I’d been admiring the trailer for Devotion so caught the film on opening day but somehow missed it being based on a true story until the end credits rolled featuring dual photos of the actors with their real life counterparts. Had I known that fact, it would have softened my critical attitude towards the inordinate amount of film time dedicated to character development of military hero Jesse Brown (Jonathan Majors). After the first hour and only one combat scene, I was simmering and grumbling about a war movie with no action. And no, the obligatory and predictable shore leave bar fight doesn’t count.
When the story shifted from the Mediterranean to Korea, the action picked up and I perked up. Then I was able to better appreciate the historic role Jesse Brown played as a racial pioneer, the U.S. Navy’s first African-American pilot, and to digest Brown’s race defying relationship with his white wingman, Lt. Tom Hudner (Glen Powell). Tom was the product of a wealthy New England family, Jesse was born into a family of sharecroppers who lived in a shack. The film pinnacle caught me completely off guard. Remember, I’m still thinking Devotion a work of fiction, spun to shed light on America’s “forgotten war” using an unlikely pairing of two pilots as the plot vehicle. So when I learned the truth, it was a stunning revelation. I can’t give away the climax without playing spoiler but you will know immediately when it happens, a moment of true heroism and brotherhood, yes, an act of pure devotion that will inspire and stir you through inescapable tears.
On the technical side, the too long film (139 minutes) needed editing, starting out painstakingly slow and including curious dialogues that did not advance the story; sound quality was inexplicably murky at times; cinematography unnecessarily shadowy except for the aerial scenes which were sensational. It’s a great story on many levels but if I’m entirely honest, I’d stick with the 2017 book, Devotion: An Epic Story of Heroism, Friendship, and Sacrifice by Adam Makos. I hear the film closely mirrors the book. Or read the book first and see the movie after to fully appreciate the amazing and uplifting heroism, service and friendship of Jesse Brown and Tom Hudner.
Let’s start with how many fingers are needed to play a violin? Well, somewhere between one and five but definitely more than none. I’ll leave it there and encourage you to check out this odd little film for yourself. In fact, I’ll add the caveat that this “odd little film” could well be a sleeper for an Academy Award.
Set in 1923 on the fictitious island of Inisherin off the coast of Ireland, gritty villagers revolve around a crowded pub, post office and Catholic church, going about their rural business as the IRA and Irish Free Staters battle on the mainland, occasional canon fire and explosions dotting the horizon. Corollary to that civil war is the erupting civil conflict between dairy farmer Pádraic (Colin Farrell) and his longtime best friend and fiddler Colm (Brendan Gleeson) who abruptly cuts Pádraic off, saying without any warning, “I just don’t like ya no more.” From that simple yet puzzling pronouncement, friendships bitterly deteriorate, despair escalates into rage, and rage into revenge leaving us dumbfounded and collectively squirming from our distant shore of time and culture.
Colm is facing a life crisis over his legacy, “Who remembers anyone who’s nice?” No time for the ordinary, he assigns Pádraic to the mundane declaring him “dull” and plunges into composing fiddle pieces, teaching music students and performing with his pub band. Pádraic, like any of us, can’t accept the rejection and keeps challenging Colm for an explanation or better yet, reconciliation. Colm stiffens. Never has a declaration of dull led to such a dark litany of pain with even village pets bearing the unfortunate consequences of human reprisal. Accidental be damned. Apologies futile. Regret meaningless. A friendship meltdown generates the Irish theater of the absurd, seeding the germs of a bitterly rooted forever feud and indeed, the genesis of war, an island fire mirroring mainland bombs. Humanity fault lines are exposed where dull and simple and nice devolve into a mystifying recipe for hatred and violence.
