***1/2 (Excellent)

Kubo and the Two Strings is, in an almost paradoxical move, a self-consciously magical film. Much attention—almost too much attention—is directed on the part of the filmmakers towards the powers of stories, placing a storyteller at its center and ultimately using it to propel and shape the adventures to come. In less sincere hands, or ones more focused on making a film specifically about the wonders of cinema, this concept would seem forced or unjustified, but in the hands of Laika, it is only one part of the joy that forms this labor of love, a thrilling, heartbreaking, and warm journey that feels utterly transporting.

The plot of Kubo and the Two Strings is purposefully mythic, framed (at least at the beginning) by the words that Kubo (a noble, perfectly young Art Parkinson), a young one-eyed boy living in feudal Japan with a magical skill of magically folding origami and a preternatural talent for his stringed shamisen, uses to begin his own stories. These stories, almost always following the same format of a great warrior named Hanzo and his quest, are revealed (in the first of many clever narrative choices) are revealed after the first telling to be handed down to him by his mother, who seems to only come to life when she tells said stories. It speaks to one of the most important ideas, that of inheritance and family, that permeates the film, and many echoes of Kubo’s parents (one of whom is Hanzo) show up in Kubo, sometimes commented on, sometimes not.

Eventually, as is inevitable, Kubo embarks on his quest, with only his origami, shamisen, and a wooden charm reincarnated by magic into Monkey (Charlize Theron, almost overflowing with warmth and sharp wit). In a particularly effective stroke, the filmmakers makes the goal of the quest the three pieces of magic armor already introduced in Kubo’s origami story while mixing in a very real abundance of unknowns; the glamours and heroics of adventure are swamped by the dangers and the threats. Here is where the most beautiful parts of Kubo and the Two Strings arise: the simple interactions of Monkey and Kubo and, a short time later, Beetle, a samurai trapped in a giant beetle-like shell (played by a beautifully dim-witted but stalwart Matthew McConaughey) are a joy to watch as their bond only strengthens. There are, thankfully, no conflicts between the trio—despite their temperamental differences, they all recognize the goal and work together with a great deal of composure; at least, as much as can be expected from such a motley group.

Kubo and the Two Strings is, of course, absolutely dazzling, utilizing a blend of 3-D stop-motion and CGI to craft an immersive world filled with caverns, endless oceans, and monsters of all types—each has their own allure, and all are immaculately detailed, just removed enough from a life-like look to be fantastical. Such a smooth look is understandably cause for mild concern, and perhaps adds fuel to the criticism that the plot is akin to that of a adventure video game, but the emphasis is placed equally on the action and the characters, as evidenced by a thrilling second-act battle between Monkey and one of the villainous Sisters (both voiced by a chilling, mocking Rooney Mara) that is upstaged by a stunning, absolutely heartbreaking tale told by Monkey, animated by Kubo’s origami. Kubo and the Two Strings might go slightly too far in resolving every last one of the mysteries inherent to the plot, and the ending might be too tidy and literal, but Laika never lets the magic get lost, and they remain resolute in crafting a gorgeous, moving, and genuine film that maintains its belief, without a scrap of doubt, in the power of stories.

* (Worthless)

The act of watching Suicide Squad can’t be described as anything except an experience. Even describing it in such formal, clinical terms is suitable for this utter travesty of a film, transporting in its complete failure to engage, to convince, or even to deliver a slightly satisfying two hours. But at the same time it is fascinating and quite often hilarious, albeit for the entirely wrong reasons, erasing the boundaries between coherence and incoherence as all the cast and crew flail about in their unsuccessful attempts to enliven a threadbare premise.

From the very start, set laughably to The Animals’ “The House of the Rising Sun”, it is clear that Ayer’s intent to be “subversive” has failed, falling back on rote strategies of popular music, no matter how obvious or ineffective, and jokey one-liners (particularly evident in interactions between Ike Barinholtz’s egregious prison guard character). No matter how Day-Glo and garish the aesthetic gets, or how jaggedly jolting the editing gets, it is at the end of the day a standard superhero movie, complete with a requisite happy and successful ending.

