Peter Berg and Mark Wahlberg are on a roll. Earlier this year came Deepwater Horizon (which I really liked), and now comes Patriots Day, about the Boston marathon bombing. Two gigantic movies in one year. (They also did Lone Survivor a couple years back). Some of Patriots Day is very good, but there’s one aspect that really did not sit well with me.
This is a really fun list. Rogerebert.com contributors each talk about a different great performance from 2016. I wrote about Trevante Rhodes in Moonlight. You can read the full list here.
The Roger Ebert contributors each submitted our own individual Top 10 Lists for 2016 – compiled here. As mentioned in the introduction, the NUMBER of titles – all total – that show up on this list is a testament to how strong a year 2016 was.
Here’s a short elaboration on each of my Top 10 choices, with links to reviews, if I reviewed.
In a year filled with extraordinary debuts from first-time directors, “The Fits” is the standout. Anna Rose Holmer pitched the idea to the Biennale College Cinema, who awarded her a small grant to make the film. “The Fits” is a masterpiece of mood and atmosphere. Its story is creepy and expansive. Its mystery echoes through every unforgettable shot. It throws the questions it poses out into the audience, and refuses to provide answers: an act of deep respect. Grounded by a stunning performance from a young actress with the best name in show business, Royalty Hightower, The Fits is a miracle of a film. You watch and think: “Wow. I’m just glad that this exists now.” My review.
Barry Jenkins’ Moonlight is in the format of a triptych. Each part shows a different phase of the lead character’s life: each time he is known by a different name, and each time he is played by a different actor. The child is known as “Little,” played by Alex R. Hibbert. As a teenager, now known by his actual name “Chiron,” he is played by Ashton Sanders. Meeting up with him again in his 20s, he is now known as “Black,” and he is played by Trevante Rhodes who – for me – gives the performance of the year. It’s difficult to describe just why this film is so unique, so powerful. The plot sounds like an ABC Afterschool Special. It is Jenkins’ handling of it – the mood he deliberately creates – his understanding that silence can be as loud as dialogue, and far more eloquent – that really makes the film. I rarely say this, but Moonlight is not like anything else. The final scene was so quiet and powerful that I don’t think I breathed the entire time.
A deliriously spiky and outrageous movie, funny and violent and disturbing, so off-the-rails of what one expects that the experience (I’ve seen it three times) is no less than exhilarating. To say that about a film that deals with rape, that opens with a violent rape scene, gives you some indication of how crazy this movie is. There is precedent for it, of course, and it reminded me a lot of films from classic Hollywood. There has been a lot of outrage about the film, and its handling of rape. I have heard people say that men have no business making movies about rape, and – worse – some commentary along the lines of “ohmyGod look at the kind of sex she likes and WHO SHE’S HAVING IT WITH … this CLEARLY has to be a male fantasy because no woman in her right mind would have sex with that man and IN THAT WAY” … and it’s that last bit where I stop listening. I do not judge the kind of sex that other people want to have. I do not judge other people’s fantasy lives. I do not judge what people choose to do in their private life. I had a boyfriend once who used to break into my house in the dead of night and crawl into bed with me, while I was still sleeping. It was terrifying … and awesome. Not everyone is into conventional traditional courtship/sex-rituals, people. Unfortunately, when I have tried to discuss the film with those who feel this way, there’s a lot of huffy “Well, I’m just telling you how I feel” stuff coming back. So okay, fine, let’s NOT discuss the film then. And you just keep on ascribing bad faith motives to those of us who like it. One person Tweeted that the positive reaction to Elle explains why Trump was elected. Okay. Uh-huh. (To be fair: I have had a couple of wonderful conversations with other critics who disliked the film and these conversations were interesting and thought-provoking, and nobody blamed anyone for electing Trump, for God’s sake.) Someone said on Twitter, I can’t remember who, that the film made them “extremely uncomfortable” and they said this by way of criticism. The film is SUPPOSED to make you “extremely uncomfortable.” I wonder what reaction will be to Something Wild, released on Criterion in January (I wrote the essay in the booklet). Paul Verhoeven, of course, was counting on all this outrage. Mission accomplished. For me, it was a HOOT. An exhilarating HOOT. And super smart about consent, coming at the very moment when people are so confused about consent that it’s somehow up for debate whether or not “pussy grabbing” is consensual. Elle GETS consent. Because watch what happens when she DOES consent. Watch his reaction to her consenting. I thought: YES. THAT’S IT. There it is: RIGHT there. That’s the issue’s essence. What happens when a woman says “no” isn’t as big a problem as what happens when she says “yes.” And maybe we’re not ready to talk about that quite yet. But Elle barrels right on out into that dangerous landscape. Who better to walk us through it than La Huppert? My review.