Only Pádraic’s rational and reasonable sister Siobhán escapes the madness, her smile widening as she catches the ferry to a library job on the mainland. The town innocent and simpleton, Dominic, ironically offers the obvious insights, a compelling and cogent narrative on the town lunacy. “Why does he not want to be friends with you no more? What is he, 12?” Abused by his sheriff father, rejected by his unrequited love interest and repulsed by the meanness of his only friend, Dominic is perhaps the most tragic victim in this black comedy followed closely by loyal and loving Jenny, Pádraic’s diminutive donkey. Stunning how quickly and easily the frailty of our human condition morphs into mayhem and barbarity! Stunning and sick. Sick and senseless. Yet, the engaging characters, beautiful setting, comedic interludes and unique storyline weaves together my strong endorsement to seek out The Banshees of Inisherin and settle in for a wickedly dark but deceptively enchanting Irish tale.
Set in the late 18th century on a remote windswept island off the coast of Brittany, this French-language film, released in France in 2019, tells the story of Marianne (Noémie Merlant), a beautiful young mainland artist commissioned to paint the portrait of equally beautiful young islander Héloïse (Adèle Haenel). Héloïse was called home from a convent to step into an arranged bride-to-be lineup because her older sister stepped off a cliff rather than be given away in matchmaker’s nuptials. Héloïse’s mother, La Comtesse (Valeria Golino) needs a portrait for the Milanese nobleman who is now considering marrying her second daughter. Ironically termed the Age of Enlightenment, marriages of the nobility in this era were finalized via life size painted portraits delivered for review to the potential suitor. Defiant, strong willed Héloïse isn’t having it. No portrait, no wedding. This is where Marianne comes in. No portrait, no commission. Rounding out the all female cast, a third young woman, Sophie (Luàna Bajrami), the house maid is befriended by Marianne and Héloïse and when Sophie gets pregnant, in solidarity they accompany her to the village to get an abortion.
Personal female power and choices are exercised despite living in an era of negligible to no options for women. The film’s powerful ending—of enduring yet unrequited love, contained in requisite yet intolerable cultural norms—is as understandable as it is unfathomable. The story’s resolution will linger long after you’ve left the theater. There is no tragedy here but there is an empty ache for more, more of what simply can’t be.
It’s not a spoiler to disclose that Marianne gets her commission, the mother-daughter arranged marriage plot is simply a period piece vehicle for the mysterious, erotic, forbidden fruit romance to emerge between Marianne and Héloïse. Their mutual attraction so sensual, so exquisitely luxurious that this love story is already mentioned as one of the best 100 movies of the decade, indeed a masterpiece.
The cinematography is beyond stunning with an intoxicating palate of colors framing every scene. Art and literature merge as readings from Ovid’s version of Orpheus and Eurydice foreshadow a poignant, heartbreaking exchange between the lesbian lovers.
The music is electrifying, euphoric. The third movement of “Summer” from Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” plaintively ties together the hope and hopelessness of taboo love. A late night bonfire gathering of island women transcends into a haunting, masterful choral number of Latin chants, “fugere non possum,” “I cannot flee” and “Nos resurgemus,” “We rise.”
It’s a shame that France submitted Les Misérables for the Academy’s Best International Film category because Writer/Director Céline Sciamma’s Portrait of a Lady On Fire would have certainly challenged Parasite for Best Picture. Aside from a few jarring male appearances, the cast consists entirely of women and was written, directed and filmed by women. Nos resurgemus. We rise.
Starting on April 6, 1917 (the day the US joined the Great War although never referenced) and ending the next morning, two baby faced British soldiers, Lance Corporal William Schofield (George MacKay) and Lance Corporal Tom Blake (Dean-Charles Chapman) have 12 hours to maneuver through enemy lines of the Western Front. Their mission is to deliver a “call off the attack” message in order to save 1,600 troops who are unknowingly marching into a German ambush that will result in the complete slaughter of the Devonshire Regiment that includes Lt. Joseph Blake (Richard Madden, Robb Stark from GoT), Tom’s big brother.
