Timothée Chalamet in Marty Supreme

In Josh Safdie’s Marty Supreme, Marty Mauser (played by an astounding Timothée Chalamet) wants to rule the world. Marty’s New York City dream is to become the greatest table tennis player of all time. With a relentless optimism and uncompromising attitude, he sets off on a gripping journey in pursuit of greatness. He goes to hell and back on a globe-trotting high horse. He’s bratty, arrogant, and believes he has his dream all figured out. It’s this romantic belief that leads Marty to true perspective in the real world, where every setback serves him one wake-up call after another. Chalamet bursts onto the screen like a wrecking ball, destroying anything and anyone that doesn’t serve a purpose on Marty’s ambitious path. And yet, you can’t help but respect the hustle, especially in a film that builds towards a fully earned emotional breakthrough for its titular player. As expected with Safdie’s signature frenetic style, Marty Supreme spikes your heart rate and fully delivers on an exhilarating adrenaline rush. Though, Safdie throws in a surprising curveball that softens the blows and paints Marty’s journey in a stunning new light. Putting full weight behind the tagline, “Dream big,” Marty Supreme inspires you to persevere.

We meet Marty in New York City in 1952, selling shoes at his uncle’s store on the Lower East Side. Marty has the confidence of a good salesman; to paraphrase a line of dialogue in the film, he could sell shoes to an amputee (a tame juvenile note compared to the abrasive comments he lets roll off the tongue later on). Marty knows his strengths, but an average managerial promotion is not his path. He won’t let his future be decided by a family business. Marty dreams big… “on the cover of a Wheaties box” kind of big. Stuck in a loop of unfulfilled desires and unmet expectations, he pitches his aspirations to everybody around him who will (often begrudgingly) listen. While no one takes him seriously, and they chuckle at the thought of ping-pong even being considered a real sport, Marty’s drive continues to ascend. Dodging his mother Rebecca (Fran Drescher) and his married girlfriend Rachel (Odessa A’zion), Marty jumps through one capitalist hoop after another as he lies his way to the big leagues. 

This story of a young man chasing a thrill is right up Josh Safdie’s alley. From Connie Nikas (Robert Pattinson)’s neon-soaked scamming in Good Time, to young-at-heart Howard Ratner (Adam Sandler)’s deadly gambling in Uncut Gems, these characters are always one step ahead…in their minds. Marty Mauser operates in a similar lightning speed — we can’t catch up to him until his journey’s end, where the real world awaits with a hearty serving of humble pie. Though, Marty Supreme accelerates past the bleak conclusions of Safdie’s previous features and radiates the optimism of the American Dream. To reach that point, the film puts Marty through his own personal hell of failure and humiliation. Safdie and his longtime co-writer Ronald Bronstein find an electric narrative in the personal and professional costs of Marty’s conviction. Whenever an opportunity arises, like chance encounters with Hollywood star Kay Stone (a luminous Gwyneth Paltrow) and her wealthy jerk of a husband, Milton Rockwell (a suitably cast Kevin O’Leary), the question is always, what will Marty risk? How far is he willing to go? Playing ball with Marty’s forward-thinking attitude and youthful limitations, Safdie captures a futuristic nostalgia. 

Marty Supreme layers a 1950s story with 1980s music, and casts 90s icons alongside the bright young stars of today, creating a timeless story. The titular role needed the energy of a dreamer ahead of his time. An actor fiercely committed to his work who can also pass for a punk kid figuring things out on the fly. Enter Timothée Chalamet, a generational talent whose career ambitions have been leading up to a character like Marty Mauser. He’s been carrying Marty energy in his bones for years, whether by practice (secretly playing table tennis on other film sets) or through his movie star presence (pursuing greatness in his SAG Award speech for A Complete Unknown). One can draw several parallels between Chalamet and Marty (Chalamet’s promotion for the film makes a lot more sense with this character as the context). They’re both ambitious at heart, and Marty Supreme seems a lot closer to home (Chalamet grew up in NYC), and yet, it’s every bit as transformative a role as his previous work.

When you want to be one of the greats, you draw inspiration from the greats. Chalamet followed up his brief role in Christopher Nolan’s Interstellar and his big break in Luca Guadagnino’s Call Me By Your Name with one prolific role after another: Laurie in Greta Gerwig’s Little Women, Paul Atreides in Denis Villeneuve’s Dune films, Bob Dylan in James Mangold’s A Complete Unknown. He wants to be viewed among the greatest actors in the world, standing alongside the legends who came before. Marty, meanwhile, uses himself as a sole reference point for greatness. He wants to become the greatest table tennis player in the world, full stop. This line drawn between the star and the character is what allows Chalamet to strike a believable chord as arrogant, yet humbled to be here.

