Michelle Williams in "Showing Up" (2023) As the opening credits roll on Kelly Reichardt’s latest film “Showing Up,” the director’s perceptive sensibility is on full display. A collection of sculpted pieces are given uninterrupted focus. The viewer soon discovers whose artistic hand is behind each creation. Michelle Williams plays Lizzy Carr, an antisocial sculptor artist on the verge of a career-changing exhibition. In the lead-up to her show, she navigates the quiet stresses of her family, friends, colleagues, pet cat, temporary pet pigeon, and everyday life itself. As Lizzy tries to mould a place of solitude and protect her artistic process, daily setbacks get in the way. “Showing Up” moves at a gentle pace, which is exactly the kind of minimalist approach that has come to define one of the most distinctive filmmakers of our time. From “Wendy and Lucy” and “Certain Women” to “First Cow,” Kelly Reichardt tells low-key stories about characters going about their lives, simply passing through. A clear continuation of this type of storytelling, “Showing Up” is a wonderfully perceptive piece about nurturing creativity and navigating obscurity.
Lizzy lives with her cat and prefers an unbothered life when she’s at home. She has a tranquil workspace, where she makes sculpted people who are rough around the edges. Each piece, as you see in the beginning of the film, is about to be part of an upcoming gallery exhibit. Given the obscurity of Lizzy’s work, this show is a big deal, and she wants everyone in her life to be there, however dysfunctional. Lizzy works administration at a small arts college in Portland, Oregon. Her mother Jean (Maryann Plunkett) is her boss, a detail which the film reveals in a perfectly subtle way. Jean floats in and out of the story, as do Lizzy’s ceramicist father Bill (Judd Hirsch) and mentally ill brother Sean (John Magaro). Among Lizzy’s limited social circle, there’s sweet pottery expert/co-worker Eric (André Benjamin, also known as André 3000), and pesky landlord Jo (Hong Chau) who is also an artist. The majority of these characters represent a daily setback on some level, particularly Jo repeatedly ignoring Lizzy’s requests to fix the water heater in her rental house so that she could take a shower. The interactions between Lizzy and Jo are incredibly stressful to watch, made even more so by the discreetness of both characters. Their dynamic feels truthful, especially for Lizzy’s character who is more introverted and avoids confrontation. Another highlight is Lizzy’s return home from a stressful family situation, clearly in emotional distress, only to find that Jo is throwing a party next door. The camera stays on Lizzy as she walks from her car to her front door, and it’s one of the most quietly nerve-wracking moments in the film. Rather than exaggerate for dramatic effect, “Showing Up” underplays conflict to the point where it fades into the mundanity of everyday life. Lizzy having to remind Jo to fix the shower becomes part of a routine. When a pigeon flies into Lizzy’s window and she carefully puts it back outside, Jo finds the bird down the road and hands responsibility over to Lizzy for nurturing. The pigeon becomes part of a routine. The film conveys several moments such as these, where Lizzy’s work schedule is interrupted by various people (and animals) and she shows up to face each mini challenge. It’s a slice-of-life story that unfolds the way daily life does: routinely, though not without a curveball or two, in varying degrees of extremity. No one captures the mundane like Reichardt. She has perfected the art of drawing out the significance from unassuming moments. “Showing Up” shines in its focus on mood and atmosphere over a highly eventful plot. Not much is happening in this story. The screenplay, co-written by Reichardt and Jonathan Raymond, prioritizes the bits of