Where Suicide Squad shocks the most, however, is in its total lack of narrative momentum and logic. One of the obvious examples comes in the beginning, where Deadshot (Will Smith, fairly solid) and Harley Quinn (a too cutesy Margot Robbie) are both introduced—the former to the aforementioned Animals song and the latter to Lesley Gore’s “You Don’t Own Me”, the first and certainly not the last intensely on the nose cue—before being introduced again in the endless montage of introductions after the title card. This, of course, is where the film’s weaknesses glare most strongly, setting the tone with remarkable incompetence, as the perfect storm of awful music cues, generally unengaging acting, lack of momentum, and what could be charitably called a frat-boy aesthetic (filled with bright flashy things and an undercurrent of objectification, especially with Harley Quinn) are slapped together.

Suicide Squad hardly gets better after it finishes with its introductions, which manage to both be too frivolous and informative—quirks like Captain Boomerang’s (Jai Courtney) pink unicorn fetish serve no purpose other than one cheap laugh—and frustratingly pointless, as it serves no real purpose at the start of the narrative for the film and Amanda Waller (Viola Davis, in a wonderfully no-nonsense role) to spend so much time on these criminals. It lurches on, slapping together scenes that jump between locations and characters with abandon before adopting a semblance of a plot. But the threat posed by Enchantress (a committed but weak Cara Delevingne) never seems credible, too vague and broad (defined solely by mind-controlling humans into things with blobs for heads and a “machine” whose purpose is unresolved) to be truly connected to the villains-turned-reluctant heroes.

The most concrete reason I can think of why Suicide Squad never had a chance of working, after stripping away all of the inept filmmaking and garish choices, is that there are no stakes involved at all. Most of the central characters are commonly described in terms that seem ridiculously overpowered: Deadshot, El Diablo (a surprisingly sensitive Jay Hernandez), and Katana (Karen Fukuhara, completely solid) are all described at one point as being able to take out the whole squad by themselves, and thus the team seems profoundly overqualified for their task. A third attempt to inject pathos in a prolonged bar scene falls flat, and by the time of the climax, filled with Enchantress’s fight dance spasming, ludicrously idyllic fantasies, and a laugh-out-loud use of slow motion, Suicide Squad completely debases and buries itself. It is not, as some may say, the culmination of the excesses of the modern studio system, but it is a horrible, hilarious, utterly incompetent affair, a failure on every possible level.

*** (Good)

With a title like American Honey, Andrea Arnold (in her first film set and shot outside her native UK) seems to invite comparisons, both positive and negative, to the almost inordinate explorations of what it means to be “American”. But oddly enough, the film doesn’t necessarily choose to go down this road; it is a work of pure experience, showing the “how” in the day-to-day lives of the magazine-selling crew while delving little into the “who” or “why”. The highs and lows that the viewer experiences seem entirely of the moment, and indeed these are people that live in such a state, but they are filtered and diluted through an unceasingly relaxed and conflict-free lens.

American Honey has the faintest glimmers of a plot, insofar that it spends just a scant (in the context of the film) 15 minutes setting up the protagonist, Star (Sasha Lane), a Southern teen scavenger who joins the crew at the behest of Jake (Shia LaBeouf, in an alarmingly varied performance). They, and Krystal (a cool Riley Keough), the leader of the group, are the only clearly defined characters in the film—the rest of the crew are introduced by name in the first of many lengthy scenes set in the van that they use to travel around the country, but aside from their individual quirks, which include one of the members frequently exposing his genitals and another (played by Arielle Holmes) being obsessed with Darth Vader, the characters all function as different heads of a single entity. They are continuously shunted into the background in favor of a growing romance between Star and Jake, and the conflict this causes with the no-nonsense Krystal.

Lane’s spirited performance is analogous to that of Katie Jarvis’s in Fish Tank, but it seems both even more centered and less important than in that movie. American Honey is resolutely fixed on her—I can’t remember a single scene that takes place without her presence—but at the same time Arnold’s vision seems distracted, anxious to capture all parts of the life that this rag-tag group leads in their attempts to get rich and have a good time. Sometimes, this approach works, such as in a wonderful interlude where Star jumps into the car of three cowboys (one of whom is played by Will Patton) and participates in a barbecue, but oftentimes it doesn’t, as in the endless scenes where the group lethargically sings along to the on-the-nose songs coming from the stereo. The film isn’t repetitive per se, but it only rarely (in that interlude for example) attempts to break from the rhythm it sets; it is comfortable but rather enervating, as the film only prolongs itself more and more.