The film is a miracle of control. Every moment, every detail, every casting choice … is so perfect, so carefully considered, and yet the end result feels effortless, easy, lifelike. It’s a movie about synchronicity. About how humans are pattern-making machines. It’s a movie about meaning itself. It’s also sweet and tender and kind, without any manipulation of the material, or any sense that Jarmusch is going after your heartstrings. Paterson is another one where I’m like, “Wow. I am so glad that this exists now. That someone made this.” Jim Jarmusch is one of my favorite living filmmakers. Paterson is one of his best. I wrote up Paterson here.
There was some conversation about whether or not this magnificent 5-hour documentary on the O.J. Simpson trial should be counted as TV or film. It ran on ESPN, as part of their 30 for 30 series. But it premiered at Sundance. I decided to include it, because it was one of the most engrossing experiences I’ve had this year. It doesn’t feel like 5 hours. It is an in-depth cross-examination of the way race and class intersect and interact in America, a topic that could not be more timely. I practically had PTSD flashbacks watching it, because it brought that whole nightmare back. I thought I was OJ-d out, after seeing the beautifully done mini-series, and I thought to myself, “Wow. How bummed out is Ezra Edelman that the mini-series beat him to the punch?” But the way it ended up working was that the mini series just primed the pump for the Thesis Course of the documentary. It’s an amazing accomplishment. It’s difficult to watch at times, especially if you lived through it the first time. But it leaves no stone unturned.
Chantal Akerman’s rhythms are slow, even stately. She requires submission from her audiences. (Akerman died in 2015, apparently by her own hand. It still feels wrong to write of her in the past tense.) You cannot meet her films halfway. In an industry that is increasingly about fan-service, Akerman’s work is a welcome blast of cold clear air. “No Home Movie” is documentation of the final years of the life of Akerman’s mother, and features (among many other things) the minutia of everyday tasks (food preparation, cleaning, minor chores), making it a companion piece to Akerman’s masterpiece, Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles, made when she was only 25 years old. No Home Movie opens with a lengthy stationary shot of a lone tree buffeted by strong winds. Sere barren fields stretch into the distance. An image of brute survival. The unthinking hearty life force. The cumulative effect of No Home Movie is devastating, even more so since Ackerman is no longer with us.
I cannot say enough about this glorious film. Anna Biller wrote, directed, production designed, costume designed, composed. She is a breathtaking visionary: she knows what she wants, she sees it in her head, she does what needs to be done to make her vision a reality. She works very closely with her actors: everyone is so on the same page that the performances, too, emanate the sensibility of the director. Samantha Robinson, as the “love witch”, gives one of the performances of the year. The Love Witch is full of call-backs to the past, its look, its feel, the line-readings, the awkwardness that has sincerity in it, its music and lights, Biller’s use of closeup, and makeup, and clothes, every single detail redolent with associations. But make no mistake, this is an extremely modern film: insightful, funny, and biting in its socio-sexual critiques. Glenn Kenny’s review is great. This is one of the movies that I have not been able to stop thinking about since I saw it.
No word of a lie, I have thought of this film probably every day since I first saw it. It comes up repeatedly. Sometimes it’s because of how the light falls on buildings at dusk. Sometimes the world itself becomes an optical illusion. And what might that mean? Is it just beauty revealing itself, or is there a deeper architecture going on somewhere, something I can’t see? Weerasethakul’s vision of the porousness between the living and the dead also stays with me, because it’s something I WANT to sense, but really don’t. I wonder if I listen harder, if I cultivate stillness more, I might be more open to any messages that might be trying to come across. Cemetery of Splendour is not like anything else. My review.