If you feel you are running, jumping and zig-zagging right behind Schofield and Blake through northern France’s war zone of trenches, barbed wire, bayonets, snipers, booby traps, ash, mud, rats, bloated horse carcasses, rotting human corpses—“follow the stench”—bombed out fiery ruins of abandoned French villages, mortar and mayhem, you can thank the cinematography technique that shot the terrifying no man’s land dash to look like it was filmed in a single linear take. Action! It’s a wrap! No cuts. At least that’s how the 119 minutes feel start to finish. We don’t see or hear anything that Blake or Schofield don’t see or hear. They are not so much a duo as a trio, I was with them. When a foraging rat lumbers into the trip wire, I cringed anticipating the explosion. When a downed German fighter plane cartwheels towards the two young Brits, I ducked. When Schofield runs for his life plunging over a sheer drop into the river rapids below, I braced for impact. I stood and watched the eerily breathtaking beauty of the wartime night illuminated by bombs and flames. Think Apocalypse Now. The film was shot in Scotland, the landscape stunning, my senses satiated by a dramatic range of scenes, the gore of combat carnage to the beauty of cows and countryside. After the first fifteen minutes I was unabashedly in love with this movie.
1917 is defined, not by blood and battles but by bravery and brotherhood. The relationship between buddies Blake and Schofield was close enough for an engaging balance of humor and hubris to emerge that never felt forced or contrived. Yet I never warmed up to the characters. But this may be precisely the cool response the filmmaker sought. Blake and Schofield‘s friendship was situational, a camaraderie spawning from the killing fields of war where guarding a requisite emotional distance is as essential to foot soldiers as combat gear. I felt that distance. So when the inevitable strikes, “It’s better not to dwell on it,” advice given by Captain Smith (Mark Strong) to Corporal Schofield in a moment of dazed trauma, I could pick myself up and keep moving. No grieving, no lingering, the 12-hour clock is winding down. In fact I was so invested in the mission that it frustrated me when the two corporals kept making ill advised decisions when confronted by their German counterparts, predictably crushing carpe diem under the shadow of death. I even eschewed the tender moments, a pail of milk, cherry blossoms, an orphaned child, a haunting Wayfaring Stranger solo—scenes that were clearly drawn up to infiltrate a symbolic flavor of humanity into the chaos and destruction—but the poignant minutes lingered a tad too long for my liking, slowing the urgency of the mission. I was channeling Winston Churchill, “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” Don’t stop! Hold that baby later! You’ve got to get the message to Colonel Mackenzie (Benedict Cumberbatch)! Now! Towards the end I kept wondering if those sentimental diversions cost lives.
Still, nothing veered me away from absolutely loving this movie. Don’t wait for Netflix or Amazon. This is the type of movie that demands the big screen. You will learn from the ending credits that the film is dedicated to Lance Corporal Alfred H. Mendes—the director’s grandfather “who told us the stories.” Mendes at the age of 20 volunteered for a terrifying World War I solo mission through no man’s land to locate three British companies separated from their battalion. It was this mission through the muddy Flanders fields of Belgium that served as inspiration for 1917. In honoring his grandfather, Mendes crafted an epic war drama. I predict more honors: Oscar goes to 1917 for Best Picture.
My mom wasn’t much of a reader but her favorite book was Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women. I grew up a voracious reader and never read it. Go figure. Over the 150 years since it’s 1868/9 publication, Little Women has been made into multiple movies, stage plays, television series and even an opera. How can this uber familiar story possibly be told again? We all know the plot, the characters and the raison d’être. Little Women was this year’s choice for our family’s going-to-a-movie-every-Christmas-Day tradition. Entertain me. Educate me. Encourage me. Please.
And it did! The scenery gorgeous, characters delightful, story irresistible. I can understand why Little Women offered a now tame, but in the day a groundbreaking invitation for young ladies to envision and expand their life possibilities. At the same time, a woman’s traditional, domestic lifestyle, challenged by feisty, brilliant Jo was preserved by beautiful, bright Meg. The revolutionary notion introduced by Alcott is choice.
