Controversy isn’t something the Star Wars franchise courts. It is mass cinematic entertainment aimed at pleasing the widest swath of the population as possible. The quality might dip from entry to entry, but the online cognoscenti don’t write think pieces or really argue about anything much more than favorite segments and the role of nostalgia in Star Wars. The franchise’s Manichean simplicity is part of its appeal, as evidenced by JJ Abrams’ series reboot The Force Awakens and its competent aping of the then-38 year old original. Rian Johnson’s The Last Jedi takes Abrams’ new foundation and significantly alters it, making an entry into the long-running nonalogy that dares to be gray and have thematic statements beyond good and evil. Hugely controversial in its disdain for certain obsessive factions of the fandom, The Last Jedi is in open conversation with what Star Wars adherents can and should expect from their favorite series. That kind of meta layer doesn’t make for the most immersive experience, but there’s much to be admired from a Star Wars film with something on its mind.
It’s easy to dismiss The Shape of Water as that light fantasy movie about bestiality between a human woman and male frog-man. Even its Best Picture win doesn’t stop the jokes at its expense. In the spirit of accuracy, the dismissive stance is a factual statement, in that interspecies sex does indeed happen, but the fish-man also chomps on a finger. Why isn’t The Shape of Water the finger-chomping movie? Joyful director Guillermo del Toro’s most commercially and critically successful work deserves better than late-night jokes, because under its outre logline is a stunning and endlessly enjoyable film that reserves its greatest sympathies for cripples, bastards, and broken things (to borrow a phrase from George RR Martin) at the end of the conservative and stilted pre-60’s era. If that happens to include a lonely yet horny frog-man, then so be it.
In the ongoing saga of George Lucas’ Star Wars, the eighth episode sets itself apart from the rest. In The Last Jedi, homage is subtly paid to older saga moments and characters as well as directors Rian Johnson’s and Lucas’ previous works and mentors, which is not new from the previous film, but this one is more complex and thought provoking than any other in the series.
The Last Jedi immediately continues from episode seven, The Force Awakens. Viewers get an answer from Luke Skywalker as Rey presents him with his old lightsaber, which may or may not be predictable but it is fitting.
When people hear about independent movies, they don’t usually think about nine-figure budgets and heavy visual effects. The connotation is one of quirk, small relationship drama, and emotional realism. Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets may have been funded outside of the studio system, technically making it an indie film, but it has exactly none of the hallmarks of films that follow a similar financial path to release. If the advantage of making something outside of the system is to have fuller control over the end product, Luc Besson’s long-gestating passion project squanders that asset with an abysmal amount of toe-curling repartee. Valerian contains George Lucas-level dialogue and character, a neutralization of the George Lucas-level imagination and world-building that’s also on display. If the admittedly novel and unique environment is staffed with cardboard cutouts absent any charisma or human traits, why am I spending time in it?
Contact is about nothing more than humanity's place in the universe and how we see ourselves fitting into it. This breadth is fitting for writers like Carl Sagan and Ann Druyan, whose earlier work in TV includes the seminal series Cosmos. Sagan, an astronomer and brilliant science communicator, died shortly before Contact's release, but Contact is an often-beautiful distillation of his worldview and his way of thinking. Directed by Robert Zemeckis and starring Jodie Foster, Contact brings Sagan briefly back to life, asking the kinds of questions he asked through his scientifically-skeptical outlook. It's not a perfect film, but as far as films pitched directly to me, this one's right down the middle.
Steven Soderbergh's Contagion remains one of my favorite films of the 21st century because it so perfectly mixes the rational and the emotional. In its well-researched and coherent vision of what a deadly pandemic might look like, it perfectly balances the what-if exercises of the head with the human drama of the heart. Denis Villeneuve's Arrival attempts to replicate that finely-tuned mixture, as applied to an alien encounter. It eschews Soderbergh's global approach for a localized one in which a team of US scientists tries to establish contact with the visitors. The events of Arrival feel ripped from the pages of a history book, and that verisimilitude should make it a can't miss for this lover of competence-porn in many of his favorite films. However, Arrival is more heavily tilted towards the head, a problem I've had with all of Villeneuve's films. Of his English-speaking works, this film contains his baldest pitch towards emotionality, but like Prisoners and Sicario, there's a chill in spite of the considerable filmmaking powers on display.
In a filler between Episodes III and IV of the Star Wars saga, Rogue One was a standalone film that brought a group of unlikely heroes together for a cause greater than themselves. It was action packed, creative, yet predictable. But all in all, Rogue One fit nicely in the ongoing epic.
Story developers John Knoll and Gary Whitta gave director Garreth Edwards something only George Lucas experienced throughout this series; creative freedom. Rogue One nearly had new characters to handle a dire mission with little limitations and Edwards succeeded. With characters like Galen, Lyra, and Jyn Erso; Orson Krennic; Cassian Andor; K - 2SO; Chirret Imwe; Baze Malbus; and Saw Geerera, Edwards showed both his creativity to the standalone film and its characters and his limitations to the greater story.
There was a brief period where I thought The Brood was the Cronenbergiest David Cronenberg film, in which a psychiatric drug has the unfortunate side effect of causing horrible growths that become toothless monsters. That title was later taken by Videodrome, in which James Woods develops an organic gun hand and VCR stomach. Dead Ringers, with its drug-addled gynecologists and their insect-appendage-like tools, should've been the new champion, but for a film with that description, it was surprisingly restrained. After watching eXistenZ, I can confidently say it reigns supreme, as it Cronenberged all over the screen. Enthralling in its fleshy transgressiveness, Cronenberg's 1999 sci-fi puzzler is easily the best film of that year involving digital realities reached through bio-ports installed on humans, all while avoiding the philosophical natterings of The Matrix (which beat eXistenZ to theaters by a month). There's no bullet time here, but who needs it when the world construction is this intricate.
Random projects from the MMC Universe.