Jonathan Demme’s concert films are already a magnificent archive, and “Justin Timberlake + The Tennessee Kids”, documenting the final show of the pop megastar’s two-year tour, is one of his best. I’d put it up there with Stop Making Sense, and I realize them’s fightin’ words. What Demme does that is so unique is show the performer in his natural habitat – onstage – giving us a sense that we are there at the show (often he pulls back, way back, so we get a sense of the spectacle), but also putting us right up there onstage with him, so that we can see his interactions with the dancers, his musicians, the audience. It’s an extremely intimate approach. There are some scenes of the load-in, of Timberlake preparing, of the whole team – costumes, dancers, roadies, musicians – getting ready. These people are family to one another. In a lot of ways, the film is about collaboration. The collaboration of process, and what it’s like to be surrounded by only A-Gamers. Which is what they all are. Demme revels in that. But he also revels in the effect that Timberlake has on his audience. One shot in particular stands out as my favorite: Timberlake and some of his band members come out into the audience at one point, spreading out through the arena. A guitarist stands with a fan, who can’t believe she is this close to the show, this close to the event itself, and her face explodes in shock and joy, and the guitarist stands with her, playing TO her, involving her. Demme holds the shot. He doesn’t move on. He knows it’s a moment, maybe THE most important moment of all: how all of this collaboration and work and process eventually translates into audience identification and love. This is Demme’s great sensitivity at work. I’m a Timberlake fan, so factor that in, but Demme’s filmmaking is so immersive that for the final 15 minutes of the film I was practically in tears I was so swept away, so caught up in the emotion that was on that stage and out in the audience. And that’s on Demme to create, to translate: the feeling in the room MUST be made palpable to those who were not there. Demme does that like almost no other. One of the most enjoyable audience experiences I’ve had all year.
Another feature debut, this time from Babak Anvari, “Under the Shadow” is a Farsi-language horror supernatural tale, set in 1988 Tehran, as bombs from Iraq rain down on the city. Effective in all of its particulars, “Under the Shadow” represents the best of the horror genre as well as adding new twists to old familiar tropes. Best of all is the complicated mother-daughter relationship at the heart of it, rich with political and cultural implications reverberating through post-Revolution Iran. It’s an extraordinary film. My review.
Because, for me, any list is whimsical to the point of meaninglessness – (i.e. I made up no less than 10 different versions of my Top 10, swapping titles in and out), here are the other candidates. Keep in mind that I have not seen Toni Erdmann or Hidden Figures or The Handmaiden or Fences yet. They may very well be added later once I get to them, which I will. It’s been a great year.
Hell or High Water, directed by David Mackenzie
A Bigger Splash, directed by Luca Guadagnino
I, Daniel Blake, directed by Ken Loach
Disorder, directed by Alice Winocour. My review.
Love & Friendship, directed by Whit Stillman
The Nice Guys, directed by Shane Black
Krisha, directed by Trey Edward Shults. My review.
Hail Caesar!, directed by Ethan Coen, Joel Coen
Everybody Wants Some!!, directed by Richard Linklater. My review.
The Witch, directed by Robert Eggers. My review.
Childhood of a Leader, directed by Brady Corbet
Always Shine, directed by Sophia Takal. My review.
13th, directed by Ava DuVernay
Tower, directed by Keith Maitland
Things to Come, directed by Mia Hansen-Løve. My review.
Certain Women, directed by Kelly Reichardt
Fireworks Wednesday, directed by Asghar Farhadi (made in 2007, not released until now)
Another list: Performances I loved this year.