It’s an isolating path to chase your dreams in tunnel vision and without a moral compass. When in London for a tournament, in which Marty competes against Koto Endo (played by real-life table tennis champion Koto Kawaguchi), Marty’s biggest concern is accommodations. He is so offended by sharing a room with other players and standing alongside them, that he convinces the tournament organizers to put him up in a fancy hotel instead. It’s this level of entitlement that propels Marty forward. A consummate conman, he lies and steals his way to raise flight money for the Japan Championships, burning just about every bridge along the way. In spite of the character’s unpleasantness, he is played with enough heart to keep you wholly invested in his future. Chalamet’s performance is an exhilarating celebration of excellence that builds to a surprisingly emotional conclusion. He hits his highest note when Marty’s entire world opens up, giving the film a neat full-circle moment and challenging Call Me By Your Name for the best final shot of a Chalamet performance.

The film’s kinetic, textured production matches Marty’s energy. Similar to how he’s so terrified of not being the greatest at any given moment, Safdie and Bronstein appear just as frightened not to bore us. They mine through the character’s highs and lows with electric writing and editing, filled with clashing personalities and ambitions. Composer Daniel Lopatin, who also worked on Uncut Gems and Good Time, crafts an ethereal and operatic score that feels ripped out of the 1980s. The production design by Jack Fisk and costume design by Miyako Bellizzi layer 1950s period details with an underlying futuristic tone. Darius Khondji’s cinematography captures a frenetic New York City where everyone knows each other’s business.

As Marty’s world expands across the globe, we see the magic of casting director Jennifer Venditti. She blends iconic stars and on-the-rise actors with real-life figures and first-timers who bring a unique essence. They’re an eclectic bunch who each share compelling chemistry with Chalamet and give us varying perspectives on Marty that layer his characterization. Some perspectives feel loosely drawn; there’s a hustling sequence involving Marty’s friend Wally (Tyler Okonma, known as Tyler, The Creator) that slows the momentum. Marty’s girlfriend Rachel (Odessa A’zion) makes an unforgettable mark, thanks to A’zion’s hypnotic screen presence. However, the writing for her character becomes repetitive to the point where you lose grasp of who this young woman is outside of her relationships. 

Of the supporting cast, Paltrow’s Kay Stone best embodies the cinematic realism that Safdie is going for. She gives us a deeper insight into the woman behind the movie star persona, and what she’s given up to maintain not only a successful career but also a respected reputation. Kay has a level of class that Marty can’t reach, and his opportunistic intentions behind interacting with her ultimately backfire. Kay schools him in the most unassuming of ways: with life experience that he can’t even begin to level with. Paltrow excels at giving us both a seemingly inaccessible Hollywood star, and a relatable dreamer who feels the disappointment of not getting the recognition she had hoped for. There’s a moment when Kay walks onto the opening night stage of a play she’d been rehearsing and smiles in the glow of applause behind her. She lives for moments like this one; her sense of worth is carried by that applause, and it makes the impending critical reviews all the more devastating.

To quote the classic Tears for Fears song, Everybody Wants to Rule the World, “Welcome to your life…there’s no turning back.” These lyrics reverberate throughout Marty Supreme. Marty is so focused on living in the moment to fulfill his aspirations. He embodies the feeling of being forever young, chased by time, yet romantically thinking time will always be on his side. It’s not until the end of this character’s cinematic journey that he starts to realize the impact of his choices on other people. There’s no turning back from your decisions. It’s one hell of a responsibility, and if you’re a dreamer who wished you had or hadn’t made a move, it makes for an overwhelmingly emotional ending that inspires you to keep moving forward.

Marty Supreme arrives in theatres Christmas Day.

Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo in Wicked: For Good

​When director Jon M. Chu lived up to expectations and delivered a “thrillifying” Wicked: Part One, he also set the bar incredibly high for audiences, not to mention himself. Chu partly succeeded in adapting a long-running musical phenomenon into a cinematic phenomenon. He told a beautiful love story about a female friendship, one with the power to change Elphaba (Cynthia Erivo) and Glinda (Ariana Grande) for good. Wicked: Part One took the world by storm, winning two Academy Awards and outshining Mamma Mia! to become the highest-grossing Broadway musical film adaptation. The film’s cultural impact embedded the pink and green color palette into our consciousness. Most notably, the film showcased spectacular performances by Erivo and Grande, each of whom brought deep respect, passion, and understanding to the material. Together, they built the foundation for us to feel emotionally invested in a second act, eager to follow Elphaba and Glinda down the yellow brick road. When reunited in Wicked: For Good, the best friends are divided. They fight against all odds, reckoning with the reality of their shared world melting away. This journey poses challenges for the beloved characters, and for Chu, who attempts to balance a clumsily written screenplay with new original songs and an old Kansas tale. While part two lands with an emotional goodbye that will win hearts, certain narrative and visual choices put up several roadblocks along the way.

