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+

Director: David Hinton
Stars: Martin Scorsese, Michael Powell, Emeric Pressburger

Synopsis: Martin Scorsese reflects on the influence of filmmakers Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, whose decades-long collaboration led to a series of classics that made the duo a crucial part of British cinema.

When Martin Scorsese charted his early filmgoing escapades in 1995’s A Personal Journey with Martin Scorsese Through American Movies, he structured said journey by splitting films from the directors he highlighted into four categories. There was the director as a storyteller, in which Scorsese focused on Westerns, gangster films, and musicals; as an illusionist, a la D.W. Griffith and F. W. Murnau; as a smuggler, like Douglas Sirk, Samuel Fuller, and Vincente Minnelli, filmmakers who hid subversive messages in their works; and as an iconoclast, filmmakers who take aim at social conventions, including Charlie Chaplin, Orson Welles, Elia Kazan, and Stanley Kubrick. 

The aforementioned filmmakers are all icons, each one deserving of their own individual retrospectives. But it’s fitting that the two men Scorsese has championed the most over the years, Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, are the first to receive such treatment from the man himself in the form of David Hinton’s Made in England: The Films of Powell & Pressburger. Scorsese narrates a sprawling history of the duo’s collaboration as he viewed it: with enthusiasm and adoration. His singular connection to Powell & Pressburger’s work turns what might otherwise serve as a by-the-numbers documentary about a legendary filmography into a far more personal tour through an inimitable yet influential body of work. And sure, it helps that Scorsese just so happens to be one of the seminal filmmakers of his generation, if not le grand fromage; all the more reason to enjoy the journey.

For many viewers, that journey may be an uncharted one. Though The Red Shoes will undoubtedly set off alarm bells for most Criterion Channel subscribers, most films from The Archers — Powell and Pressburger’s production company — initially spent years shrouded from mainstream attention. That wasn’t the case for Scorsese, who first caught their work on a colorless television set that dilapidated the pure beauty of Powell and Pressburger’s technicolor fever dreams. No matter; to a young Marty, their films were vibrant on any screen. The Archers’ landscapes, often drenched in red, fed his senses; the duo’s title cards, which always read “Written, produced, and directed by” both Powell and Pressburger, were cause for endless curiosity. Who was actually directing? Who was writing these scripts? How were they getting away with such unique mastery, as a duo no less?

Of course, knowing what we know now, we can answer these questions ourselves. (Powell directed; both contributed to the script using stories from Pressburger; sheer conviction, I suppose?) But Scorsese, as he tells us, had to find out for himself, and set out to learn the truth early on in his career. He met with Powell in 1975, on the heels of Mean Streets and Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore. Scorsese recalls expressing his admiration for The Archers’ work, noting that Powell was quiet and reserved, but moved that American filmmakers like Scorsese, Brian de Palma, and Francis Ford Coppola revered his movies. (Powell specifically noted that Scorsese’s praise caused him to feel “blood course through his veins.”) To Scorsese, Powell and Pressburger were unlike the David Leans, Carol Reeds, and Alfred Hitchocks of the world, the so-called “mythical creatures in British filmmaking.” They were doing something wholly different; perhaps that’s what drew the likes of de Palma and Coppola to their work.

But what Scorsese brings to Made in England is something few others of a similar ilk — and there are very few — can offer: A perspective rooted in authorship. Not only does he possess a distinct appreciation for the way The Archers tended to feature a familiar troupe of actors in each of their projects, something Scorsese does himself, but he’s even taken some of Powell and Pressburger’s stylistic calling cards and implemented them into his own films. Mean Streets is as red as it is thanks to, you guessed it, The Red Shoes; Powell even felt it was “too red.” The Age of Innocence and Black Narcissus have more in common than you think; the next time you program a double-feature of Raging Bull and The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, note the similarities between Jake LaMotta’s long walk from the tunnel to the boxing ring and Colonel Blimp’s early duel. In Made in England, Scorsese notes how Blimp neglects the duel itself in an effort to focus on the relationship between its participants; in Raging Bull, he similarly focuses more on LaMotta’s life than he does the fights in which he partakes. 