The film follows the March family –conventional Meg (Emma Watson), writer Jo (Saoirse Ronan), pianist Beth (Eliza Scanlen), artist Amy (Florence Pugh) and doting mother Marmee (Laura Dern) as they come to maturity during and after the Civil War. Rounding out the central figures are lad Laurie (Timothee Chalamet) a wealthy, orphaned neighbor who becomes a de facto family member and prosperous, spinster Aunt March (Meryl Streep), the self-appointed guardian of social pedigree, looking for at least one niece who will marry well, salvage the family name and keep the “Family March” afloat.
The flashback, nonlinear way the story is told caused me some confusion but I finally came up with my own cues to alert me to time shifts and guide my tracking. It’s no fun to be left behind, stuck in the past when the action jumps to the future. Hey, where’d everybody go! The film is full of romance, unrequited and realized, tragedy and comedy, poignant moments and outrageous indiscretions. Little Women was the perfect Christmas Day movie. For the record, the theater was sold out and sitting next to me was an elderly Jewish woman with whom I enjoyed a festive chat waiting for the movie to start. As the lights went down I wished her a Happy Holiday and she wished me a Merry Christmas. And it truly was.
Full disclosure, when I spotted the 3 1/2 hour runtime, I elected to watch The Irishman on Netflix from the comfort of my reclining LazyBoy within ten paces of my personal snack bar known best as “the kitchen.” I couldn’t think of tucking into a theater seat for that long without needing help to get up. I envisioned pushing the concession order button and facing this humiliating exchange,“What may I get you?” “Up.” Plus I could refill my personal, perfect-for-this-movie beverage cup as often as I wished!
Martin Scorsese’s gangster epic stars Joe Pesci as mob boss Russell Bufalino, Robert De Niro as Mafia hit man Frank Sheeran and Al Pacino as Teamster Union leader Jimmy Hoffa. Three Hollywood Hall of Fame actors and one iconic director unite to craft an extraordinary saga that covers decades of true-to-life intersections between organized labor and organized crime, a legacy story of friendship and loyalty, brutality and reckoning. People power wielded by powerful people. Don’t expect any warm fuzzies though. No kumbaya moments from the Pesci/DeNiro/Pacino Trio. I held my breath during baptism scenes. Friendship falters at the foot of power. Always. Jimmy Hoffa should have seen Frank Sheeran coming. Et tu, Brute? Securing and defending power and position trumps any mobster code of conduct. Underscore, there is no honor among thieves. The carnage grinds along, but setting a decidedly unique tone from the typical gangster genre, violence was casual, matter-of-fact, ho hum. Sheeran strolls up behind some poor upstart schmuck, shoots him twice in the head, walks away, tosses his gun over a bridge (there is a very funny scene about the gun graveyard) and heads home for supper. The message is clear, “Nothing to get worked up over. {shrug} Just another day painting houses. Pass the spaghetti please.” To keep the same actors and shrug consistency—even as their stories bounce around through the decades—computerized de-aging digital technology was used. Oh, Santa, please leave a sample of that Fountain of Youth in my Christmas stocking.
Maybe because the film relied on its trio of septuagenarian stars, senior citizen gangstas prevailed. There is no youth movement or secession planning. In general, Mafia men share a similar fate as marine life where 95% of all sea creatures will be eaten by bigger, badder sea creatures. Could be where we get the well known gangland cliché, “Swimming with the fishes.” Death is simply an occupational hazard. By taking out their competitors ad infinitum and ad nauseam, the 5% claiming the top of the mobster food chain survive into their golden years. There is a downside though. As mobsters age, it gives the feds time to catch up, the “old” turn “elderly,” still competing for #1 to the bitter end, but now confined to wheelchairs or pushing walkers around federal prison yards playing bocce ball. The non-incarcerated alternative is even worse. The film opens with narrator Sheeran abandoned to a lonely nursing home vigil, wrapped in a warm shawl, waiting for family that never appear, a phone that never rings, a letter that never arrives. But at least aged Frank has the means to select the most magnificent coffin featured in the funeral home coffin showroom! Pitiless, brutal emptiness.
