There is something playfully novelistic about the way Joachim Trier lays The Worst Person in the World out in a series of chapters around our young protagonist, Julie, guiding us through her messy mistakes and complicated relationships with a superbly formal structure, and thoughtfully constructing what might as well be a coming-of-age film for those approaching their 30s.
Joe Wright’s elegantly fluid camerawork flourishes in the tragic love story of Cyrano, as even while it struggles against the odd piece of contrived sentiment in its musical numbers, its narrative of classical literary archetypes serves as a perfect canvas for his stunning visual displays of French Baroque beauty.
Though Aaron Sorkin’s screenplay for Being the Ricardos may at times indecisively tug its narrative in multiple directions at once, it is tough faulting the electric dialogue that keeps us glued to Lucille Ball’s behind-the-scenes television troubles, holding firm to its empathetic understanding of the comedic television star.
There is an inherent clash between animation and documentary filmmaking in their relationship to reality, but in piecing together the memories of an Afghan refugee who fled his country in the 90s through live interviews and hand-drawn reconstructions, Jonas Poher Rasmussen turns Flee into a compellingly fluid examination of historical truth.
Paul Verhoeven’s irreverent provocations are well-suited to this compelling piece of Italian history, with each of Sister Benedetta’s cunning power plays, false miracles, and sexual advances driving this riveting narrative towards an outburst of wrathful vengeance, violently bringing a hypocritical Catholic Church to its knees.
There is an invitation built into both the title and story of C’mon C’mon, beckoning us to join a radio journalist and his nine-year-old nephew on a road trip across the United States, through which Mike Mills’ beautiful greyscale cinematography and stream-of-consciousness montages paint a portrait of a relationship as sweet and unhurried as his narrative’s easy-going pace.
Rebecca Hall’s shallow focus and hazy black-and-white cinematography in Passing takes a dreamy hold over this interrogation of racial assimilation in 1920s New York, bringing together two old African-American childhood friends whose strikingly divergent lives lead to a reunion over thorny questions of identity and prejudice.
No doubt there are plot points in Barb and Star Go to Vista del Mar which don’t quite cohere with everything else, but with a screwball commitment to absurdly inventive visual gags and dialogue, the inspired collaboration between Josh Greenbaum, Kristen Wiig, and Anne Mumolo pushes the film’s narrative logic in hilariously unexpected directions.
Perhaps there is a leaner version of Drive My Car out there than the three-hour version Ryusuke Hamaguchi presents us with, but that would simply not do justice to the long journeys of healing lived by the complex characters at its heart, delicately forming a quiet limbo of endless self-reflection for those whose loved ones have passed on.
The personal evocations of Kenneth Branagh’s own childhood in Belfast endows this memory piece with a certain level of authenticity, but it is also the emotional nuance that he finds through his elegant camerawork and staging that fully consumes us in young Buddy’s journey, giving endless thanks to those who planted seeds of growth within such inhospitable environments.