And yet, there is clearly a sincere intent behind Arnold’s images. Whether it be to create her own Americana or to offer a comment on and/or praise of the modern youth, the sun-kissed photography by Robbie Ryan (with some gorgeous shots of insects and skies) and the frequent quiet imposed by the more romantic scenes seem to signal that something is happening. Perhaps the surprisingly primal ending, complete with a kind of baptism for Star, and the end credits provide the clearest answer: they begin by describing American Honey as a film by the actors in the mag crew, in roughly alphabetical order (aside from positioning Lane first). Though at times the film may resort to a simplified view of its subjects, whether they be part of the crew or the various buyers they meet along the way, it never stoops to gawking. Arnold feels too much for her characters to do that, and while this empathy sacrifices meaning for surface emotion, American Honey feels sincere, if not necessarily compelling. It exists, with the occasional display of verve, and certainly for some more in tune with the crew’s wavelength, that may be enough. But as for myself, I remain distant.

What surprises most is the coherence of the medium-length film—there are no attempts to obscure the fact that this is a collection of music videos, and it is plainly shot in the most expedient fashion, but the recurrence of certain visual motifs and the vigor of the artists’ performances more than carries the ideas, and the music of course more than does enough. The visual styles are correspondingly different between the videos featuring Grimes, HANA, and the one featuring Aristophanes, though the camera swoops and frequent slow motion remain constant from Mac Boucher. It is really just a fun, occasionally highly inventive affair, and the fact that occasional beams of sun-kissed photography only helps. Grimes’ temperament is so perfectly suited, and the collective music so strong, that this modest collection ends up as even more than the sum of its parts.

The Distance seems to deal almost exclusively in the grotesque and the bizarre. Shot in numerous long shots, the environment of what is supposedly Siberia appears alien, mixing in natural woods with towering abandoned warehouses and black plains that seem to stretch on for miles. But Caballero is more than willing to double down on this feeling, throwing in a trio of telepathic dwarfs, a mutant guard, a performance artist with a mud-caked face, a poetic bucket, and even more almost irrelevant aspects to the plot, which concerns a vaguely defined heist on said warehouse. But everything else is even less defined, and each scene feels like an incremental build towards a sort of anti-climax. Still, the craftsmanship (especially the scraping sound design) and general feeling is something to behold and meditate on.

Perhaps inevitably, the opening minutes of Los Sures are its strongest. It begins with a dizzying, sharply edited montage covering practically the whole breadth of the Puerto Rican South Williamsburg neighborhood, accompanied by narration from several unidentified people. It certainly isn’t abstract, but there is an irresistible vigor to the sequence—it and the short interludes that are sprinkled throughout the film are by far the most interesting aspects. In comparison, the bulk of the documentary is taken up by comparatively uninteresting “standard” personal testimonies, following a handful of people intending to represent the community. However, the only aspect that truly distinguishes them is their social class, as their personalities and struggle to survive all take up a similar tenor. Even more unfortunately, the film becomes more and more like a political screed in its interview of the featured social worker in the final section. But throughout, the verve and intimacy of the film remains, and though Los Sures could have gone much, much further in its representation of this formerly vibrant community, it is valuable nonetheless.

*** (Good)

If there is one feeling that Fish Tank cannot be accused of lacking, it is immediacy. From the opening, Andrea Arnold makes it clear that the film will focus entirely on the volatile, forceful character of Mia (Katie Jarvis), following her relentlessly as she argues on the phone, head-butts another girl, and tries to free a horse in rapid succession. Throughout, Robbie Ryan’s camera follows her, the consistent handheld sometimes breaks into incomprehensibility as it runs to keep up with her youthful vigor. The effect, especially in the opening, is almost punishing—the film operates with zero degree of remove, rejecting any sense of commentary towards its characters in favor of representing them as they are, sometimes in an admittedly worrying way. Mia’s mother and especially her sister are rather ghastly characters, even more volatile without much to offset their excessive vulgarity.

For all of the excessive volatility of Mia’s character, Fish Tank works best when it focuses on her and, a bit later in the film, Conor (Michael Fassbender). Much of this is due to Jarvis’s performance, which somehow exceeds Arnold’s fervor in portraying the realism of her character’s situation. Mia is only 15 years older, but Jarvis seemingly plays her as someone of wildly varying ages depending on her situation: sometimes cocky, sometimes aggressive, sometimes withdrawn, but always visibly energetic. Before Conor arrives, she carries the movie, especially in the scenes where she practices her dancing. It is her passion, and if she is not especially good, she puts her heart into it, as she does with most of her interactions.