Made in England is as much a lesson in filmmaking as it is a celebration of the great works of two collaborators who saw it as their duty to challenge the conventions of modern filmmaking, if not to upend them completely. Scorsese, having had a relationship with and an appreciation for the filmmakers in question, is the only tour guide that makes a lick of sense for such a journey. His attraction to Powell & Pressburger is unrivaled, and that it influenced his work so heavily is a big part of what makes Hinton’s documentary so captivating. Not only will it make any cinephile want to revisit the subject’s films as if for the first time, but it will make you clamor for more filmmakers to be as passionate about their craft as Scorsese manages to be. Authenticity can’t be bought. But it can be showcased.

Grade: B+

Director: Sarah Gyllenstierna
Writers: Sarah Gyllenstierna, Mats Wägeus
Stars: Ardalan Esmaili, Jens Hultén, Magnus Krepper

Synopsis: The story is about three friends who spend a long weekend in a remote cabin, intending to hunt deep in the Swedish woods. However, one day all animals vanish without a trace and the forest turns eerily quiet

For an activity such as hunting, it feels like people’s opinions on it can fall very firmly into one of two possible categories. There are those who are firmly opposed to it, and those who have gone hunting. Whether brought from a young age or discovered later in life and used as a means to feed oneself, hunting doesn’t really feel like an activity that you just stumble into. There’s a rather large barrier of entry, and that’s before even considering how the implications it has on an individual both morally and psychologically. As somebody who has always considered themselves in the former category, I cannot deny my intense fascination behind one of the most inherently compelling stories ever created. I’m referring to “The Most Dangerous Game”, a 1924 short story by Richard Connell. Undoubtedly one of the most influential stories ever written, Sarah Gyllenstierna’s Hunters on a White Field finds itself entering into the halls of the many stories who owe some gratitude to the now century-old tale of a man being hunted by another man.

But the ways in which Gyllenstierna’s debut feature go about capturing such a familiar story is what’s most exciting. Beginning as a gripping drama, Gyllenstierna leaves her audience entranced for a large chunk of the film before completely abandoning all that in favor of goosebump-raising tension and genuine thrill. And the shift occurs in such a way that would completely derail a lesser film. Yet the tone of Hunters on a White Field remains steadfast throughout, regardless of whatever genre it feels Gyllenstierna is dipping her toe into. 

The film begins with two men in a convertible. With the top down, they yelp towards the heavens out of excitement at the isolation they are headed towards. Gregor (Magnus Krepper) and Alex (Ardalan Esmaili) are headed to the home of Henrik’s (Jens Hultén) brother for an annual hunting trip. While Gregor and Henrik have made this trip a yearly tradition, this is Alex’s first time joining. He has just received his hunting license, and it would appear as if he is being inducted into this established posse. Gregor and Alex work together, and Henrik’s life seems a bit more up in the air. He very much feels like a person who always seems  to be traveling from place to place. And while you may admire on some level how he’s able to experience all that life has to offer in the great outdoors, you’re often left with the confused question as to how he’s able to afford such a life. While the details are vague, we at least know that Gregor and Alex work some sort of corporate job. It’s referred to in the most standard of office jargon, but the how and what of this trio of lives doesn’t matter in the slightest. In fact, they could literally be anybody. These characters merely serve as a vessel for Gyllenstierna. When out here, isolated from all of society, all that matters is the why. Why have these men made such a tradition of this retreat into nature? Are they really that in touch with the world around them? Based on how they carry themselves and where the film takes them, it feels like the actual answer is much simpler: ego.