My friend David is heavily involved in Rent Party, an ongoing charity event in Maplewood, New Jersey, to help the homeless/hungry in that community. Through Rent Party, he created Back Pack Pals, where volunteers gather food and pack nutritious lunches for children in need. You can donate to both of these organizations at those links. Rent Party has been going on for years now: Bands, singers/songwriters are booked to play shows, all the proceeds go to charity. I’ve been to a couple of these events (and my talented sister Siobhan O’Malley was one of the performers in its earliest incarnation). Rent Party used to have its shows at The Elks Club in Maplewood (where I holed up with David and Maria, post-Hurricane-Sandy), but it’s since moved to a much larger venue, once the event picked up so much steam.
Last week, David texted me that Wanda Jackson would be playing Rent Party. This is their largest star so far. Rock and Roll Hall of Famer. I saw her a couple of years back, during Elvis Week no less, and it was an unforgettable evening. David said if I came early, and did some setup work, he could get me in free. So that’s what happened. I helped the bartender unload ice bags into buckets, I put cans of beer in various buckets, and basically played Girl Friday. It was also an opportunity to reconnect with David and Maria, neither of whom I have seen in ages. Maria showed up and we sat down at a table in the back, each with a can of beer, and – as Maria said later – “VOMITED” a conversation: it was a catch-up talk to end all catch-up talks. We had months to go through, not to mention the election. I’m proud of us because we got it all in. We used our time wisely.
At one point, before the show began, David murmured to me, “Here’s Wanda.” I looked up and there she was, husband at her side, coming through the door. She was hunched over a walker, and her hair/wig was black and high (as always). She helped change the world. And here she was, in a small town in New Jersey, coming a couple of hours before the show for the soundcheck.
I left her alone, of course. About half an hour later, she and her band (she has about 8 bands around the country in different regions who come to join her at her shows) came up on the stage at the end of this old-time dance hall (which is what it was, once upon a time) and ran through their set-list, working out arrangements, tempos, sound levels. Wanda had to sit. Her husband sat in a chair down on the floor. The whole place was empty. (In the back of the hall was a flurry of activity with bartenders and volunteers racing about). It was totally cool – and not weird or intrusive – to stand up close and watch them work. A couple of people were doing it. Wanda was the conductor, in terms of pacing, asking the piano player at one point to do his part an octave up, using her hand to signal when such-and-such should happen. One of the things I found incredibly moving was watching how – as they went through the numbers – every single guy (they were all guys, ages ranging from 60 to mid-20s) kept their eyes glued to her. Following her. Nodding, like, “Okay. Keep the pace up here, yup, got it, Wanda.” RESPECT. PROS. This is what it is all about.
I stood there quietly, soaking up everything, watching Wanda work. No nonsense, that one. She was wearing a comfy black outfit, but I knew that before the show she would change into something bright with her signature fringe.
I mean, come on.
It was an honor to be there, especially for the soundcheck, because that was all about process not performance, and how often do you get to witness something like that? A peek behind the curtain.
At one point, I moved to the back of the room to hang out with David, who would be working the door. It was an about an hour before the show, so the only people in the joint were the folks who would be working the gig (Wanda, included). Still relatively quiet. As David and I were talking, two people walked in the door. One was a small woman, skinny, head to toe in black, with black hair fringed all around her face. The guy with her had on a little porkpie hat and a black jacket. She glanced at us, and I saw that it was Joan Jett. She said to us, “I’m Joan. I’m here with Wanda.” I nodded, she moved past, and then I fainted.
Not really. But my knees did go weak at the sight of her. I gasped. I am a child of the 80s. She was EVERYTHING in the 80s, before Madonna came along and took up all the oxygen. I like Madonna. But – as with so much else – there was only room for one female superstar. Joan Jett’s image – tough and snarling and confident – not “playing up” to the boys but ONE of the boys – was a much more aspirational image (for me, anyway) than Madonna’s sexuality. Joan Jett was an incredible sexual archetype, one much closer to my actual essence. And there she was. Coming to see Wanda Jackson.
“I’m Joan. I’m here with Wanda.”
The best two sentences I’ve ever heard.
The hall was still empty and Joan sauntered up to the stage, and Wanda greeted her rapturously, reaching out her hand to her from the chair. Joan reached up to hold her hand. Then they talked for a while, and it was a moment to witness, I’ll tell you that. Talk about Woman Power. They own it. It’s not even a question.