This vigor catches the attention of Conor, and Fish Tank almost seems to become a different film after his introduction. The other characters are still there, and there is still plenty of immediacy to go around, but Fassbender introduces a much-needed injection of easygoingness (the continual use of Bobby Womack’s cover of “California Dreamin'” certainly helps), and even the camera seems to stabilize, as if he serves as an anchor to Mia. The situations become much more stable, and the movie slowly builds to the inevitable between Mia and Conor, shot mostly in a relatively long shot and with true tenderness.

Unfortunately, the film almost completely loses itself completely afterwards, elongating the day before Mia’s dancing audition into a rather enervating half-hour where Mia’s actions become even less comprehensible and desparate. Much of the sequence falls back into the rut of just following Mia as she runs, and even the resolution feels inert; nothing has changed for Mia, and it feels like a means to an end. The film does regain its footing after that, offering resolutions in sharp succession, especially a rather well-considered one with Conor.

The very ending of the film comes somewhat out of the blue, but it feels almost like a sort of redemption or a fresh start for Mia. Her situation is as chaotic as ever, but there is a clear sense of some sort of change; whether it be for good or ill is undetermined. Fish Tank is unfailing in its depiction of a certain mindset, but despite considerable detriments resulting from this approach during the movie, it certainly lingers in the mind.

Jodie Mack’s short operates almost entirely in a state of playfulness. From the opening live action footage, cut as rhythmically as the animation, to the glorious prismatic abstractions that sparkle throughout the second half, it is unmistakably joyous, delighting in the trinkets that at first seem trivial, then ominous (in startling close-ups against a black back-drop), then creators of light as they gradually recede. It is distinctly programmatic, but never predictable (especially in the middle section that mixes the colored flares with hazy shots of a lake), and throughout the bells tinkle insistently.

***1/2 (Excellent)

Journey to the Shore could have gone in radically different directions with its intriguing premise, that of ghosts who appear to be humans for all intents and purposes. But Kiyoshi Kurosawa chooses the most counterintuitive and difficult of them all: the romantic drama. The film stays solidly grounded in the relationship between the two main characters, Mizuki (Eri Fukatsu) and Yusuke (Tadanobu Asano), using it as the basis for the more eerie or “genre” elements that Kurosawa occasionally hints at. But even in this regard, the romantic aspects are consistently elided; though the ghosts seem to have the exact same physiology as regular people, Mizuki and Yusuke almost never touch throughout the narrative, instead conveying their romance through discussions of the past, when the two were married before Yusuke’s death, and longing glances as their subdued chemistry shines through.

From the very beginning, Journey to the Shore is clearly playing by completely different rules, refusing to conform to any familiar narrative structure. After a short scene introducing Mizuki teaching piano to a young girl that will not be seen again, Yusuke shows up in her apartment without warning, having been gone for three years. Only as the scene goes along does the viewer learn that Yusuke has been dead (a fact unknown to Mizuki) and reincarnated, but it is left unexplained why Mizuki reacts with such composure. Indeed, the opening of the film is suggested to be a dream for a few moments after the couple’s reunion, an otherwise superfluous occurrence that reinforces the odd, unpredictable nature of the film.

Otherwise, Journey to the Shore proceeds in a relatively straightforward manner, staying with its two main characters as it adopts an almost episodic, road-trip style structure. For the most part, the movie revolves around a handful of extended encounters with people connected in various ways to Yusuke, all of whom he met after he became a corporeal ghost. Kurosawa never reveals their true state of being (whether it be alive or dead) until after their initial introductions, aligning his film’s viewpoint squarely with Mizuki and doling out information about the nature of the afterlife in pieces. Perhaps not coincidentally, some of the most powerful scenes in the film come at the climax of these individual encounters—one of Kurosawa’s greatest strengths in this movie is the skill with which he slowly builds the emotion of a section, unleashing it in one scene, then letting it recede during a short traveling sequence before escalating once more, matched by his impeccable use of long shots.

After a rather unexpected rupture at just past the halfway point, the rest of the film takes place in a village where Yusuke taught for a while and became acquainted with most of the inhabitants. The supernatural aspects here are most apparent, featuring a hole where the dead purportedly pass from the underworld to humanity (an idea shot down by Yusuke) and a conversation between Mizuki and her dead father, but Kurosawa ultimately leaves this all behind, focusing on the love of the central couple before things must inevitably come to an end. It is, in the end, an unbearably romantic movie, reserved but inexorable, and above all beguiling in the most mysterious and wonderful way.