life happening right under your nose. It’s a patient character study just as much about Lizzy as it is about her surroundings. As is often the case in Reichardt’s body of work, characters are conveyed through a language of what’s left unsaid between them. When we first see Lizzy among a group of people, there’s an energy to the way she interacts with them, suggesting how close or distant she is to them. Explanatory dialogue is not needed. The inflections of a character speak volumes, and in this artistic world of Portland, reveal how creative impulses shape how you go about your day. Lizzy’s character is an engaging depiction of how it feels to immerse yourself in art and craft, while feeling the tug of responsibility. The role of Lizzy is right up Michelle Williams’ alley. “Showing Up” marks her fourth collaboration with Reichardt and by this stage, the two have established an incredible shorthand with each other. It’s easy to see why Williams continues to show up, they feel made for each other on an artistic level. Williams slips into the unassuming slumber of Portland without missing a beat. Her performance is a subtle showcase of her instinctive, naturalistic gifts as an actress. While her character is emotionally reserved, Williams is an open book with perceptive expressions that call on your patience to sit with her and simply observe. She makes Lizzy’s insecurity palpable on screen, to the point where you do feel quietly stressed out (and at times mildly amused) by her day-to-day life. In addition to Williams, Hong Chau is terrific and makes a case for becoming another wishful Reichardt regular. After her breakout role in 2017’s “Downsizing,” Chau has continued to show phenomenal range, from 2022’s “The Whale” and “The Menu” to the 2019 HBO stunner “Watchmen” and this year's crafty whodunit series “Poker Face.” “Showing Up” is another wonderful turn; the character of Jo is tricky to find. She’s self-centered and annoying in her neglect. She also has a deep impulse to create as much as possible, and despite previous challenges, she shows up for Lizzy’s big night. Jo and Lizzy show up for their art in different ways, and that dichotomy is resonating to reflect on. Throughout “Showing Up,” there are blissful uninterrupted vignettes of artists making things. Artists in their element, focused only on the creation at hand. Reichardt finds a sublime balance between portrayals of isolated artists like Lizzy, and the prospering art world she’s surrounded by. “Showing Up” depicts the creative process in a way that you can assign your own perspective. Once you find your creative skill, how do you nurture and protect it? How willing are you to show up for it? Is your willingness at the expense of others, who need you and count on you for something that exists outside of your creative zone? “Showing Up” may seem specific in its focus on a small slice of life, but Reichardt engages in such resonating universal themes about wrestling with self-security as an artist, and finding a place in a community full of creatives.
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Kathryn Hahn in "Tiny Beautiful Things" (2023) With a performance as sublime as Kathryn Hahn’s in Hulu’s “Tiny Beautiful Things,” every second of screen time is precious. Every expression and inflection carries the weight of a life lived, lessons learned and unlearned. Her raw and unfiltered performance rests at the emotional core of “Tiny Beautiful Things,” a moving and sensitive portrait of universal themes that make one feel less alone. Through the exquisite range, poignancy, and humor of Hahn’s work, the story shines with the most human brushstrokes. From strong character development and focused direction, to an impressive balance of tones and time periods, “Tiny Beautiful Things” poses the delicate question of what it means to heal and move on.