Wicked: For Good returns to Oz on a bleaker note. The Wizard (Jeff Goldblum) is no longer an emblem of endless possibilities, but rather of limiting views and manipulative rhetoric. The stakes are higher, the tone is darker, and the political elements are more deeply woven. And the film excels at setting a shadowy mood for a changed Oz. The illusionary bubble of this world has been popped. Elphaba and Glinda are on opposing sides of public perception; the former leans into an antagonized Wicked Witch of the West after failed attempts to expose The Wizard’s lies, and the latter can’t resist waving the wand of goodness until realizing that with great power comes great responsibility. The dynamic duo have several moments to shine throughout, and they shine bright. But overall, there isn’t enough compelling material to justify this second part as a full-length feature. Co-writing duo Winnie Holzman and Dana Fox can’t quite find a consistent rhythm as they deepen some elements and gloss over others, stumbling through connections to The Wizard ofOz along the way. And Chu’s oddly distant direction feels as though he’s waving a nostalgic wand, hoping to recreate magic and not finding a spell that works. 

Wicked: For Good picks up twelve tide turns after Elphaba defied gravity and left Glinda behind. Shiz headmistress Madame Morrible (Michelle Yeoh) continues to tarnish Elphaba’s name, and The Wizard continues to let it happen. In an abuse of power, they label Elphaba as The Wicked Witch of the West, and the Ozians live in that bubble of hate-filled propaganda while she remains ostracized. Elphaba finds solace alone in the Enchanted Forest, where many of the animals have gone into hiding, and makes it her mission to expose The Wizard’s lies. Meanwhile in the Emerald City, Glinda has half-heartedly embraced the role of the Good Witch. She’s conflicted about her position; echoed in the lyrics of ‘Thank Goodness,’ she knows that change is necessary, but she’s not ready to defy the powers that be. Glinda can’t resist seeking validation from her fellow Ozians as they look to her for goodness, nor can she contain her excitement about getting her own bubble, designed with a secret button that charms everyone into believing she has powers. Glinda also charms her way to Fiyero (Jonathan Bailey), catching him off guard by announcing their engagement. But Fiyero has stepped into a new role of his own, as the newly appointed captain of the Gale Force, and he intends to use his power for good. 
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Glinda and Elphaba’s internal conflicts drive this story to a tearful conclusion, once again speaking to the casting of Erivo and Grande as the beating hearts of this adaptation. However, the two-act structure around them doesn’t feel fully formed in the hands of Chu and writers Holzman and Fox. Several story developments, namely the dynamic between Nessarose (Marissa Bode) and Boq (Ethan Slater), feel rushed and riddled with plot holes. The underlying tensity in their relationship is given no room to breathe and take shape, which leads to an underwhelming transformation into the Tin Man, whose impressive makeup is diminished by subpar cinematography. Awkward character interactions, like Glinda and Elphaba’s post-tornado fight, disrupt the momentum with strange tonal shifts. The love triangle that emerges between Elphaba, Fiyero, and Glinda also causes a ripple effect of underwhelming storytelling. Erivo and Bailey sadly lack the chemistry to convey their characters’s romance in full bloom, though they still soar in their duet, ‘As Long as You’re Mine.’ Fiyero’s love for Elphaba creates an internal conflict in Glinda, and Grande plays this penny drop moment of realization brilliantly. Out of hurt, Glinda makes a decision that leads to a whirlwind of consequences. When Elphaba gets lured to Munchkinland, the film inexplicably rushes through two pivotal moments: one involving Nessarose’s fate, and the other an introduction to beloved characters from The Wizard of Oz.

Part one’s introductory buildup to ‘No One Mourns the Wicked’ gave us teensy glimpses of Dorothy, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion on their way to see The Wizard. With a single image, we knew their place in the story. In part two, Chu attempts a similar level of subtlety with the clear intention of not wanting to distract from the film’s central story. However, Chu reserves that elusiveness only for Dorothy and the Scarecrow, while indulging in more backstory for the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion’s connections to Elphaba. The film wants it both ways, and as a consequence, the inclusion of The Wizard of Oz characters feels like an experimental workshop. Chu’s noticeable uncertainty around who, when, and how much to show creates a mishmash of confusing camerawork. Some characters are forced into frame (like the Tin Man transformation), while others are forced out of frame (most egregiously, Dorothy), seemingly without rhyme or reason. While it’s an entirely understandable decision not to reveal Dorothy’s face, Chu keeps such a dramatic distance from this reimagined character that her presence becomes a distraction.
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Additionally, part two is inherently at a disadvantage on the musical number front, as the majority of Wicked’s most rousing songs (‘Defying Gravity’; ‘Popular’; ‘No One Mourns the Wicked’) originate in part one. While Wicked: For Good includes gems like the poignant ‘Thank Goodness / I Couldn’t Be Happier’, the vulnerable ‘No Good Deed,’ the lovely reprise of ‘I’m Not That Girl,’ and the titular tearjerker ‘For Good,’ these numbers resonate far more as vocal showcases than as inspired visual achievements. The exception is ‘For Good,’ a stunning duet that makes excellent use of split-screen techniques to heighten the emotional parallels between Elphaba and Glinda. The new songs, ‘No Place Like Home’ and ‘The Girl in the Bubble’ have a far more subdued impact in how they are incorporated into the film. Despite carrying some thematic resonance, both numbers feel tacked on rather than thoughtfully intertwined into the story. In any case, Erivo and Grande rise above pedestrian direction and inconsistent camerawork to convey the emotional depths of their character arcs. 