***1/2 (Excellent)

It is always an interesting case when the original and English titles of a film differ, and the ones corresponding to Our Little Sister are especially instructive. While the English title puts an emphasis on both the eponymous character, Suzu, and the three sisters that perhaps form the emotional core of the movie, the original Japanese title, Umimachi Diary (the name of the manga that the film is based on), is even more illuminating. Umimachi means seaside town, and of course seafood and boats play a not-insignificant part in the narrative, but what really interests is the pointed inclusion of “diary” (spelled out on screen, as in the original manga). The film does not adopt the day-by-day approach suggested by this word, taking place over the course of a year, but there is an unmistakeable intimacy that feels as if the viewer is reading a diary written in tandem by these four charming young women, one that is willing to go into minute detail on the most seemingly insignificant of events. The days may pass with abandon, but nothing seems too frivolous to cherish and preserve.

Our Little Sister concerns itself with a great deal of human interactions, and the one that embeds itself in the film’s core is the unshakeable bond of the four sisters. Thankfully, Kore-eda pointedly resists creating conflict (of almost any kind in the film, but especially here) between the three sisters and Suzu, as they quickly adopt and care for her with nothing but deep genuine love—though at one point Sachi (the oldest sister) is accused of adopting her for ulterior motives, it is evident that this is hardly the case. Much of the joy of the film is in observing how various configurations of the four pinball off of each other. There is a remarkable and irrepressible chemistry that exists between all of the actresses that seems to rise to the surface in almost every occasion, whether it be a playful argument, an explanation of an old custom, or idle chatter at mealtime.

As many have noted, in both praise and derision, Our Little Sister is an extraordinarily nice film; there is almost no conflict to speak of, and the one scene that does devolve into an actual confrontation is quickly followed by a pleasing resolution. But at least for me, this is a merit, all the better to immerse the viewer into the atmosphere of Kamakura. Kore-eda’s style is ideal for this feeling, using careful, slowly moving medium shots and precise to cover all of his subjects and subtly changing his method for the ever-so-slightly more important areas—the confrontation is shot in a sharply edited and direct way, a ride through a tunnel of cherry blossoms is in slow-motion.

And through it all, the unmistakeable idea of heritage is preserved. Kore-eda is clearly optimistic about the past as it becomes further and further from the present, as the sisters continually talk about the people they had loved and lost and dutifully perform rituals with sincerity. The continually rotating supporting cast carries this torch as well; only a few persist throughout and many only appear for a few scenes, but there is a sense that, even as society becomes more and more modern (a cell phone here, a pair of jeans there), things will stay the same for the better.

It goes without saying that all four actresses are superb, but it is worth noting that each fulfills a clear-cut role and never strays far from it. Sachi (Haruka Ayase, in a remarkably empathetic performance) is the lead, if such a distinction can be applied to an ensemble film, and she is a kind of emotional anchor—as the least mercurial and oldest of the sisters, she frequently serves as the mother and carries the strongest connection to the house in which they all live in, even to the point of denouncing their estranged mother for the suggestion of selling it. A kind of middle ground between Sachi and the two younger sisters, Yoshino (a wonderfully down-to-earthMasami Nagasawa) is one of the trickiest characters to fully grasp, even though the movie begins with her character, establishing her as a sort of audience surrogate. Chika (Kaho, perhaps the best performance) is immensely joyous, an absolute pleasure to watch as she somehow manages to be even more nice than the film surrounding her. And the catalyst of the film, Suzu (played by Suzu Hirose with magnetic charm) handles herself with poise—though she is perhaps not the most mature of the sisters, as the other three claim, she is undoubtedly grown-up, though she still is clearly a young girl going through the standard ups and downs of a teenager’s life.

Of course, even after a not inconsiderable amount of scenes that could conceivably serve as endings, the film concludes with the sisters together. Our Little Sister is sweet to the end, like the plum wine that conjures up a surprising amount of meanings throughout the movie (comedy, a connection to the past, a gesture of reconciliation), but it never once becomes saccharine. Kore-eda believes in his characters too much, imbuing them with so much life, to ever be anything but genuine, and in doing so he brings the viewer along, making them believe in Sachi, Yoshino, Chika, and Suzu.