Release Year: 2013

Directer: Denis Villeneuve*

Running time: 153 minutes

Film does not have to be limited to entertainment purposes. When entertainment is the purpose of a movie, that is fine and even respectable (much of the time), but when a movie takes up greater, risky ambitions and achieves them, it is a moving and applaudable feat. With Prisoners, I was excited to see Hugh Jackman star in what I was told to be a neo-noir feature, as I am a big fan of both of these elements, but the movie was willing to give me much more. Not all at once, and not more than necessary, but definitely more than just a way to spend 2.5+ hours, and with a runtime like that I admit I was nervous how it would be filled. So very thankfully, not one of these minutes were wasted and this film ended up being a viscerally gripping venture I could not have anticipated but will not under-appreciate.

Starting with the visual presentation of the movie, it was already mind-blowingly real from the powerful opening shot. It somehow felt more real than nearly any movie I’ve ever seen and I cannot explain why. Denis Villeneuve proves himself to be one of the greatest filmmakers there is, and not for the last time: paired with the bleak but intentional cinematography of Roger Deakins, every occurrence in the movie feels just right. By this I do not mean that the movie feels forced or contrived by any means, but what makes it “just right” is that the dialogue and motions and tension all feel remarkably realistic, like they are unfolding without any assistance. With a movie concerned with depicting one realistic scenario after another, it achieves its purpose with flying colors and a starkly grey atmosphere.

These scenarios are grim, however. Hugh Jackman plays a patriotic family man trying to find his young daughter and her friend, with Jake Gyllenhaal playing an expert detective who might just be stumped for the first time. It is alluring and more than Shakespearean to watch these raw but original characters share a goal and yet be at odds the whole movie. The plot contains constant conflict: conflict of the mind, conflict of the heart… but the most intriguing is perhaps the spiritual conflict that permeates the movie. It is refreshing to have an explicitly Christian protagonist, and the film’s writing was far more faithful to this element of his character than I’d expected (hats way off yet again to Villeneuve and to screenwriter Aaron Guzikowski). With the realistically belligerent landscape this movie forms, however, Jackman’s Keller Dover is not keenly left out of the conflict, and sees his faith tested in brutal ways. Without spoiling the plot, I was extremely impressed with the way this movie balanced the value of the Christian faith with the trials Jesus’ followers face: the film is careful to present problems realistically, but Dover’s faith does have an influential and admirable power worth preserving.

Besides being a landmark in its visuals and its worldview, Prisoners is masterful in how its story is told as well. Despite the gruesome subject matter, the film’s beautifully and meticulously and intensely moving narrative is presented in such a unique way that makes me want to view this film again. The film noir components are indeed present, but used for the story rather than in addition to it. No movie has captivated me quite like Prisoners and its originality and raw intensity are what gripped my attention and kept me valuably invested the whole time. It does go too far in its intensity… way far… but it is for the sake of a story that is not only worth telling, but one that is moving and intentional the whole time. The shock value is just that. Value. The sophistication even in gruesome narrative material is what sets it apart from most movies and even many great ones. I would refrain from easily recommending Prisoners due to its subject matter and how brutally but accurately it depicts it, and can affirm that despite its quality I could never call this a film for everyone or even the majority of people. It does not mess around.

Sometimes a movie is the “perfect film.” Not that it is flawless, as this is unachievable, but when looking at all the decisions that went into it, none of them feel like they should have been made differently. The film is magnificent and you can’t imagine it another way, and the flaws or less favorable aspects are what make it more human. They ground the film. For me, Inception is one of these films, Drive is one of these films, and Prisoners is definitely one of these films.

*One of my favorite directors

Release Date: 2017

Director: David Lowery

Running Time: 92 minutes

Connection. When a movie connects to a viewer, either all other attributes of it fall into place for them, or the viewer is able to see those attributes’ purpose in forming that connection. The purpose of A Ghost Story appears to be to connect to viewers via a common yet painful human emotion: grief. Very very unfortunately, the movie has almost no redeeming qualities to allow this connection to be naturally forged for any good reason. Its flaws grow at an exponential rate and overshadow the impressive but finally pointless values of the movie.