‘The Girl in the Bubble’’s childhood flashback reinforces Glinda as the anchor of Wicked: For Good, in the way that Elphaba anchored part one. The screenplay works best when expanding on Glinda’s motivations, and Grande soars with the added material. She conveys a powerhouse emotional arc as we watch Glinda experience difficulty in facing herself, and gradually accept that she’s been changed for the better. She bursts the bubble of people-pleasing, allowing her to clearly address childhood insecurities and connect with Elphaba on a much deeper level. Erivo also reaches incredible new depths as Elphaba. She has so lovingly crafted the definitive version of this character, and her nuanced performance resonates across several registers, from the soul-stirring energy of ‘No Good Deed’ to the melancholy of ‘For Good.’ She delivers absolutely show stopping moments that will invite several rounds of audience applause. 

Together, Erivo and Grande vocalize a powerful friendship that knows no limits, and a vulnerable journey in which they both feel truly seen by each other, in a world that has become increasingly cruel. Much of what makes part one soar — from the heart-swelling central performances to the gorgeously immersive crafts (including Academy Award winning costume design by Paul Tazewell and production design by Nathan Crowley) continues in part two. And the emotional goodbye to Elphaba and Glinda’s characters finds a smooth landing. Though, while there’s still magic to be found in spite of the film’s flaws, Wicked: For Good fails to take flight as a whole.

Jennifer Lawrence in Die My Love

​Lynne Ramsay’s Die My Love, her first film in eight years since You Were Never Really Here, roars with a restless energy. It’s an all-consuming journey that demands your undivided attention. The story unfolds in a trance, peering through a woman’s soul and taking shape from inside her head. Playing in between realism and imagination, the auteur puts up a cinematic fight against the societal norms of domesticity. She turns up the volume (with exquisite needle drops) on a suffocating rural existence where unmet desires, a strained marriage, and a terrifying loss of self live.

Things weren’t always this nightmarish. Ramsay opens the film with hopes and dreams; a young couple expecting a baby move into a rundown, but promising, new house. We get an intoxicating montage of Grace (Jennifer Lawrence) and her husband Jackson (Robert Pattinson) dancing up a storm in their new kitchen, boogieing into parenthood. The couple are surrounded by seemingly infinite space to grow, but Ramsay lets us dance in that daydream only for a brief moment. Once the baby is born, the Montana landscape, even with all its vastness, can’t contain Grace’s inner wild child. Nor can this new environment give her the creative spark she needs to continue writing. Fearing becoming invisible, she tries to regain her identity while engulfed in a psychological void. As echoed in the film’s most poignant line, Grace is stuck between wanting to do something, and not wanting to do anything at all.

Based on Ariana Harwicz’s 2012 novel of the same name, Die My Love visualizes a woman’s transformative relationship to herself and her surroundings. Grace has no problem attaching to her son. “He’s perfect,” she explains to a doctor. “It’s everything else that’s fucked.” The confines of polite society, and the expectations of motherhood, close in on her, and there’s nowhere to run. Tension manifests in her body as she crawls her way around, ready to pounce at any moment. Grace’s animalistic impulses, portrayed by a transcendent Jennifer Lawrence, make for an unpredictable environment. It’s through these small, seemingly insignificant moments of spontaneity that we get the most insight about her interior world. The isolating landscape might be limiting for Grace, but Ramsay uses every inch of it to give Lawrence ample room for psychological exploration. As a result, we get stellar moments like Grace’s boredom sequence (set to the poppy Toni Basil song ‘Mickey’), as well as Grace and Jackson’s feverish wedding party, where she unleashes her truest self.

Even though Grace’s perception of reality might be unreliable, and she might be hallucinating certain moments, Ramsay and Lawrence take the character seriously in a tender embrace. They approach her from an unflinching point of view, unapologetically living inside her brain and letting all the emotions run wild. There’s never any doubt that what she’s feeling is real. Every primal expression is rooted in Grace’s perpetual search for her identity back — whether she’s rolling through the fields with a knife, licking and banging on the windows, scratching her nails against the bathroom wallpaper, or barking back at a pet dog (which Jackson randomly brings home without talking to her first). With an intimate aspect ratio, the film lives and breathes Grace’s impulses, giving us the feeling of discovering newly awakened emotions alongside her. 