The Irishman is not The Godfather and La Cosa Nostra. Jimmy Hoffa is German-Irish, Frank Sheeran, Swedish-Irish and Russell Bufalino, the sole Sicilian. Organized crime embraces diversity and fans out from New York to Philly to Detroit to Vegas. It’s a grand tale. And it’s not over yet. Francesco “Franky Boy” Cali, leader of the Gambino crime family was gunned down last March outside his Staten Island home, the first murder of a mob boss since 1985. The FBI estimate 3,000 Italian-American mafia members continue operating gambling, loan-sharking, extortion, human trafficking, and drug-running (mostly heroin) enterprises. Meanwhile, Russia, Africa, Latin America, and Asia, studying the American model, flexed their international mob muscle and organized a global web of illicit and illegal productivity. Fodder for an endless stream of crime films. The Russian. The Colombian. While you wait for these spin-offs or a Godfather IV, watch The Irishman. You’re not afraid of tough guys, are you?
When it comes to WW2, I’m far more familiar with the European Theater than the Pacific because my father flew missions over Europe as a B17 Tail Gunner in the 8th Air Force under the command of Jimmy Doolittle. When Midway previews starting showing, I could hardly wait! It was my chance to learn more about the Battle of Midway, fought six months after Pearl Harbor and considered the most decisive battle in the history of naval warfare sending a knockout blow to the Empire of Japan. Plus the film had a storyline about Jimmy Doolittle! What could go wrong?!
Everything. What a colossal disappointment. The action ricocheted all over the globe, kind of a WW2 Where’s Waldo mishmash. I needed a clipboard, map, colored highlighters and a sharpened pencil to keep track. Or better, just stop the movie, turn up the lights and bring in an expert to lecture. Not a single character stood out, not even Jimmy Doolittle and his Raiders. Admiral William Halsey’s shingles got more screen time than Doolittle’s daring attack on Tokyo. Will somebody please slather some calamine lotion on the admiral’s rash and stop the bitching and itching? Medic!
The entire ensemble cast—and it was a cast of thousands—created no attachment, no affection, no interest, no nothing. It’s a war story so lots of people died, I wasn’t moved. Lots lived. I didn’t celebrate. I didn’t bond with anyone. Someone please tell German director Roland Emmerich that when every character is equally significant, the result is that every character becomes equally insignificant. And apparently speaking with either a Southern drawl or Brooklyn brogue was required to serve in the Navy. I guess Midwesterners were assigned to the Army. At least curiosity about whether I’d eventually discern a different accent helped dull the impact of a ridiculously contrived dialogue. Banal, inane, corny clichés infiltrated every exchange. I groaned more at the absurd chitchat than the combat.
Uniformed men zipped in and out of ships and subs, planes and parachutes, looking quite fierce and heroic but with the feel of a Sony Playstation video game, definitely not sophisticated Hollywood special effects. I needed a gamepad handy so I could join in the carnage and I don’t even like video games. But, please, let there be something, anything to keep me engaged.
From all appearances every American fighter jet was shot down in the heat of the battle—but then like magic the pilots and wingmen would safely land, reassemble and get right back to trading platitudes, sarcasm and needling. “Gotcha,” the all American military pastime. A Japanese destroyer retrieved two downed Americans from their raft and when interrogated the US pilot growled, “You killed a lot of my friends at Pearl Harbor so go f’’k yourself.” What happened to name, rank and serial number? When the Japanese commander ordered an anchor tied to the pilot’s leg and shoved overboard, Captain Cool spit his cigarette out, shrugged, sneered and sunk to his watery death. Knowing the terror of war through my dad’s experience, I find it hard to believe that every single sailor and pilot dodging bombs and bullets would find so much to joke, wink and laugh about while careening from one doomsday battle to the next or plunging to their death.