Based on Cheryl Strayed’s best-selling 2012 novel, which extends to “Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar,” the eight-episode miniseries centers on Clare, an accomplished writer who hasn’t accomplished it yet. The story finds her in barely holding herself together. Her marriage is floundering, and relationship with her daughter is strained. She just about holds down an administrative job at a care home, a faraway land from her early passion to become a writer. Adding salt to the wounds, Clare continues to grieve the loss of her mother, who had passed when Clare was 22 years old. So when a writer friend asks her to take over the anonymous advice column Dear Sugar, Clare asks, why her? Who is she to give advice when her life is in shambles? How did she get so far from the writer her mom believed she could be? She gradually comes to realize that self-help is born out of not knowing all the answers, and gives herself the grace period to step into columnist mode. Showrunner Liz Tigelaar lovingly brings Strayed’s novel to the screen with an acute understanding of the daily echoes of grief. It’s a state of mind that has no end, but calls on you to endure and sift through the residue. The character of Clare personifies the feeling of not having a right to beautiful things, or happy experiences, after losing a loved one. The healing process shapes a narrative around her that is easy to identify with, in large part thanks to Hahn’s openness as an actor, and the delicate generosity of the writing. “Tiny Beautiful Things” offers mostly fruitful albeit repetitive grounds for the talented ensemble of actors, mainly Hahn in the lead role. The Kathryn Hahnaissance has been long overdue. Following years of brilliant performances, from 2008’s “Step Brothers” and “Revolutionary Road,” to 2018’s “Private Life” and the Agatha Harkness phenomenon in 2021’s “WandaVision,” Hahn’s layered work in “Tiny Beautiful Things” is the gift that keeps on giving. In playing a shell of a person, Clare is faced with many triggers of the past that remind her of a former self. Hahn navigates that space beautifully, and gives a lot of emotional resonance to the mother-daughter aspect of the series. Hahn brings grounded humor to the role; in an amusing one-night-stand scene, Clare reacts to hopping onto an unexpected waterbed and questions if she’s trapped in a Steely Dan song. The beauty of her performance is that she is everything all at once, and that level of realism also builds a foundation where her chemistry shines with the other actors. Tanzyn Crawford gives a strong performance as Clare’s daughter Rae; you can feel the open wounds of their relationship dynamic and some of the internal conflict that Rae herself faces. Quentin Plair stands out as Clare’s husband Danny, who she had met when she was in her 20s. Plair’s performance in the present-day is also complimented by Stevonte Hart, who plays the young Danny. The flashback scenes add welcome context to the highs and lows of their relationship, and what keeps their relationship still somewhat intact. Among the supporting cast, Sarah Pidgeon shines as younger Clare. She adopts similar mannerisms and personality traits as Hahn’s adult version of Clare. The balance of present-day and flashback scenes pieces together an interesting character that you get a nearly full-circle understanding of. The series cuts to younger Clare around the time that her mom was diagnosed with cancer, and in the aftermath of her mom’s death. In some of the flashbacks, Merritt Wever makes an appearance as Clare’s mom, Frankie Pierce. While underused and mostly playing a one-note role, Wever is always an endearing presence, and still makes a resonant impact with limited time. A piece of advice that echoes through “Tiny Beautiful Things” is that when a gift is given, say thank you. The sentimentality of the story can be heavy-handed at times. But the combination of great direction, writing, and acting holds everything together with a nurturing reassurance that most things will be okay eventually. The series finds success in the specificity of its characters and their experiences, which makes expansive themes feel impressively grounded and tangible. Led with a soulful performance by Kathryn Hahn, “Tiny Beautiful Things” offers a gentle reminder of storytelling as a powerful tool of self-expression and healing. "Tiny Beautiful Things" premieres on Disney+ on April 7. Nadia Tereszkiewicz in "Babysitter" (2023) Following its world premiere at the 2022 Sundance Film Festival, “Babysitter” is arriving in Toronto to kick off this year’s Canadian Film Fest (CFF). The CFF is an indie-spirited festival dedicated to celebrating Canadian filmmakers. The festival returns this spring for its 17th edition, and for the first time, as a hybrid with both in-person and virtual screenings. This year’s slate has a strong focus on women in film, both in front of and behind the camera. “Babysitter,” directed by Monia Chokri and written by Catherine Léger, confronts misogyny with a sardonic point of view. The story follows Cédric (Patrick Hivon), who after committing sexual assault and losing his job, attempts to “free” himself from sexism by co-writing a book to attack misogyny. His wife Nadine (Chokri), a new mother exhausted by his behavior and in search of her own fulfillment, becomes drawn to their child’s babysitter Amy (Nadia Tereszkiewicz). Amy’s presence creates a more mysterious, playful environment. As Cédric and Nadine drift further apart, their lives become more and more like a fever dream.