From the opening moments alone, it’s made clear that these men are putting on a bit of a front. The very disregard for nature is made painfully obvious from their actions alone. So to hear them digress into these long-winded details of how to follow the “rules of hunting” which they have created should instantly clue audiences into Gyllenstierna’s angle. These men, on some level, are frauds. They don’t go on this trip to connect with the larger world around them. If that were the case, a weekend-long hike would likely provide just as much fulfillment. This destination, and activity, is chosen for a very specific reason. One can imagine how Gregor handles himself in the office. He appears to be the oldest of the three, and one gets the sense that he feels no control over his life 51 weeks out of the year. It’s only when he finds himself alone with Henrik on this yearly excursion that he gets the chance to “be himself.” On this trip, all we see is their pride taking over their bodies and minds completely. They treat Alex as if he’s a child, teaching him the way of the woods through tough love and light hazing. All in the name of harmless fun, right? Only this weekend isn’t harmless. It quickly devolves into something menacing. It takes on a dark shadow of what hunting represented thousands of years ago. Gyllenstierna even addresses this comparison to ancestral times directly with Gregor’s hobby.

About a third of the way through the film, Gregor takes out his collection of ancient arrowheads and hunting tools. Upon first viewing, he does seem rather passionate about these pieces he has collected over the years. But when taking in the entire film upon its conclusion, it’s comical to think about a scenario in which even these are phony. He merely collects replicas in the hopes of impressing those around him with his hunting prowess. Whatever the actual case may be regarding the authenticity of such items, it’s what these men do in the presence of them that really cracks Hunters on a White Field wide open. Gregor and Henrik begin rough housing with a small axe and arrowhead, respectively. They circle one another, pointing out how skilled these hunters of the past must have been. But slowly, their speech devolves into mere grunts and shouts. The actors play it out as more of a mockery than actual reverence. Tools once used to genuinely feed and protect a hunter are now being used for something warping the name of hunting out of genuine necessity. And in turn, this mockery leads to a quick bout of real violence. It’s a shocking moment, played a bit for tension, but again, feels like a seed that Gyllenstierna is smartly planting. And this is just one of many that aim to dictate exactly what this film, and its characters, are barreling towards.

I once again return to all the ways in which these individuals unintentionally reveal their true selves. Some moments are much more blatantly chilling, but they are placed earlier in the film. For example, Henrik makes a rather unsettling comment about his sister-in-law when the trio are preparing for their first hunt the following morning. Alex is clearly a bit taken aback by the comment, but it’s lightly brushed off as being part of Gregor’s twisted sense of humor. Repeatedly in the first half of the film, we see any instance of discomfort chalked up to “nerves”, and of the few times Alex directly addresses such blatant remarks, it’s essentially understood as “locker room talk.” And over time, we are shown how even Alex, seemingly the most relatable of the three, becomes slowly warped by what his companions are putting him through. The way he carries himself. The way in which he speaks. He changes before our very eyes, but Gyllenstierna directs it in such a way that it’s more of a menacing turn over time as opposed to a sudden one. Any sudden jolt she hopes to achieve is all saved for the final act, which takes such a stark turn in tone and delivery that it’s almost a miracle that it works. But again, we have been in the hands of a filmmaker who set us off on this path from nearly the first frame. Once the surprise and adrenaline wears off, and we begin to accept where we are being taken as an audience, the thrill and excitement of it all rushes into our minds next.

Hunters on a White Field captures the male ego in such a way that feels potent. Even if it leans into some exaggerated tendencies, it feels wildly realistic. What’s most impressive about this is the jump Gyllenstierna expects her audience to take in order to be hit with the full impact of such a conclusion. And the reason it works? The confidence that radiates off the screen. The film completely commits to its new role as an intense psychological thriller. At one point, you expect it to teeter over into full-blown body horror. It becomes much more grimy, covered in dirt, sweat, and blood. These hunters, having lost their ability to display their supremacy over nature itself, turn to something more menacing. When left unchecked, their most sinister behavior that lives hidden behind societal fear breaks loose. And it‘s in that escape that Hunters on a White Field is at its most compelling and exciting.

Hunters on a White Field celebrated its world premiere at the Tribeca Film Festival in the International Narrative Competition section. Tickets for screenings and more information on the film can be found right here.

Grade: B+

Director: dream hampton
Writer: dream hampton
Stars: Ice-T, Q-Tip, Guru

Synopsis: A visual memoir from director dream hampton’s personal archives about the dawn of the golden era of hip hop.