And, just how did the women of WW2 fare? We only saw officer’s wives and at one point, when they gathered to weather the raging sea battle together, a fashionably dressed Donna Reed lookalike arrived to hear that her husband may be a casualty. She tearfully excused herself, “I’m so sorry, I need to powder my nose.” Well, bless your heart honey, you go right ahead. Besides furrowed brows, PG-13 embraces and Clairol moments, women were absolutely invisible.
Summing it up: dreadful dialogue, nameless characters, boring acting, confusing plot and lackluster cinematography. If this weren’t enough, I gritted my teeth when the dedication scrolled after the credits—perhaps Emmerich hoped no one stuck around to read, “This film is dedicated to the Americans and Japanese who fought at Midway. The sea remembers its own.” The film starts out with the Japanese surprise attack on Pearl Harbor and the sinking of the Arizona, killing 1,177 sailors and marines, 1,102 still entombed. At the Battle of Midway, the U.S. lost the aircraft carrier Yorktown, the destroyer USS Hammann, 145 aircraft, and suffered 307 casualties. You can not respectfully conclude with a dedication acknowledging the aggressors and the Americans equally. At least not on my watch.
Satire and hellacious historical events don’t easily mix for me. From seeing the trailer of Jojo Rabbit over and over in previews, I adversely sized it up as an ill-conceived parody on Adolph Hitler and a young boy’s induction into the Nazi party’s Hitler Youth organization. I instantly disliked it, in fact when I sat down in the theater with friends, I threw down the gauntlet, “I am prepared to hate this film.” By the time the movie ended, my mind was changed. Much to my surprise, JoJo Rabbit won me over.
Played by gifted, quirky New Zealand director Taika Waititi, the role of Hitler is depicted as a flim-flam, sputtering imaginary friend to ten-year old neighborhood misfit Jojo Betzler, brilliantly played by 11-year old British actor Roman Griffin Davis. The Hitler/Jojo absurdity runs continuously throughout the film, however in an effective storyline strategy, the film’s satiric overtones decrease as the Third Reich realities of 1945 Berlin increase. In doing so, we witness the maturation of Jojo, evolving from Hitler flattery to mockery, Nazi indoctrination to renunciation. As a brazen exclamation point, Jojo, former Führer fanatic, stands up to the caricature of evil and with a furious drop kick boots the buffoon through Jojo’s second story bedroom window. We cheer! We’ve been rooting for Jojo since he refused to kill the sacrificial rabbit on the first day of Hitler Youth Camp. Victory!
Two relationships influence Jojo’s transformation, his mother Rosie (Scarlett Johansson) and the admiration and love he has for her; and a teenage Jewish girl, Elsa (Thomasin McKenzie) who Rosie is secretly hiding in a hidden nook of the apartment. Jojo discovers this dangerous secret, but keeps silent to protect his family’s safety. Also unknown to Jojo, Rosie is supporting the resistance, her underground work frequently taking her away from home. While his mom is out, Jojo cautiously engages with Elsa, creating a stick figure illustrated manual on the “nature of Jewishness” that he is certain will contribute to the war effort. However, along the way, Jojo’s preadolescent curiosity grows, replacing propaganda prejudices with sincere concern and authentic affection for Elsa. His beliefs are challenged by friendship, truths inspired by relationship. The inhumane horror show of the Nazi regime receives no humorous treatment. Jojo weathers an unspeakable family atrocity, yet the film doesn’t focus on the murderous terror, choosing to focus instead on the irony of how the gruesome can backfire, softening rather than hardening a young boy’s bias.
With Jojo Rabbit it is best to suspend judgment and trust the film’s deployment of zany, crazy hyperbole and irreverent black humor to see the world through Jojo’s eyes. For it is through his eyes that we are given occasional glimpses into promising possibilities rather than fatalistic eventualities —forgiveness over vengeance, understanding and empathy over hostility and indifference, love and compassion over hatred and callousness. And where there is even so much as a peek, a glimmer of hope, we can raise our flag over the universe and claim the smallest seeds of victory. The epigraph for this film—lines from Rainier Maria Rilke’s poem, “Go to the Limits of Your Longing,” leaves us pondering the heart and soul of life and our personal obligation to scatter those seeds. Take a chance on Jojo Rabbit.