Ramsay knows exactly how to set a mood and capture a vivid atmosphere, especially through the use of sound and music. Working with her longtime sound design collaborator Paul Davies, Ramsay pinpoints several places (namely an incessantly barking dog) to heighten the emotions of a scene and signify a page turning in Grace’s mind. When Grace hears a motorcycle revving outside her house, for instance, there’s a moment of escapism in Lawrence’s reaction that ultimately draws her closer to a motorcycle rider named Karl (Lakeith Stanfield). Though, the depiction of their relationship speaks to the rare occasion in this film where Ramsay’s vision loses focus. Karl’s characterization, and the extent to which he’s meant to be a figment of Grace’s imagination, becomes too much of an enigma.

Ramsay’s balance between realism and imagination shines best in the depiction of Grace’s fragmented, free flowing self. Jennifer Lawrence unlocks a fascinating character study with this character and delivers career-best work. She keeps us on the edge of our seats, and lives in compelling spontaneity. The role plays to Lawrence’s strengths in many ways — she’s funny, goofy, instinctive, and a truly natural performer. Lawrence also gets the opportunity to take an enormous creative swing, by immersing herself into the deep end of primal impulses and self-destructive tendencies. She embraces the nonlinear, unfiltered structure and takes this role beyond definitions of a postpartum experience. It’s through her raw and real portrayal that we can gather so much more, whether it’s the major creative block she’s facing or the pressures to exemplify a “good wife.” Die My Love also plays in the vein of Darren Aronofsky’s Mother! when it comes to Lawrence’s risk taking. She’s explored the indie world with Lila Neugebauer’s Causeway, the raunchy comedy with Gene Stupnitsky’s No Hard Feelings, and following up with Die My Love gives us an adrenaline rush of anticipation for what’s to come in her career. Lawrence continues to show why she’s one of the most invigorating and intuitive talents. 

The way Lawrence has defied expectations and transcended beyond her most widely known roles, namely The Hunger Games franchise and her Oscar-winning turn in Silver Linings Playbook, is very reminiscent of her Die My Love co-star Robert Pattinson’s acting journey. Since exploding onto the scene with the Twilight films, Pattinson has found an individualistic path onto becoming the actor he is today. In the span of ten years, he’s starred in films by David Cronenberg, Josh & Benny Safdie, Claire Denis, Robert Eggers, Christopher Nolan, Hayao Miyazaki, and Bong Joon Ho. Plus, he gave us a great new Batman. In Die My Love, Pattinson delivers some of his most alive and electric work. He both matches and pulls away from Lawrence’s energy, in equal measure, speaking to a transformative love story at the film’s core. Jackson and Grace are experiencing intense shifts in their relationship, and he’s bewildered at not being able to recognize her. He’s more concerned with fitting into societal moulds and satisfying his own needs than he is with attempting to understand Grace’s perspective. And yet, Pattinson doesn’t let us forget that there’s still love in their relationship, expressed most freely in the quieter moments between them.

So much of this film depicts Grace’s search for identity in a distorted reflection, where she no longer recognizes herself outside of being a mother and a wife. From the outside looking in, her mother-in-law Pam (Sissy Spacek) seems to be the only person who truly acknowledges and recognizes what’s going on. When Grace and the baby make a surprise visit to Pam’s house one day, we get a stunning conversational moment of generational resilience and survival. Pam reassures Grace that after having a baby, “everybody goes a little loopy the first year, but [she’ll] come back.” Pam identifies with the primal void and truly sees Grace, which adds incredible warmth to all of their scenes together. It’s no surprise that Sissy Spacek, personally on my Mount Rushmore of greatest actors, is absolutely phenomenal here. What strikes a radical chord is how Pam transcends what could have been a two-dimensional role, and becomes a powerful generational voice in the film. She’s a woman who has come out the other side and can impart words of wisdom. And she’s a woman who sleepwalks with a shotgun, cackling across the rural nighttime roads. 

There’s a grounding energy to Grace and Pam’s scenes that speaks to how well Ramsay keeps Die My Love firmly planted in human nature, even when visually it feels otherworldly at times. When Grace takes the baby and disappears into a forest for hours, while the song ‘Little April Shower’ from Disney’s Bambi plays, Ramsay evokes a dark fairytale. The forest seems so far away, like another dimension where she could escape. The thematic resonance of this setting would become crucial to the film’s ending, which leaves us on a question mark of where Grace has gone, exactly. Is she setting fire to her life to start anew? Perhaps a fiery flicker will light a path pack towards the parts of her that she lost after having a baby? Is she embracing the raging fire within, and never going back? Whatever the case may be, ultimately Die My Love resonates as an unapologetic love story where our relationships to ourselves, and to others, can change so radically over time.

By Nadia Dalimonte

Visionary director Wong Kar Wai has blessed our theatre screens for decades with classics like Chungking Express, Fallen Angels, Happy Together, and In the Mood for Love. Audiences can revisit these cinematic gems in state-of-the-art restorations thanks to The Criterion Collection, which has been dedicated to publishing films from around the world through physical media and an extensive streaming channel. The Criterion Channel, which features the stunning DIRECTED BY WONG KAR WAI collection, will soon be home to another swoon-worthy Wong Kar Wai production: his first-ever television series.