The vintage aspect ratio, minimal amount of dialogue, and careful cinematography give the film admittedly exceptional visual appeal… at first. It is clear from the beginning that the film is going to be more concerned with heavy subject matter than entertainment for entertainment’s sake, but the entire movie rides this complex to absolutely no destination. The viewer is introduced to the death of a musician early in the movie, in an impersonal and honestly insensitive way, with something the narrative loves very much: a lingering shot. A prior lingering shot of the musician and his wife as they try to go to sleep is practically all the viewer has to go on to get a sense of their relationship. It is the closest they are shown to be before the death, and it is a really uncomfortable scene that does not easily touch the viewer emotionally like it was apparently supposed to do.

Then a “ghost” arises from the late musician and it is literally a sheet presumably covering Casey Affleck. The talent he definitely has is daftly wasted as he sulks under a big sheet that looks like it should be accompanying Charlie Brown trick-or-treating. I am not being harsh or hyperbolic: this is the actual protagonist of the film, for whom the viewer is supposed to feel sorry. They are called to feel even more sorry for his wife, however, or at least that was the impression I got when the camera lingered on her eating pie and… maybe crying for six whole minutes. The ghost watches in the background, obviously expressionless, which makes both of them so. The wife’s grief feels unnatural if it is even present at all, and such a dull, “contemplative” series of scenes just like this one is a rude insult to those who not only have felt real grief but have actually had their lives affected by losing a loved one.

Camera angles and intimate scenes create a faint air of realism, but then the movie takes ridiculously surrealistic elements and incorporates them inexplicably. By the time~spoiler alert~the ghost “communicates” with another comically embarrassing sheet in a neighboring house, evident in basic and fake-deep subtitles, it feels like watching a project by young students who needed to fulfill a time minimum. It is very childish-looking by this (early) part of the movie, and it is clear why the movie is unnecessarily rated R: it wants to be a movie for deep grown-ups. Raiders of the Lost Ark is more graphic than this movie but it feels like the studio fears no one will take the film seriously unless it is R-rated. With this gimmick and many others, the film is expected to transcend itself and be digested like it isn’t a grown man walking around in a sheet with occasional, very obviously preachy dialogue. The movie requires little to no thinking to understand, and it believes that because the subject matter that is a hop, skip, and a jump away from it is itself deep, that the movie itself is. It is not.

I am not upset that the movie takes risks. What’s upsetting is that it takes the same risks as so many other superior films*, and it stitches them together in the hope that it will connect with an audience and forgets they actually have a choice of watching the movie or not. The pedantic dialogue, disappointing narrative, lack of self-awareness, and especially its mistreatment of the subject of grief all spoil the sharp cinematography and inappropriately placed but excellent music so that these features do not feel like virtues anymore, as they only work towards this vain search for depth. Most people probably pat themselves on the back for having the patience to watch an actress eat pie for six minutes, but I can confidently say this movie is a waste of time and possibly my least favorite movie ever.

*For examples, scarce dialogue was mastered in A Quiet Place, along with limited setting and cast which were also mastered by 10 Cloverfield Lane, and lingering shots were used exceptionally in Drive, and all three of these films are much more valuable.

Release year: 2013

Directors: Joel & Ethan Coen*

Running time: 110 minutes

“I do this for a living… this is how I pay [the rent],” says this film’s titular character in one of my favorite movie scenes of all time. He is referring to his “career” as a folk singer. Llewyn Davis is a man who plays his guitar in reluctant venues for a complacent record label; he is down on his luck every day of his life; he is a perfectly common relic of American history. The Coen brothers give their audience a raw, gritty look inside his life, and the experience that results is a masterpiece that I enjoy profusely.