The definition of “idyllic” is spending childhood summers in the 1950s and 60s at a small Sierra Nevada logging town in the remote outskirts of Fresno County. Unless I wanted to spend three months swimming, fishing, building forts and roasting marshmallows by myself, whoever emerged from the cabins scattered around the mill were my new best friends. And those best friends were all boys from Central Valley towns where car racing reigned supreme, mostly NASCAR but formula, drag, off-road, touring, sports—if it involved four wheels, it commanded attention. Add in stacks of Motor Sports magazines and raging Ford vs Chevy arguments while passing greasy wrenches back and forth, tinkering with a Willys Jeep and you have a good flavor of mill life.
Watching Ford v Ferrari was a throwback to those times. I could practically feel the grease and smell the burnt rubber! A life lesson on power and the powerful unfolds as we sit, students of history watching two international titans clash, America’s proud yet ruthless Henry Ford (Tracy Letts) taking on Italy’s regal yet derisive Enzo Ferrari (Remo Girone). Two renown automakers stake their brand and their reputation on winning Le Mans, a 24 hour contest for man and machine, the “Grand Prix of Endurance and Efficiency.” In 1966 it becomes the ultimate match race between perennial winner Ferrari and upstart competitor Ford. Loyalty and brotherhood, treachery and deceit, it’s all there. Win. Just win.
Shifting Team Ford into high gear is talented, passionate, straight-shooting expert car designer Carroll Shelby (Matt Damon) always strutting around in his black cowboy hat, matched with cocky, hotheaded, confident, driver par excellence Ken Miles (Christian Bale), forming an entrepreneurial and fearless duet who, curiously enough, are making their first paired film debut in this rip-roaring true story. The Shelby/Miles bromance works perfectly in ratcheting up drama interspersed with comedic exchanges including a hilarious fistfight that so amuses Ken’s wife Mollie (Caitriona Balfe) that she unfolds a chair to better watch them roll around on the lawn, until she graciously fetches them cold sodas while they catch their breath lying side by side in the yard.
The chemistry between Damon and Bale hold the movie together from the starting gun through the checkered flag. Their on screen relationship, although tumultuous at times, is deeply defined by mutual respect. Two mere mortals, one Brit, one American, share rare membership in the elite “perfect lap” club, who understand 7,000 RPMS as a spiritual experience.
“There’s a point at 7,000 RPMs where everything fades. The machine becomes weightless. It disappears. All that’s left, a body moving through space, and time. At 7,000 RPM, that’s where you meet it. That’s where it waits for you.”
The film runs long at 2 1/2 hours and could have been shortened while not losing a beat by cutting out Mollie and Ken’s young son, Peter (Noah Jupe). Their roles are undeveloped and unnecessary to plot development. Carroll and Ken offer enough of the family feel. Ford Company executives Lee Iacocca (Jon Bernthal) and Leo Beebe (Josh Lucas) try to muscle in between Carroll and Miles to no avail. The Iacocca role holds up as an insider ally to Carroll but Beebe as the story’s contemptuous villain is a loss leader to nowhere. He can go. Men dominate the screen at least 98% of the time reflecting the industry and era. Probably still holds true. The racing sequences drop you directly into the drivers seat at track level with thundering decibels and breathtaking speeds. When I drove away from the theater I revved my 4 cylinder Honda into high gear and blew right past a Toyota! The thrill of victory and all that heady stuff.
Ford v Ferrari is an instant classic. If you are a racing fan, you’ll love the energy of this film. If you are a connoisseur of cinematography, you’ll enjoy the technical savvy. If you are an observer of human behavior, you’ll appreciate the intuitive depth. Ford v Ferrari may be the racing movie equivalent of the perfect lap. As Ken Miles asks, “Do you see it?” Seeing this movie may be the closest way of answering yes.