The show was wonderful. The place was packed. All ages. Geezers with canes, and tattooed rockabilly 20somethings. My peeps. Wanda appeared. As expected, she had changed into a blazing bright pink fringed outfit. It was similar to the show she did at Maxwell’s. Lots of talking in between songs. “I am going to take you on a musical journey,” she said at the opening. People listened in rapt silence. She has had some health problems. She sat through the whole show. But she was peppy and funny and her voice had that telltale sexy growl that still goes right through you.
At one point, before launching into Amy Winehouse’s “I’m No Good,” she said that at a recent show in Los Angeles, she had run out of breath – “and the audience helped me out and sang the rest of it. So if you don’t mind …” This huge burly guy standing behind me shouted, “DON’T YOU WORRY WANDA. WE’VE GOT YOUR BACK.” I almost burst into tears. And she DID run out of breath, and the whole crowd took up the slack and sang the rest of it. Her smile of appreciation was blinding.
She talked a lot about Elvis and his support of her. She talked about dating him and “going out for burgers and a milkshake.”
She talked about visiting him and his parents (at the Audubon Drive house), and he took her into his bedroom – the whole audience started making “whoo-hoo” noises – and she said, “Now, now, remember. This was 1955!” – Elvis took her into his bedroom because he had a turntable there and he started playing her all of these different records, showing her the “new sound,” the sound of the thing they didn’t even have a name for yet. Wanda Jackson wanted to do country music. She had always assumed she’d be a country singer. He was encouraging her to expand her repertoire a bit. Give the faster stuff a try. “So when I stood on that stage being inducted into the Rock and Hall of Fame … I thought of Elvis, and I felt such gratitude to him, because he helped me be where I am today.” I was swimming in an ocean of my own tears, people.
She sang her hits, old and recent. She introduced Joan Jett, who was standing on the floor, down at the edge of the stage. Joan is producing Wanda’s next album, and they were going into the studio starting the following day. I had hoped Joan would come up onstage and sing something with Wanda. But it was okay: it was Wanda’s night and Joan – a legend herself – knew that. Wanda sang “Heartbreak Hotel.” She sang “Funnel of Love” and “Let’s Have a Party.” She sang “Mean Mean Man.” (Her band was amazing.) Everyone was dancing and bopping around and singing along and cheering. She ended with a small introduction about her love of the Lord, before launching into “I Saw the Light.” Everyone sang along. Everyone clapped to the beat. This is Hank Williams we’re talking about. Hank Williams still … STILL … brings down the house.
At one point during “I Saw the Light”, I glanced over at Joan Jett, who was standing a couple people over to my right. And she was rocking her head up and down, tilting her body back and forth to the beat. To Hank Williams.
It was a beautiful night. Emotional and rich. Threads of our culture, threads of different eras, intertwining. Co-existing. We need to immerse ourselves in that – believe in that – more than ever now. You could FEEL it coursing through that huge room.
Because of 79-year-old Wanda Jackson.
Wanda Jackson doing soundcheck
Wanda Jackson doing soundcheck
Two rock ‘n roll legends in black: Wanda Jackson onstage, Joan Jett below
The crowd that showed up for Wanda
Joan Jett in the audience
The great Wanda Jackson
I had so much fun watching, researching, and writing up these two (somewhat) little-known films, The Night Digger (1971), starring Patricia Neal (adaptation by her husband Roald Dahl: her second role post-stroke), and Alice, Sweet Alice, a bonkers religious-horror movie set in Paterson, New Jersey. Both gorgeous in their own ways.
I wrote up both The Night Digger and Alice Sweet Alice for Film Comment’s TCM Diary. (Showing times on TCM listed at the bottom of the piece.)
Each regular contributor sent in their own personal Top 10s (which will be posted today or tomorrow), and then those lists were put together and tallied up.
I wrote the entry on Jim Jarmusch’s wonderful Paterson (which opens next week.)
I still haven’t seen a couple of big ones. Hence … it’s a work in progress, and I’m sure I’m forgetting people. But these stand out.