Directed and produced by Wong Kar Wai, the long-awaited Blossoms Shanghai is already a massively popular hit in China. The series originally aired on the Chinese video streaming website Tencent Video in 2023, when it became the most streamed television series nationwide. The story follows young entrepreneur Ah Bao (Hu Ge), a risk-taking businessman (compared to a Chinese Jay Gatsby) looking to make his fortune in 1990s Shanghai. As China’s economy goes into overdrive, the Shanghai Stock Exchange reopening attracts a sprawling group of entrepreneurs, stockbrokers, bureaucrats, schemers, and dreamers, all in pursuit of wealth. 

Adapted from the award-winning 2013 novel of the same title by Shanghai author Jin Yucheng, Blossoms Shanghai stars Shanghainese actors including Hu Ge, Ma Yili (as Mr. Bao’s partner, Ling Zi), Tang Yan (as Mr. Bao’s import-export liaison), and Xin Zhilei (as the glamorous femme fatale Li Li). Considering the intrigue of Yucheng’s story and the romanticism of Wong Kar Wai’s vision, it seems this series will give its cast plenty of opportunities to bloom. The Criterion Channel will also provide an exciting launchpad for more North American audiences to discover Shanghainese talent and hopefully spark greater explorations of both classic and contemporary works from different parts of the world.

Per the director’s statement to The Criterion Channel: “Blossoms Shanghai will bring you to Shanghai in the nineties, when the city was redefining itself. It is as much about looking forward as looking back. At its heart, the series is about universal human drives: the pursuit of reinvention, the intoxications of opportunity, and the tension between ambition and love.” Exuberant and intoxicating are just a few signature elements to expect from Wong Kar Wai’s work. In Blossoms Shanghai, audiences can anticipate these elements to shine across 30 episodes of rich world building, community-driven plot development, and resonant themes of idealism, reinvention, and destiny. More on Wong Kar Wai's words about the series's upcoming premiere can be enjoyed here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i-sJDo7H1zM 

​Beginning November 24, three new episodes of Blossoms Shanghai will be released every Monday at 8 p.m. until January 26, exclusively on the Criterion Channel:
​https://www.criterionchannel.com/blossoms-shanghai 

Mark November 24 on your calendars and tune in to the official Blossoms Shanghai trailer below:
https://www.criterionchannel.com/videos/blossoms-shanghai-trailer

Ethan Hawke in Blue Moon

​If any creative duo could interpret a 20th-century lyricist’s legacy as a hangout film and a breakup film, it’s Ethan Hawke and Richard Linklater. From the achingly romantic Before trilogy and the coming-of-age epic Boyhood, to the surreal Waking Life and claustrophobic Tape, Hawke and Linklater have leapt through time in search of purpose and meaning. They’ve perfected the walk and talk. They’ve captured the highs and lows of long-term relationships, making deeply conversational imprints in cinematic history. They understand the beauty of a good hangout and the heartbreak of a faded connection. When you know what it’s like to be in a thriving relationship, whether it’s romantic or artistic, the thought of losing that connection is haunting. Hawke and Linklater’s own creative partnership makes them the perfect storytellers to find the nostalgia and the heartache in songwriter Lorenz Hart (Hawke), whose creative partner of 25 years, Richard Rodgers (Andrew Scott), left him for Oscar Hammerstein II (Simon Delaney). Adding salt to the wound, Rodgers and Hammerstein went on to make the Broadway smash hit, Oklahoma!.

Blue Moon, Hawke’s ninth collaboration with Linklater, is a wistful chamber piece about artistic betrayal. Written by Robert Kaplow (who previously penned Linklater’s Me and Orson Welles), the dialogue echoes tragic sounds from an artist who “went directly from childhood to washed up” and is now past his prime. Hart, having just left the Broadway premiere of Oklahoma!, arrives at Sardi’s in New York City for the after-party and beelines to the bar. He complains to the sympathetic bartender, Eddie (Bobby Cannavale), that the show is terribly sentimental. Hart insists it’s not jealousy speaking, but his body language and facial expressions suggest otherwise. Hart’s forthcoming thoughts would go on to reveal deep layers of bitterness and sadness about the fact that Oklahoma! — about to become Rodgers’s greatest success — was accomplished without him.
The film takes liberties to convey a painfully vulnerable period in an artist’s life, where Hart has been defined by a decades-long partnership and must now rediscover himself as a storyteller. His outward personality makes him seem alert, dynamic, and fun to be around for his witty anecdotes and snappy remarks like “Who wants inoffensive art?”. When Hart looks inward, however, he doesn’t like what he sees: a bitter alcoholic and an insecure, self-loathing, diminishing talent who feels useless creatively. Hart’s beloved musical hits like “My Funny Valentine,” “Where or When” (covered notably by Harry Connick Jr. for When Harry Met Sally), and the titular “Blue Moon” have kept his talent immortal to this day. But on March 31, 1943, eight months before Hart’s death, American theatre was changing in real time. And he was getting left behind.

