First, Hugh and Tux chat outside Bronco and Mallory’s school. Peachy covering for Sam is easily discovered by Wendy. Peachy explains in her deadpan way that the reason Sam has gone is Wendy has been so stressed about, and so focused on, Sam’s illness she’s forgotten that Sam the kid is inside of it. The parents set out on their own journey to find the kids (with Peachy in tow running interference) and along the way learn a little about their own failings and strengths as people.

Rachel House and co-screenwriter Tom Furniss craft a narrative filled with reverence for Māori traditions and beliefs. Utilizing Sam’s quest for spiritual belonging and her fight for a future; House crafts a mystical adventure that speaks to the individuality of her three young protagonists and the unique connection Māori iwi have to their land decolonized from Pākehā influence. The way House achieves this is through shared connection rather than confrontation. Three kids, Pākehā, mixed heritage, and Māori experience the wonder of Taranaki, mythology, the interconnectedness of the natural world, and empower each other.

A lovely example is a night spent in front of a campfire where Mallory pulls out his wall compass gifted to him by his mother before her death. Bronco uses his rope to tie it around Mallory’s neck saying his mum will help guide them. Sounds in the dark lead to the trio performing a dance to KRS-One’s “Sound of Da Police.” Their journey isn’t without some friction – Sam initially lied to Mallory telling him that her mother died of cancer and Mallory is deeply hurt. What he doesn’t see is the other things Sam is lying about, such as the state of her health. She’s giving everything to make it to her ancestor.

Stunning scenes captured by cinematographer Matt Henley of the Taranaki region merge with Sam and Bronco’s storytelling which is at times rendered via animation, or at others by attention to smaller details within the wider vista. House credits the mountain themselves as an actor: Te Kāhui Tupua Taranaki Mounga.

First time film performers Elizabeth Atkinson, Reuben Francis, and Terrence Daniel are utterly charming and carry the work without mawkishness. Rachel House doesn’t shy from the realities of cancer and how sick Sam is, but she highlights her bravery and tenacity and gives Sam with something she had not previously had – an iwi formed because Taranaki Mounga willed it. 
The Mountain is a delightful, magical, mystical, and melancholy film brimming with humor and tenderness. Aotearoa and the world are blessed to have Rachel House as a creative force and one hopes she will continue behind the camera.

Grade: A

Director: Tallulah Hazekamp Schwab
Writer: Tallulah Hazekamp Schwab
Stars: Crispin Glover, Fionnula Flanagan, Jan Gunnar Røise

Synopsis: After spending the night in a remote hotel, Mr. K is stuck in a claustrophobic nightmare when he discovers that he can’t leave the building.

Have you ever wondered what The Grand Budapest Hotel might be like if it wasn’t coated in the bubblegum beauty of the film of the same name? If it was something just a bit more haunted and ethereal, closer to the Overlook hotel? If so, you’re in luck with Tallulah H. Schwab’s Mr. K, which is celebrating its world premiere at the 2024 Toronto International Film Festival. Taking place all within the halls of an unnamed hotel that is simultaneously run-down yet seemingly extravagant, Mr. K is quite the surreal oddity. Ditching conventionality at every turn, the film feels far more interested in captivating its audience and forcing them to think outside the box rather than present a straight-forward narrative with definitive lessons to be imparted. And in a way, the sense of confusion and curiosity that draws audiences into a film like this seems to be the very crux of the story Schwab is telling with this film. When tackling a topic as nebulous as loneliness and its impact on people, one would hope that a film examining it would be rich with interpretation and insights.

The film opens up by way of narration from the titular Mr. K (Crispin Glover, in a performance that keeps you rapt with attention at his litany of mannerisms and reactions). He is a stage magician who, by his own admission, wonders if it’s just him that feels incredibly lonely. Even though he performs for a living, there’s a clear sense of detachment in the one scene where he’s actually shown on stage. It’s likely because his middling audience doesn’t seem all that captivated in his act. Very little is actually learned about the titular character of Schwab’s film, but it more so feels due to him being irrelevant to the story at hand. In fact, his being a cypher makes the film one that encourages the audience to lean in and glean what they can from performance alone. One just needs to look at how Schwab captures Mr. K performing impromptu tricks; they practically feel like a defense mechanism. Rather than be the direct center of an onlooker’s attention, he turns their curiosity to something he can control: a set of eggs he’s juggling, or a small creature emerging from his previously empty hand. But what happens when he’s forced into a situation where parlor tricks are no longer enough? When he’s seemingly branded with a cult of personality that pulls him into a situation that’s becoming more and more inescapable by the minute. How will he react then?

Mr. K’s reaction to his predicament can be read in two ways. One half falls back on a desperation to escape. The other amounts to letting all these events wash over himself like a massive wave. In my opinion, it’s in the examination of the latter that Mr. K  is able to shake off the rocky foothold it has around the second act. There’s a question that presents itself the longer Mr. K simply rolls with the punches of this trap he finds himself stuck in. Why is he letting this all happen? Is it because he feels he can’t escape? Or because he won’t even attempt to do so? We see his refusal to even try at some point crystallize, and it throws a rather bleak veil over the entire film. If this ever-growing maze of a hotel does represent the titular character’s loneliness, what happens when somebody inevitably gives up? As some of the other frustrated hotel guests mention, they were perfectly content with their lives until Mr. K came along with a kernel of hope for escape. Only then did they begin to really take issue with what was occurring around them, and even then, they’d rather go back to quiet acceptance rather than fighting back defiantly. When the devastatingly raw organism that is loneliness forces its current victim into isolation, what happens to the person’s surroundings? They begin to feel inescapable. Going from room to room becomes more of a chore. Even interacting with others becomes nearly impossible. As Mr. K is shown to become more and more constricted and consumed by this specter of an organism, the film reveals part of the literal mystery that’s occurring. 

This reveal also acts as a bit of a double-edged sword. On one hand, it makes for a relatable metaphor about feeling emotionally and mentally lost within oneself. On the other hand, it feels as if Mr. K ever so slightly loses its footing thematically. From time to time, some isolated interactions with other hotel guests may feel a bit meandering. But on the whole, the film itself makes for an interesting metaphor both visually and conceptually. And in the final moments of Mr. K, whether it works for audiences at large or not, the swing feels more than worthy of a watch for numerous reasons. As written earlier, loneliness is something that many experience, yet something that few can specifically quantify. It’s handled differently by everybody, and in turn, the solution varies from case to case. The question of this film then becomes whether or not it handles the subject matter appropriately. Whether seen as grim or with a sense of relief or some middle ground in-between, the interpretation of how those of us who feel lost are able to escape such a feeling is certainly felt. After all, there’s no one-size-fits-all solution for such heady dilemmas. More than anything, it’s clear that Schwab has a vision for such an odd film; and it shows! The hotel the film takes place in makes for a really strong setting that makes you start to question just how a building like it could exist. It’s a testament to the production and set designers that each new change makes this maze of a location feel all the more suffocating and evocative.

Mr. K is celebrating its world premiere at the 2024 Toronto International Film Festival. For more information on the film, head right here.

Grade: B-