From a historical perspective, Inside Llewyn Davis captures a significant, painfully beautiful, yet overlooked sanction of American history: the folk movement that reached an apogee in the early ’60s. The movement embodied American virtues like honesty and diligence, but also plenty of struggles. This comes mostly from the fact that success in the music business is already rare and can be demanding to the point of destruction, and the fact that folk singers had to abandon popular rock-and-roll, “electric” culture to put their hearts on the line in a conversely trendy niche of show business. Being a folk singer was hard, and no aspect of Llewyn’s life lets the viewer forget that.

Now for the cinematic quality of the movie. The color palette of Llewyn’s endeavors throughout New York and to Chicago is very drab and plain, yet so vibrant that the monotone (but not monochromatic) somberness becomes familiar rather than unsettling or unfitting. The film is very comfortable with itself, but Llewyn is anything but. His experiences are expertly timed and sequenced to make sure the viewer is being shown the raw truth of his annoyingly hard life, but in an organic way that refrains from being overly sentimental or melodramatic.

This film has one of the best casts I’ve ever seen, from a subjective point of view and from witnessing everyone’s perfectly imperfect placement and actions throughout this movie. There are characters the viewer will come to love, hate, and everything in between, as each one materializes into personalities that, dare I say, at times feel like real people. It does not take long before their personalities are so convincingly fleshed out by the actors’ mannerisms, movements, and words, and they are each uncannily subject to consistency or change: whatever the narrative entails. Oscar Isaac, an actor I’ve come to admire for a variety of spectacular performances, nails the role of Llewyn in a believably grounded exploration of such a normal character. The movie entirely warrants the character study it launches, as Isaac brings Llewyn’s struggle to life.

Llewyn is a very realistically flawed human being, and unfortunately one of his flaws is a product of one of the movie’s, and that is the harsh language that especially permeates the beginning of the film. I understand the inclusion of such foul vocabulary: every character is under some kind of great pressure, most have been hardened by city life (or even just the cold weather…), and the central character is one with a temper and a poor outlook on the world. The profanity is an understandably realistic reflection of these characterizing, contextualizing elements and is even reprimanded a couple times, but if one thing slightly took me out of the experience of enjoying this movie, the language was it.

The movie is indeed an adventure, however. An adventure into ordinary life, surrounded by an era one likely doesn’t know very well, but an adventure nonetheless. This is accomplished largely by such entertaining music that gives the movie intimate, insightful life. Not one song is wasted and everyone who undertakes one proves themselves to be very talented. The result is one of the greatest original soundtracks of the decade and an element of emotion that the movie does not take lightly. The Coen brothers really know their stuff, and can possibly ignite an affinity or at least an interest in folk music for the average viewer who was not previously acquainted with this aspect of the film.

Inside Llewyn Davis is a deep masterpiece that flies by but is strategically filled with natural depictions of life and loss, and it remains potent rather than pretentious in doing so. It is one of those movies like The Accountant that makes me have an “Oh, I love this scene” moment at pretty much every scene. It is brilliant how an examination of the dull points of life… is quite frankly never dull. The movie is melancholy and endearing in good proportion, with the ability, but not the demand, to make the viewer think about life. It tests one’s sympathy. It makes me want to seek contentment with even the mundane, because sometimes that is all my circumstances will leave me, and it gives me perspective of how important it is to sympathize and connect with others. Those were my takeaways from a journey Inside Llewyn Davis.

*A pair of my favorite directors

Release Year: 2013

Director: Alexander Payne

Running time: 115 minutes

Nebraska is a movie I had been meaning to watch for a long time, and I finally got around to watching it recently, thankfully without bloated expectations. Knowing little outside the premise, I went in nearly as ignorant as possible to this movie, and from my first impressions to my last, it was at least interesting. As far as being a great movie I am glad to have seen, that is not exactly the same thing.