Royalty Hightower, “The Fits” [My review]
Matthias Schoenaerts, “A Bigger Splash”
Cliff Curtis, “The Dark Horse” [My review]
Brian Marc, “White Girl” [My review]
Alden Ehrenreich, “Hail, Caesar!”
Krisha Fairchild, “Krisha” [My review]
Janelle Monae, “Moonlight”
Chris Cooper, “Coming Through the Rye”
Kate Beckinsale, “Love & Friendship”
Tyler Hoechlin & Ryan Guzman, “Everybody Wants Some!!” [My review]
Gillian Jacobs, “Don’t Think Twice” [My review]
Paulina García, “Little Men” [My review]
Barry Shabaka Henley, “Paterson”
Greta Gerwig, “20th Century Women”
Ralph Fiennes, “A Bigger Splash”
Mahershala Ali, “Kicks” [My review]
Chris Pine, “Hell or High Water”
Kika Magalhaes, “The Eyes of My Mother”
Michelle Williams, “Manchester by the Sea”
Narges Rashidi, “Under the Shadow” [My review]
Rebecca Hall, “Christine” [My review]
Isabelle Huppert, “Elle” [My review]
Trevante Rhodes, “Moonlight”
Blake Lively, “The Shallows”
Olivia Colman, “The Lobster” [My review]
Jeff Bridges, “Hell or High Water”
Daniel Radcliffe, “Swiss Army Man”
Lily Rabe, “Miss Stevens”
Mackenzie Davis, “Always Shine” [My review]
Matthias Schoenaerts, “Disorder” [My review]
Anya Taylor-Joy, “The Witch” [My review]
Lily Gladstone, “Certain Women”
Casey Affleck, “Manchester by the Sea”
Mahershala Ali, “Moonlight”
Tom Bennett, “Love & Friendship”
Avin Manshadi, “Under the Shadow”
Samantha Robinson, “The Love Witch”
Andre Holland, “Moonlight”
Dave Johns and Hayley Squires, “I, Daniel Blake”
Ben Schnetzer, “Goat”
Bradley Cooper, “War Dogs”
Lucas Hedges, “Manchester by the Sea”
Annette Bening, “20th Century Women”
Ashton Sanders, “Moonlight”
Ryan Gosling, “The Nice Guys”
Tom Sweet, “Childhood of a Leader”
John Travolta, “In a Valley of Violence” [My review]
Kristen Stewart, “Certain Women”
George Clooney, “Hail, Caesar!”
Danny DeVito, “Weiner Dog” [My review]
Hedye Tehrani, “Fireworks Wednesday” [My review from 2007. It wasn’t released until this year.]
Sarah Megan Thomas, “Equity”
Gil Birmingham, “Hell or High Water”
Molly Shannon, “Other People”
Isabelle Huppert, “Things to Come”
Tilda Swinton, “A Bigger Splash”
Channing Tatum, “Hail, Caesar!”
Adam Driver and Golshifteh Farahani, “Paterson”
In these horribly stressful times, personal, political, cultural, every-fucking-where, a re-commitment to personal relationships feels like a necessity. I flew out to Chicago this weekend to surprise my friend Mitchell, showing up unannounced at his show (which he created himself: it’s made up of personal monologues, and songs sung by the glorious Meghan Murphy, another friend). I knew Mitchell had been working hard to create this thing, he had never done anything like this before (create a show from scratch, made up of his own personal material), and – just out of curiosity, I checked flights to Chicago and they were outrageously cheap for this holiday time of year. So out I went. It required much subterfuge and outright lying on my part, and I roped in Meghan’s help as co-conspirator. All went well. My presence remained undetected by Mitchell, until I sent a card backstage saying, “Can’t wait to see your show tonight.” (Apparently, he burst into tears. Meghan – who was backstage – texted me – sitting out in the theatre – a play-by-play of his reaction.) I flew back early Monday morning.