For fans of hip-hop, dream hampton’s It Was All A Dream is going to feel like discovering a treasure trove. Capturing the golden age of the genre, the archival footage from hampton provides unfathomable access to many beloved artists of the early ‘90s.  Many of the rappers featured in the film would go on to be regarded as some of the greatest to ever pick up a microphone. Now, this film could certainly ride the exciting wave of welcoming audiences into the inner chamber. To see their favorite artists in the recording booth, hanging out during downtime, or even preparing for a concert is worth admission. Yet hampton valiantly refused to rely on this, and instead uses this footage to channel thoughts and emotions she’s had for decades based on the narration.

So lucky for us, hampton’s personal archives extend far beyond merely capturing moments in hip-hop history. With the footage rediscovered nearly three decades later, hampton’s film takes on a new life. This is a film about hip-hop made by a clear fan and scholar of the genre, but it is not one exclusively made up of blind reverence and idolization. Now, this is certainly a love letter to a now bygone age of music, specifically the golden era of hip-hop. But importantly, hampton examines these quick, yet pivotal, few years of hip-hop from every angle. It Was All A Dream begs us to examine the very legacy of the golden era of hip-hop, going beyond just thinking of all the classics it birthed.

Composed entirely of archival footage shot by hampton when she was an NYU film student, this film is described as “a visual memoir.” It’s the most apt description imaginable, considering all of the narration included is read directly from hampton’s writing as a journalist in the ‘90s. So this film simultaneously serves as a present-day (now the past) examination of hip-hop during the early ‘90s, but also as a time capsule for a journalist questioning what that legacy will mean in the future (now the present). And quite frankly, it’s a perfect encapsulation of what it means to truly be a fan of something. To blindly accept all the flaws of something we love is not only unfair to the subject of our adoration, but also to ourselves. hampton makes it clear that those around her questioned how she could be so supportive of a genre with such an emphasis on misogyny and criminality. But as anybody well-versed in hip-hop would know, there is far more at play beyond the surface value of the lyrics.

Listening to hampton’s narration juxtaposed against the lyrics of ‘90s hip-hop, one can’t help but think of the hook from “Slam” by Onyx. The group being featured prominently during one section of the film certainly helps with this regard. As they were known to do, the group loudly shouts the lyrics, “Let the boys be boys”, in their classic song. In the decades since the release of that song, that phrase has become examined very often, and for good reason. It’s refreshing to hear hampton, who at this point in the film but also from her storied career, proves herself a bonafide fan, directly addressing these ideas head-on. To blindly accept the status quo of something we love feels disingenuous. With her writing and subsequently this film, hampton sets out to pick apart the following; why rappers possibly choose these lyrics, how they are perceived by the listening public, and what, if any, change is necessary within the world of hip-hop.

It could have been pretty simple to just pose these questions to her readers and eventual viewers. But again hampton refuses to take the path of least resistance. The writing she pulls from is eloquent in both delivery and prose, clearly stemming from personal thoughts formulated over years of time spent listening to hip-hop. But in the footage of It Was All A Dream, we see hampton actively brush up against literal legends. And in the ways that only a true journalist and even more passionate human can do, hampton uses her access to question.

She talks with artists about the worries of hip-hop going commercial. She addresses head-on how male rappers won’t stop using misogynistic lyrics until they’re held accountable by other men, both their peers and their audience. There’s a distinct worry about hip-hop possibly disappearing, and the discussion on how that may come about and what that would mean is fascinating. hampton’s film is many things, but above all, it’s honest. Importantly, it’s complicated. It’s not meant to deify the great classics and legends of the genre. Rather, it’s meant to show that these were just individuals who found a way to escape their circumstances. The Notorious B.I.G. is roughly 22-23 years old in the footage we see of him. The same goes for Snoop Dogg. We’re watching young adults grapple with a new voice, and luckily, hampton is there to guide and nudge in the right direction. As a lifelong fan of hip-hop, I greatly admire and respect what hampton sets out to show with this documentary. And the genre most certainly has a long way to go. But with honest fans such as herself, documentaries such as these, and more and more artists actively speaking out about similar subjects, hip-hop is in capable hands. It’s not too crazy to think of the betterment of rap as being more than a dream.