The film has a primary conflict right from the opening shot: an elderly man believes he won a ton of money as a prize from a magazine contest and wants to go to Nebraska to collect it. It is a simple enough premise. Shot in black-and-white at a pace just as monotone, Nebraska does not try to excite or even really impress. If other movies are wildflowers and plants that hope to be worthy of the viewer’s attention for their duration, Nebraska is a seed that sprouts for nearly two hours, promising nothing more than itself and therefore not technically disappointing. This humble presentation, that’s actually humble and not some lofty work that hopes to look deeper than it really is, saves the movie from being the least bit bad.

It ends up being the other features that prevent it from being extremely great, but I will get to that. First, it is worth congratulating the amount of realism this film possesses. It does not really have a choice but to be realistic, since it devotes itself to displaying the elderly protagonist’s relationship with his family who join or host him on his quest, and it, in my opinion, truly nails the essence of life that it attempts to capture. Woody (the protagonist) and his son have nothing but genuine-sounding conversations, and every interaction between each family member, from mundane discussion of body aches to emotional breakthroughs, never felt forced or far-fetched.

The decision to shoot it in black and white was a terrific one, as colorized scenes would probably feel a little lifeless and the mundane, minute scale of the subject matter would not fill the cinematography out. The movie’s static ambition, however, does not make it automatically enjoyable just because it is authentic. Just as a question can be authentic, but still unsatisfying if there is no answer or hope for an answer, so this movie portrays a dysfunctional family without any clues of how the viewer must interpret them. This is respectable, but the movie results in a consequential emptiness. I do not mean the movie provides some intentional emptiness as a philosophical or social statement (such as with the movies Seven or The Departed), I mean the movie is empty itself, with sparseness as its input rather than output.

The emptiness manifests in how it is pitifully obvious that the magazine has lured Woody into a scam, and the presentation of his family is almost as disappointing. His sons are in fact willing to care about him (though to different extents) but everyone else seems to care only for his money. His family is dysfunctional, as mentioned, but there is nothing the viewer is explicitly or even implicitly supposed to do with that.

Such a bare-bones principle makes this movie a real challenge. This is what I like most about it. Watching Woody’s nephews talk about how fast they could drive… over, and over again… as well as seeing family members’ true selves when things were looking either up or down, really gave me an appreciation. It gave me an appreciation for my own family and for the fact that life is so variant that we even have a word to classify what is “boring.” Life has so much tension and suffering (not to be corny) and to be reminded that a.) you have a choice whether or not to embrace those little moments when life is eased, b.) other people go though struggles just like your own, and yet not exactly like your own, and c.) I have the choice whether to seek reconciliation with others… such reminders are significant.

Yes, Nebraska is boring and intentionally so, but it is also sublimely acted and as funny as it is gritty. The movie is just empty enough that it doesn’t satisfy like another good film would, but the emptiness is a well-done catalyst for the viewer’s own takeaways.

Release year: 2017

Directors: Lee Unkrich & Adrian Molina

Running time: 109 minutes

Pixar thrives on original ideas. The only missteps I have ever witnessed with this studio are when they milk a fantastic idea with sequels, as even the greatest do; and even though I do not like some of their original movies, I can still respect the artistry and intention behind almost all of them (with the exception of Cars). Originality in a kid’s movie is refreshing, since it is not preying on young innocence/ignorance to when a movie is a knock-off, an uninspired cash grab, or just plain infringement, since normal films of these types can be easily dismissed by adults. Coco is one of those movies that has an idea that is so admirably original, yet its message is in no way alien and is instead both familiar and applicable. One does not have to be a member of the culture this movie displays to receive its messages of passion, memories, and family, and that beautiful transformation of the specific to the universal is Pixar’s trademark that has struck again.

Per expectation, this movie is so beautifully animated. Not one shot feels out of place and when it is not breath-taking it is deeply realistic. The story follows the artistic, soulful Miguel, and so does the viewer when every bit of scenery is meticulously but naturally laid out with a captivating spectrum of colors and movements. This movie is some of the strongest proof of the power of animation: the dedication, the emulation, the inspiration that goes into it can be mesmerizing.