Lorenz Hart is not a typical leading role, which makes the spotlight on him all the more enigmatic. His work is heard and not seen, and he’s a complicated personality to follow. Blue Moon finds a compelling perspective by looking at the character’s downward spiral as a creative eulogy. When Rodgers and Hammerstein walk into the bar, they seem to view him in a translucent light, as though he’s digging his own grave and fading before their eyes. To mask the melancholy, Hart saves face and puts on a happy smile. With one foot still in the door, he tries to sell Rodgers on the idea that they could do something more emotionally complex and unsentimental than Oklahoma!. Their conversation, beautifully acted by Ethan Hawke and Andrew Scott, captures the daunting energy of putting yourself out there, and shows us just how strongly attached Hart’s own artistic identity is to Rodgers’s.

Blue Moon thrives from its dialogue-heavy script and real-time structure thanks to a towering Ethan Hawke, whose own dedication to his craft pours out of this character. Hawke has given us plenty of remarkable performances over the years, but nothing quite as physically and emotionally transformative as Lorenz Hart. Starring in every frame, Hawke moves between refusing to face the changing times and chasing after the ticking clock. He finds a magnificent balance between Hart’s charismatic, self-deprecating, and self-destructive qualities. All the while, he is struggling with his sexuality. He is struggling with his depression, with his alcoholism, with the loud silence of being alone. There’s a powerful through line of heartache and vulnerability in Hawke’s work, which you can feel down to the way he moves through space.

It’s not just the visual trickery that makes Hawke look smaller than he really is; it’s how Hawke can carry himself, as though he’s whittling away in real time, and the state of musical theatre moves like a rug getting pulled from underneath him. He also commands the screen with hearty soliloquies. Even in moments where the story feels repetitive and indulgent, Hawke creates such an irresistible portrait that you feel drawn to his energy. Even though Hart’s presence at the bar feels so tragically transient, especially given the context that the film takes place so closely before his death, he leaves a reverberating impression.

There’s a special intimacy to this character study that speaks to some of Linklater’s signature strengths: he makes the simplicity of walking and talking feel incredibly cinematic, and he lets the actors truly explore their environments. From the globe-trotting romance of Before Sunrise, Before Sunset, and Before Midnight to a bunch of college teammates coming-of-age in Everybody Wants Some!!!, Linklater excels at these stories centred around hangouts. Blue Moon plays out as one long, collaborative conversation and Linklater finds narrative tension in the seesaw rhythms of Kaplow’s script. A single exchange between characters — notably an in-depth conversation between Hart and his muse, Yale student Elizabeth Weiland (Margaret Qualley) — can be humorous one minute in an anecdote Elizabeth shares, and tragic the next in Hart’s unrequited love. While Qualley seems a bit out of her depth opposite Hawke, the two still share one of the film’s most impactful scenes here. We get tremendous insight into how Hart navigates through the world, and we’re watching another relationship of his begin to change dramatically in real-time.

Blue Moon maintains a lot of intimacy from taking place mostly in one location. The characters move through Sardi’s like it’s a stage, and they bottle the tension from various small interactions. The tension is palpable when Hart swallows his pride before greeting his longtime creative partner Rodgers’s arrival at the afterparty. Andrew Scott works wonders with short bursts of screen time; he gets under the skin of someone who knows he has just created something major, and every step he takes feels like he’s ascending from Hart. When Hart and Rodgers are huddled in the corner of a staircase, and Hart’s true feelings about Oklahoma! are aired out, Rodgers is always a step higher, while Hart is on a downward spiral. It’s a neat moment that makes excellent use of the location.

While it’s quite premature to consider Blue Moon a deep cut in Hawke and Linklater’s careers, there’s something about this film that feels headed in that direction. There’s a level of lore, and layers of references, that feel out of reach as someone who doesn’t have extensive musical theatre knowledge. But as a testament to how Hawke and Linklater have approached Hart’s character, Blue Moon strikes a universal chord. It’s not at all contingent on what theatre knowledge someone may or may not have. It’s a thoughtful depiction of lost friendship, loneliness, and a long-gone artist whose work so vividly lives on. Since seeing this film, I haven’t been able to get the titular song out of my head. Much like that beautiful melody, echoing through time, Blue Moon carries a special timelessness. And a very long time from now, when we look back on all the cinematic beauty Hawke and Linklater have found in reflections of real life, perhaps Blue Moon will stand out as the deepest cut of their collaborations. It’s the most vulnerable love letter to creative partnerships and the eternal joys and sorrows that they can imprint on who we are.