It Was All A Dream celebrated its world premiere at the Tribeca Film Festival in the Spotlight Documentary section. Tickets for screenings and more information on the film can be found right here.

Grade: B-

Director: Fernando Andrés
Writer: Fernando Andrés, Tyler Rugh
Stars: Jacob Roberts, David Treviño, Molly Edelman

Synopsis: After hitting emotional and financial rock bottom, best friends Ben and Jordan come up with a scheme to spend an entire year living “rent free” with the help of friends, family and strangers alike in a rapidly changing Austin.

Fernando Andrés wowed audiences at the 2022 Tribeca Film Festival with his and Tyler Rugh’s debut feature, Three Headed Beast. Without retreading my original review of that film, what most stood out was how bold it set out to be from the very outset. And two years later, Andrés returns to the Tribeca Film Festival with his sophomore effort, Rent Free. Upon viewing the film, I gladly stand by the statement I made when first introduced to his work: we are witnessing the birth of a wildly exciting, and great, contemporary filmmaker. Co-written by Andrés and Three Headed Beast co-writer/co-director Rugh, Rent Free very quickly highlights something that seems to be missing from contemporary cinema. At the very least, it’s a noticeable absence from movies being made today.

There was some online discourse recently questioning why many current filmmakers are choosing to not set their films in the present day. Part of this surely stems from not wanting to address issues plaguing the minds of those living in it at this very moment. If we turn to art as an escape, perhaps it’s better for movies to exist in a time that feels slightly different? Obviously, time and place can also affect a story, but it’s always interesting to note when a film just heads back in time by a handful of years. Then there are films that do take place in modern times, but don’t really attempt to say much of anything about them. That is also fine, of course. But Andrés seems like one of very few filmmakers actively engaging with the very current present. Rent Free, almost immediately, shows itself to be highly indicative of the time many young adults find themselves in. Andrés is a true contemporary filmmaker. With this latest feature, he has again shown himself to be focused on what it means to have grown up, and now lived through, the aughts to the mid-20s. And it’s both refreshing and exciting to see it happening in real time.

Living your life invariably comes with a set of issues. It’s an unfortunate part of reality that pretty much all humans share in common. The issues can stem from a litany of places, but more often than not, it’s safe to say that financial burdens are what have plagued most people at some point or another. And this is certainly true for Ben (Jacob Roberts) and Jordan (David Treviño). Two twenty-somethings from Austin, Texas, they have been friends since childhood, and find themselves on the verge of major life changes. Ben has sold away all his belongings to begin his New York era, while Jordan is preparing to resign a lease in Austin with his girlfriend of two years. Jordan, being the absolute real one that he is, joins Ben on a trip to New York to see his friend off, and spend some time in the big city. And as they assuredly know, New York can be ridiculously expensive.

Andrés makes a point to note this fact by plastering the monthly rent and address where the duo is staying across the screen, in big block lettering. With the added information of how many bedrooms and bathrooms there are, Rent Free quickly begins taking shape. As a lifelong New Yorker who just moved boroughs in search of cheaper rent, the number frightens. And it serves as a painful reminder that wherever we go in life, and whatever problems we’re dealing with, there’s always that dreaded number that looms in the distance. Like clockwork, it rears its menacing head once a month, with apparently no end in sight. Yes, New York City, in particular, can be an astronomically expensive place to live. But it is obviously such a fun place with a ton of opportunities. (I promise, this isn’t just my personal bias). So we get to see Ben and Jordan, who are wildly low on funds, take advantage of all the free activities the city has to offer! Across this free-wheeling montage, Andrés sheds any preconceived ideas fans of his last film might have expected from the filmmaker. Where Three Headed Beast was full of patience and quiet moments, Rent Free is much more frenetic. The reason being? The common anxieties of what it means to be a young adult in this generation!