Give me an AMEN if Harriet Tubman is your new hero. Haven’t seen the movie yet? Get moving. Jump in! Harriet, starring Cynthia Erivo, is a biographical and inspirational jewel with a touch of the mystical. We meet desperate, fierce and ferocious Harriet, who, facing imminent threat of being sold and separated from husband and family, bolts from plantation bondage and embarks on a grueling 100 mile, Maryland to Pennsylvania, flight to freedom. Upon safe arrival in Philadelphia, Harriet refuses to settle for just her own freedom. Called to a mission of liberation, she retraces the 100 miles, leading to freedom all those left behind. Bold, resolute, and unflinching, Harriet becomes a conductor on the Underground Railroad, a leader of the abolitionist movement. Guided by transcendent visions, fueled by prayer, spiritual gifts attributed to God, Harriet claims divine calling and nothing manmade slows our courageous champion from her perilous undertaking. This film takes us with her, every dangerous, treacherous step of the way. The cinematography is alive and luscious, inserting the viewer directly into the action. Cornered on a narrow bridge, raging river below, slavers with dogs and guns closing in, Harriet is forced into a “freedom or die” choice. As she climbs up the side railings, so do I. As she lingers, weighing the options, so do I. Give up? Jump? Live? Die? What price freedom? We jump. Be forewarned that while we run and jump and hide with Harriet, this movie will most certainly send you on a personal journey. For me there were two. The first was a dive into Civil War history. This film will transport you to an era, not so long ago, when, on American soil, humans were enslaved, chained, brutalized and sold as chattel. Harriet Tubman was stirring things up then and is still churning in the middle of controversy. She most recently devolved into a 21st century political scrum over her image replacing Andrew Jackson on the $20 bill, an honor announced by President Obama in 2016, but delayed by President Trump until at least 2028, maybe never. Sadly, the hateful dynamics of the Civil War insidiously rage on, a perpetual Battle Hymn of the Republic/ I Wish I Was in Dixie clash. We need more Harriets. Harriets who will unleash a courageous flurry of guile and guts, brazen enough to disrupt the oppressor, bold enough to liberate the oppressed. Harriets who refute stereotypes, who refuse physical or psychic chains. In her day, Harriet Tubman traversed hundreds of hostile miles stringing together safe spaces to protect and guide over 70 slaves to freedom. I wish for even a speck of her DNA— which leads me on my second film-inspired journey. I’ve taken two DNA tests and both concur I’m 99% Western European, primarily British Isles. My ancestors immigrated to America and mostly settled in southern states. I’m related to everyone in Arkansas. Really! If you’re from Arkansas, safely assume we’re kin and call me cousin. The harder truth is I’m a descendant of Confederate rebels and southern slaveholders. I recently donated to the restoration of Nashville’s Gower Family Cemetery in remembrance of my 4th great grandparents, Tennessee pioneers, who are buried there—along with six slaves. My 2nd cousin Sumner Cunningham was the leader of the “Lost Cause,” a cult movement that glorified the Civil War as heroic and just, a clash between two civilizations, the materialistic, inferior North and the generous, honorable South. Sumner’s biography is on Amazon. Or you can borrow it from me. This is my family. These are my roots. It’s a deep dive but Harriet invited me to take the reflective plunge. When I left the theater and walked through the shopping mall to the parking structure, I felt different. People laughing, chatting and enjoying lunch in street side alfresco cafes caught my attention. But, it wasn’t the usual faces in a crowd. Instead, each person’s individual face, voice and gestures stood out, like I was seeing slo-mo through a zoom lens. For that moment the world slowed down, the noise disappeared. No one went unnoticed. The clarity indelibly uncanny. Yes, mysterious. Maybe it was my version of a vision. Thankfully, whatever momentarily seized my psyche didn’t cause me to stop and stare, that would be rude, or weird. All I can say for sure is Harriet changed me. Someday I hope to better explain how and why. That’s why I say get moving and watch Harriet. Let me know where it takes you.