Oscar Isaac in Frankenstein

Daniel Day-Lewis in Anemone

Eight years ago, Daniel Day-Lewis starred as Reynolds Woodcock in Paul Thomas Anderson’s Phantom Thread, a playfully stitched disruption of polite society…among many other elements (PTA is a consistently proven master of interconnected storytelling). Day-Lewis’s presence on screen has been deeply missed since then. While rumblings of retirement had emerged around the time Phantom Thread was released, it was only a matter of time before a new role tempted him back into the craft. A truly enticing role can bring nearly any actor out of hiatus. Anemone is indeed for the hungry boy. It’s a monologue-heavy drama without the excessive wordiness, relying more on the actor’s facial expressions and body language to convey his reclusive character’s interiority. Day-Lewis, who has blessed us with one acting masterclass after another, is back with something more personal, by nature and design. Not only is he the star, executive producer, and co-writer on Anemone; the film marks the feature directorial and screenwriting debut of his son, Ronan Day-Lewis. The pair navigate experimental terrain as they weather emotionally gruelling familial storms in Northern England. While the story buckles under the weight of heavy symbolism, there’s a great deal of compelling narrative tension bubbling underneath.

Anemone begins with a brace for impact. Jem (Sean Bean) says a prayer to himself and briefly comforts his wife, Nessa (Samantha Morton), before venturing out into the woods to reconnect with his estranged brother, Ray (Day-Lewis). It’s not exactly a reconciliation, but a reawakening on the horizon when Jem ruggedly appears at Ray’s doorstep, and is simply let in. For a while, both brothers sit in silence, drifting towards a haunted past, where Ray begins his first of a few killer monologues. He recites as though performing a soliloquy under a spotlight on stage, and Jem listens as though sitting front row in the dark. The dialogue is transporting. The creaking and crackling of Ray’s cabin, enveloped by violent winds, ground them in the present. Yet, there is something otherworldly about the location; it’s prone to the most vivid apparitions, as Ronan Day-Lewis would go on to explore.

Back in civilization, Nessa (Morton) and her teenage son Brian (Samuel Bottomley) sit in a similarly loud silence of unspoken trauma. While often isolated from each other, they share the thundering storm of Ray’s past hanging above them. Years ago, Ray had left his family behind. Now, Jem has gone to lure him out of the woods and back home to confront personal demons head on. Unraveling at a slow burn, the film sits in discomforting environments and bleak atmospheres. The direction and writing excel at emphasizing that there is no easy way out here. Rocky roads and punishing weather have stirred a storm in Ray, and Daniel Day-Lewis immerses himself into the character’s deeply wounded frame of mind.
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The film’s official premise — an exploration of complex ties between brothers, fathers, and sons — acts as a loose framework for director Day-Lewis to experiment. He goes for a shrouded character study in a fight against nature and its harsh elements. And of course, his vision is in excellent hands. Naturally, the actor’s return builds more than enough anticipation to pique curiosity. Day-Lewis keeps the momentum going as he devours a handful of monologues, making each line feel as though it’s just come to him, right then and there. The introductory monologue in Ray’s cabin sets a painful tone, as he draws from a devastating memory of abuse. With remarkable control, Day-Lewis brings the character’s emotionality and interiority to the surface, while holding space for his co-star to react.

Jem’s character is the break in the storm. He’s not necessarily there to verbally or physically engage, but his presence attracts the attention of his brother’s pain. Like moths to a flame, as the saying goes. The narrative setup initially suggests that this story will follow two brothers patching up their grievances with each other. But Jem’s character feels written as the ignition for Ray to restart. Jem is the catalyst for a turning point for how Ray has dealt with severe guilt and shame all these years. In a standout scene of Ray punching Jem, the violence feels random at first, until the realization that Ray’s anger is pointed towards being made to confront the contemporary.

The film is a double-edged sword in its use of imagery and symbolism. On the one side, Anemone excels at making you feel the environment on a visceral level, from the vivid cinematography to the impactful sound design. On the other hand, the film relies heavily on symbolism and stormy weather to evoke a level of tension that Daniel Day-Lewis’s performance already does, just in physicality alone. Notably, the film’s second half features a glowing apparition that leans slightly frustrating in its ambiguity. Additionally, whereas Ray’s character unravels with a thoughtful slow burn, the writing of Nessa and Brian’s characters back home is more repetitive in the themes they convey.

Anemone hinges on the brilliance of Daniel Day-Lewis to communicate a world of pain from the get-go. The film’s opening minutes speak volumes about Ray’s shielded wounds, bottled frustration, and decades worth of distance from his family. And in the shrouds, it’s not the imagery that provides clarity, but Day-Lewis’s performance. Not only does he masterfully illuminate Ray’s trauma, but he conveys the character’s newfound path to healing in real-time, bringing raw pain to light. With each new monologue comes another personal revelation, and his work gives the story new texture. While Anemone takes wobbly turns, in its experimental nature of figuring out what works and what doesn’t, the astonishing acting masterclass at its core paves a reliable path to follow.

Focus Features and Universal Pictures Canada will release Anemone nationwide on October 3.

Emma Thompson in Dead of Winter

Lily James in Swiped