The movie is not entrapped by a domination of style over substance, however. With every spectacular visual there is a believable, humorous character, a perfectly placed plot point, or an emotionally impactful moment. This movie somehow finds a way to balance cultural exposition and exploration with character development, music, and an entertaining plot instead of forcing each component to compete with the others. Artistic unity is probably the best way to describe it, especially returning to the concept of highly purposeful art direction and editing. Every element works toward an unforgettable ending that is satisfactory but not cliché or entirely expected.

Basically, this is one of the most engaging movies in Pixar’s impressive history, and this is sadly the primary reason for what I believe to be the film’s biggest flaw, which has to deal with characters’ interactions. I can remember at least two instances where the characters’ reactions to a discovery, or their thought processes in a situation were not convincing, but this error only stuck out so sorely because the rest of the movie was so believable in the development of such endearing characters. Coco holds itself to such a high standard that some minor, isolated moments where it does not reach the standard are regrettably obvious. It is one of the best problems for a movie to have, but it was a problem nonetheless.

As an entire experience, this movie is truly incredible and astonishing, with an enjoyable balance between charm and depth that make it more than worth the watch. I cannot recommend this movie enough, as its filmmakers found the perfect way to craft an impactful, memorable film without marring the accessibility of a classic Pixar movie.

Release Year: 2012

Director: Derek Cianfrance

Running time: 140 mins

It is a practice of mine to refrain from spoiling movies with my reviews. This is for two reasons: I firstly want to give as much criticism as I can without letting plot influence other aspects of the film, and I secondly would like to prevent myself from robbing a reader and potential viewer of the richly suspenseful narrative experience I had or would have liked to have had. In the case of The Place Beyond the Pines, my grievances with this movie would be far too vague if they did not directly reference specific plot elements, and I do not like this movie enough to recommend it to anyone and hope they can be as in-the-dark about the plot as I was. For this reason, as indicated by the “[s]” in the title, this review will contain substantial spoilers for The Place Beyond the Pines.

To lead with positive elements of the movie, I can honestly declare the original music by Mike Patton to be phenomenal. The score was so atmospheric and I definitely felt like I was in Schenectady, NY during this movie, regardless of how much I enjoyed myself there. The cinematic shots of several different microcosms of this town were also excellent, again really creating a synecdoche that keeps the viewer engaged: this is what the movie does best.

What I believe to be its failures are what it does once it has the viewer’s attention. Ryan Gosling, one of my increasingly most favorite actors, brings a fantastic performance as Luke, a motorcycle stunt rider who can only provide for his newly discovered kid by swift means: and according to the strange man Luke meets for a couple days, robbing banks is a get-less-poor-quick scheme that is fruitful often enough that Luke should try it. In an understatement, I did not think this was a good idea, as I’m sure other viewers would agree, so the movie was clearly dwelling in morally grey, “wrong thing for the right reasons” territory, and as a viewer who enjoys being challenged, I followed his narrative in eager suspense.

It doesn’t get far at all, however. Not without a new one starting. One of Luke’s stick-ups goes sour (the stranger warned him not to get greedy!) and he ends up being the casualty himself as officer Avery (Bradley Cooper) corners him in a stranger’s home, where Luke fled. So… that is literally it for him. I guarantee that once you Google this movie, Ryan Gosling appears in the first 20 image results, and in about 80% of the immediate resulting images, giving you an idea of how heavily this movie relies on him for its appeal. This is not a complaint that the movie “underused” him, it is a criticism that this movie is strongly guilty of front-loading. His story was rushed, not so we could get all the exposition done before the real action begins, but because Luke is only allotted a third of the movie. “A third”? Yes. Avery is front and center for the next act, and this humble rookie policeman is hailed as a hero, but feels only guilt. It is clear the movie has switched focuses entirely.