The polar vortex hit while I was in Chicago. I was there for such a short time, I couldn’t see Kate, but I did have a nice lunch with Ann Marie (before Mitchell’s show. And – silly me – we were in Mitchell’s neighborhood, so we basically skulked around undercover hoping not to run into him.) The show, a holiday show with Mitchell telling stories from his life, and Meghan singing songs to put “buttons” on each of the beats – was fantastic. A nice crowd had shown up in the midst of the polar vortex. That’s Chicago theatre for you: hearty and devoted. Mitchell told many stories I know by heart, and I starred in one of them (our ridiculous and hilarious living situation during Mitchell’s first year in Chicago) – also stories about his family and finding a home in Chicago. He addressed me from the stage, like: “Sheila?? You’re here?” It was very emotional, the entire show was. We have been friends for so long. Most of our lives. We met when we were scrappy freak teenagers. We found each other. We refer to one another as “space twins.” (I signed the bullshit card I sent backstage: Love, your Space Twin.) It was a treat because Christopher, Mitchell’s boyfriend, was also at the show, and his whole family was up from Kentucky to see it as well, so I got to meet them (they are all wonderful). We went out after for drinks.
Sunday was snowy and freezing. Sunday night, Mitchell was heading down to Second City to see a friend’s debut on the main stage (a huge deal), and I was heading uptown to the Uptown Underground to see Meghan’s Christmas show (their 6th year): Big Red & The Boys: A New Home for the Holidays. But until then, we had jack-squat to do. We lay around in Mitchell’s apartment (known by everyone as The Nook), and talked and watched TCM, and watched a 40 Years of Soul concert on PBS and then started scrolling through YouTube clips. We also took a couple of hilarious Snap Chat breaks. It was a perfect day. At one point, Mitchell was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, naked and shaving, and I was talking to him, standing in the doorway. Mitchell said, “I really like Demi Lovato” and then I began a rant – not about Demi Lovato but she made me think of certain strains in mainstream feminism that drive me insane so I went OFF on it, and Mitchell kept shaving, throwing in comments, but mostly listening and nodding. And shaving. At some point, when I took a breath (I ranted for about, no word of a lie, 15 minutes), Mitchell said quietly, “All I said was ‘I like Demi Lovato.'” We are still laughing. I am laughing as I type this. Some things never fucking change. This is our friendship.
At the Uptown Underground, I ran into a couple of friends, who were also there attending the show, so it was really fun to catch up. Meghan and the “boys” (5 of them) put together a beautiful mix of classic Christmas songs, original songs – like “Chicago Winter,” which went over like gangbusters since we all were living it – and it had a beautiful and friendly energy, a collective energy, that is so essential to maintain in the current atmosphere.
Desolation uptown
The lit-up L train rattling above the snowy streets
8 a.m.
Nook collage: Little Christmas tree. Judy Garland album. Biography of George Cukor
Meghan Murphy, aka Big Red, singing a solo at her holiday show
Heavy snowfall
The descent into the Uptown Underground.
Watching “Letter to Three Wives”, and whaddya know, there is the phenomenal character actress Florence Bates, who also happens to be our great friend Rachel’s great-grandmother. She wrote an awesome essay about this extraordinary woman.
Patti Page singing “Tennessee Waltz”, on some PBS special
The most adorable couple in the world. Post-Mitchell’s show.
Chicago cracks my heart with its stark rough beauty
Robert Mitchum and Janet Leigh in “Holiday Affair.” So good.
We watched “The Bishop’s Wife.” We’ve both probably seen it 40 times apiece. We love it so much. We had lengthy discussions all along the way: Cary Grant’s magic. Loretta Young and Clark Gable and the whole baby thing. The career of Gladys Cooper. How GOOD she was. She is SO GOOD in her one big scene in this. David Niven – hilarious, stuck to the chair. Elsa Lanchester. She’s so funny in this. And then, right on cue, we began to cry.
Frightening. The facial hair in particular.
An extremely Space Twins kind of photo.
Happy to have been a contributor for Film Comment’s Best of 2016 list.
More to come. The last couple of weeks of the year for any critic involves cramming in as many screenings and as much catch-up watching as you can possibly squeeze in.
The movie means well. Unfortunately, I don’t give bonus points for meaning well.
My review of All We Had is now up at Rogerebert.com.