Without getting into the finer details of the plot itself, Ben and Jordan unexpectedly find themselves without the homes they planned on living in. And after one intoxicated discussion leads to a comically half-baked idea, the two formulate a plan. A better term for it would be a scheme; in their eyes, it’s justified as a “social experiment”. Whatever term fits best, they decide that for the rest of the calendar year, the two will live rent free. They’re well-loved by all of their friends, and they have many across Austin. In the meantime, they’ll save plenty, and surely make some memories with their closest friends during this transitional period of living. So what could possibly go wrong? As it turns out, quite a lot. In the vein of classic buddy comedies/road-trip movies, Rent Free finds the perfect balance of all the best qualities of both comedic sub-genres.

While the film primarily takes place in Austin, the homes and apartments (and subsequent rents) around the city vary wildly. So it’s equally important that the duo experience quite the range of circumstances. It’s also crucial that they experience a range of consequences, brought about either by their own ridiculous actions and mistakes, or simply by those who are hosting the duo. This is a situational comedy at its heart, but its ability to double as both a quiet indictment on capitalism and a mourning for quality-of-life amongst a younger generation will undoubtedly speak to many of its viewers. I have only been to Austin once, but I fell in love with the idea of the city years before I ever had the means to make the trip. I had a phenomenal time spending a week there, and I greatly look forward to returning. But from what I could gather from those who have lived there for years, Austin has found itself in a bit of a flux. Andrés, an Austin-based filmmaker himself, directly addresses this shift in culture with his latest.

There are several conversations in Rent Free which point out the major shift in Austin. With big tech companies slowly embedding themselves into the city, prices everywhere have gone up. It’s a tale as old as American capitalism itself, with lively, exciting cities around the country being slowly consumed not just by rising prices, but by losing the distinct identity it became beloved for in the first place. That’s not to say places like Austin or New York aren’t still great places to live, but there is a clear and noticeable shift as far as people from the respective cities can tell. And as young individuals still trying to find their footing in life, what are we to do? In-person job-hunting and professional opportunities seem all but fruitless endeavors (something Rent Free comedically addresses). The culture around app-based interactions seems all but hopeless and soul-sucking (something Rent Free also pokes fun at).

Having one’s own personal space, or even the concept of a “place” is becoming more and more blurred as people find themselves forced to get one, two, or possibly even three roommates in order to pay a monthly rent that only ever goes up (something Rent Free seems to be fundamentally based around). It never really feels like Ben and Jordan are going to provide an answer to this dilemma over the course of the film. And that’s refreshing, particularly because there’s something reassuring, if ever so slightly painful, about seeing your own predicament honestly depicted on screen. It’s difficult to not think about Wallace Shawn’s musings in My Dinner with Andre (1981), wherein he thinks back on his youthful comfort versus the realization that, later in life, all one is forced to think about is money. It is unfortunately one of the few irrefutable facts of reality. But even with such a dour truth at the core of Rent Free, Andrés and Rugh’s script find a way to make this reflection of life amusing and comical.

Ben and Jordan are very much portrayed as a chaotic duo. To see them sabotage themselves repeatedly earns many laughs throughout. And this feels like the key to Rent Free. It’s the honest truth that, in life, we are sometimes going to irrevocably mess things up for ourselves. There’s no escaping it. And the sooner we accept it, the easier it will be to recover from the stumble in the moment. And more often than not, a stumble is all it is. What may seem dire and impossible to solve is just a scuffed knee or a story to tell. Ben and Jordan both make mistakes in this film. And they do have to face some of the consequences of their actions. But importantly, they address one another’s shortcomings.

And they do so in a way that only longtime friends can do; in a way that is inarguably very blunt, and downright hostile, at times. But after years of knowing one another, sometimes that edge is what is needed to really allow feelings to sink in. It’s something to look back on over breakfast the next day and laugh at, but also never forget how it forced you to confront your own actions. With Rent Free, Andrés makes clear his knowledge that we’re all just trying to figure it out as we go along. It’s in that process we learn about ourselves, our friends, and the world around us. And to see Andrés take us through these processes cinematically, providing reflections for an audience very much in the thick of it, is equally exciting. Whatever dilemma of young adult life Andrés decides to turn his camera towards next, rest assured it will be with a curious, honest, and exciting eye.

Rent Free 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+