I try not to dwell too long on what a movie could have done, and instead try to focus on what it definitely did do. With such a glaring problem as this front-loading, however, it could have been so easily resolved. If only part of Luke’s story was portrayed, and we learned through inserted flashbacks that he actually had good intentions, not only would we be learning about him the same way Avery did (which would have attached viewers to Avery even more), but we would actually be connected to Luke even more, instead of relying on the sentiment that the tattooed man at the beginning of what feels like forever ago is actually whose actions are unfolding.

It gets worse. Avery’s fellow officers steal money from Luke’s ex-girlfriend, and in a well-acted characterization, Avery tries to give it back. He is a noble guy. But after his father goads him into becoming an assistant district attorney (I’m simplifying that dialogue a bit here), he becomes this power-hungry man who seemingly forgot all about Luke. For half of Avery’s narrative, he is existentially torn up and guilty for ending Luke’s life but after involvement in a dead-end subplot with his crooked colleagues, the viewer must believe the only thing that drives him is becoming district attorney. Yes, the concept of fathers’ influence over sons is established as a motif, but Avery does not act accordingly. Either he should see how inadvertently controlling his father is and change course with his own son, or he should naturally continue the cycle in a cats-in-the-cradle perpetuity. Instead, district attorney duties are now all Avery can think about long after his father’s death, and the psychological damage from his encounter with Luke, about which he even saw a therapist, is totally abandoned, much like how the movie abandons him.

Then comes the third act where Luke’s son and Avery’s son meet at school by not-happy-at-all coincidence and wow, are they annoying. Luke’s son is damaged from his lack of a father and it’s clear the story’s transforming Avery into a power-hungry, overworked, son-neglecting thorn-in-the-side is to make his son feel fatherless, too. They bond over this in… weird ways that after two film acts of complete drama just seem to be swimming in it even more. At this point I did not care about anything that was happening. I understand the message: people’s actions have consequences, but these consequences do not make much sense. Avery neglects his son because the narrative needed him to, not because it actually followed a plausible character arc for a psychologically meek, guilt-ridden, money-returning, greed-abstaining police officer… to turn into this negligent busybody. He simply turned this way from conversations with his poorly portrayed, though well-acted father so the viewer could see his angry teenage son in a melodramatic shot and feel bad for him.

Luke’s son also suffers damage, but he is entirely upset over Avery‘s action of bringing the death of his father, so the third act results in two obnoxious teenagers (with regards to the characters: the actors were superb) who are mad at the same man… even though the movie is trying to convey how fathers’ generations bleed into their sons’. If only it did not tell us everything we need to know about Luke in under forty minutes, fill itself up with enough drama to make Avery a literally incredible villain to two new protagonists, and then turn the morally grey perspective into a story with only one real way to interpret these vexing boys: loads of sympathy. The movie that sought to be ambiguous and complex becomes dull and simple, and as Luke’s son rides a motorbike (*gasp*) into the great unknown to a classic Bon Iver song, the movie feels confused as I was as an audience member. Is he going to repeat the cycle of his father? The greater question is, does it even matter, if the story will just uproot his actions with a well-intentioned police officer who falls victim to plot himself?

Release Year: 2014

Director: Damien Chazelle*

Runtime: 107 minutes

The question of when fixation or motivation becomes unhealthy obsession is not only addressed in Whiplash, but thoroughly explored and put on display. This movie is incredibly immersive and everything that happens to protagonist Andy Nieman feels like the viewer’s own experience.

Following an aspiring and eventually obsessing drummer, the narrative of Whiplash feels like it could be quite niche unless the audience members are artists or students, but at the core of Andy’s strife is the hungry desire to find identity. The people he admires most are the people who can embody artistry to such a powerful, iconic extent that the simple moniker “Bird” carries weight that is more than heavy: it is inspiring, it is exemplary, it is great. Andy wants to be great, and this is the main conflict of the film. His identity must be rooted in something and he has chosen his passion for percussion.

This conflict is established by the quickly introduced but later developed character Fletcher, who runs the band with which Andy hopes to perform. Fletcher is portrayed by the masterful actor J.K. Simmons in a performance that is unforgettable in the truest, most haunting sense of the word, and reaffirms him as one of my all-time favorite actors. Every bark of hatred and commandment that he fires at his students surges through the movie and into a real, genuinely generated sense of fear and worthlessness. A kid with an obsession with being great is the hopefully unstoppable force that meets the terrifyingly immovable object that is a band conductor who sees greatness in no one. Such a dynamic is the personification of perseverance against adversity, and Andy’s dream suddenly does not feel that unfamiliar anymore.

Whiplash does not let it all exist in black and white though, as Andy does not perfectly embody strength and one cannot help but wonder if Fletcher is entirely discouraging. The two characters battle with the prospect of inspiring the other’s personality in their own selves, but this is a frightful possibility for Andy, whom the viewer does not want to see fall into the abyss of hopelessness Fletcher’s instruction creates. Without spoiling the movie’s specific events, the narrative does display for the viewer exactly what Andy sees as a worthy sacrifice for greatness, and it is not as hard-fast to root for the underdog as it would have been if he did not place his entire identity into this pursuit of greatness. The viewer has Fletcher’s questionable motives up in their face, and then Andy’s motives are worth examination themselves.

Exactly how Andy ends up at the movie’s end with regards to his pursuit of greatness, I will not prematurely disclose. Just know that the movie captures every painstaking step Andy takes to get there, in a manner that is excruciating, raw, and cinematically beautiful. Whiplash may be a drama, but it has the tension of an action thriller, the intimacy of an artistic romance, and the intrigue of a modern mystery. It coarsely but effectively speeds through all of these realms, giving the viewer a sense of the whiplash Andy’s journey entails, and the harsh unexpectedness that exists in life.

*one of my favorite directors

Release Year: 2016

Director: Damien Chazelle*

Runtime: 128 min

There is nothing like the breaking of expectations, the humility of someone or something’s shattering of what you had thought to be true of them. Virtually everyone had told me upon its release that La La Land was this must-see spectacle of a modern film, and from how widespread the acclaim was, I wanted nothing to do with it. Now that the buzz has long since dissipated, I had the privilege of watching it some weeks ago not only to appreciate its artistic quality but also to witness a complete overturning of expectations.

The movie is gripping from the opening minutes, immediately diving into “Another Day of Sun,” to let the viewer know the exact type of movie they are watching. I really appreciated this because I would not have liked a dramatic or comedic opening that establishes a musical too far into one of those directions from the start. After the masterful choreography and vocal talent across the scene, the film’s moments of humor and drama are way more impactful when they do not feel like its driving force. Also surprisingly captivating was the dynamic between Ryan Gosling’s Sebastian and Emma Stone’s Mia. They were extremely believable and struck a perfect balance between flirtation and animosity. As an effort to make a musical that felt modern and realistic, they did a wonderful job.

Without spoiling the ending, this was also one of the movie’s best features. It reaffirmed the realism and revealed the movie’s more thoughtful implications. The cinematography was also very admirable and vibrant. No blatant flaws were actually present in this movie, by my standards, except sometimes that its self-awareness caved in with ever so slightly pretentious “deep” moments that felt out of place with the grounded nature of the rest of the movie.

La La Land is well-acted, well-directed, and well-performed, and it has the ability to keep the viewer’s attention with actual artistry rather than ploys and gimmicks. The fact this film does not veer too drastically into a complex story or overly complex characters means one can focus on the creative expressions of normal life in a simply enjoyable way. In this way, less is truthfully proven to be more.

*one of my favorite directors

This site is intended to convey my thoughts and opinions about movies. No copyright infringement or negativity is intended here. All reviews are written by me, under the unofficial pen name A. L. Briar.