The film plays up qualities of dreamlike strangeness, from the technicolor set pieces and cinematography, to the exaggerated acting. There is a cartoonish, eccentric energy to Chokri’s direction. The characters feel like caricatures instead of human beings. The costumes and sets have a coat of plasticity to them, not unlike pieces you would find in a doll’s house. While “Babysitter” has a specific vision aesthetically, the film lacks in a coherent narrative structure. Adapted from Catherine Léger’s 2017 play of the same name, Chokri’s genre-bending approach explores themes of toxic masculinity and gender politics through elements of horror and comedy. The use of different genres has its intriguing moments, particularly with the babysitter character who channels satire fairly well. However, the potentiality of this film resonating in its social commentary is overpowered by inconsistent direction and over-exaggerated performances. “Babysitter” often difficult to follow and keep engaged by, which makes one curious for how the film could have worked better through a different perspective. By centering Cédric as the protagonist, the story is told largely from his point of view as he attempts to apologize for his sexist behavior. This relegates a far more interesting character to the background: Nadine. While she isn’t given much material to work with, Chokri brings an enjoyable stoicism to the character and maintains the film’s magical realism. Nadia Tereszkiewicz’s performance as Amy fits the fairytale-like directorial style; rather than a character who advances the plot, the babysitter appears to be a figment of one’s imagination. Of the cast, Chokri and Tereszkiewicz stand out in balancing the film’s erratic tone. The rest of the ensemble leans too far into exaggeration, reaching the point where they distract from the story. This is the case for the majority of factors at play in “Babysitter.” While refreshing in its genre-bending approach, and full of energy, the muddled screenplay and unfocused direction make for a wearying experience. Keira Knightley and Carrie Coon in "Boston Strangler" (2023) When it comes to journalism films that put a much-needed spotlight on women in the newsroom, the more the merrier. Often faced with harassment and sexism from colleagues, female journalists face an uphill battle of being taken seriously in the field. Such was the case in 1960s Boston, Massachusetts, when a serial killer known as the Boston Strangler terrorized the streets. He targeted women as his victims, and committed 13 murders in the city. The investigative reporters who broke the story – Loretta McLaughlin and Jean Cole of the Record American – are given the narrative focus in the Hulu film “Boston Strangler.” Written and directed by Matt Ruskin, the film follows Loretta and Jean’s tireless work around the clock to connect the murders and make the city of Boston safer for women. With similarities drawn to Maria Schrader’s “She Said” released last year, “Boston Strangler” joins the chorus of films that prioritizes women’s contributions to an increasingly important industry.
“Boston Strangler” doesn’t move at the most exciting speed, which is a road block that many true crime films face. Procedurals based around an investigation naturally have lulls in the process. Potential leads dry up. Cases become drawn out. The chase of a story can be an incredibly long process, which the film seems to take to heart. The monotonous approach grows a bit tiresome and undercuts the engaging performances that Knightley and Coon deliver in their compelling roles. The film focuses more so on Knightley’s character, Loretta McLaughlin. Her inspiring determination to cover stories beyond the lifestyle section leads to one of the most prolific pieces of journalism in history. When Loretta notices a connection between the underreported deaths of women in the city, she brings the information to her editor Jack Maclaine (Chris Cooper). After being turned down to cover the story, she persists, and ultimately gets the opportunity to pursue the investigation. Though her work faces pushback from a male-dominated newsroom, as well as a male-dominated household in which her husband James (Morgan Spector) believes she is neglecting her duties as a wife and mother. Loretta also faces the terrifying risk of putting herself into potentially dangerous scenarios. Loretta’s commitment to the work continues alongside seasoned colleague Jean Cole (Coon). The two journalists team up and become trusty confidantes who understand the personal and professional risks of this case. The film smartly focuses on the trust and bond formed between both characters. Viewers are given a resonating glimpse into Loretta and Jean’s passion and dedication to conducting the most thorough work. The film also gives a spotlight to how they put themselves in harm’s way to bring the truth to their readers, and the city at large. Adding a compelling layer to the storytelling are two great performances by Knightley and Coon. Through their authenticity and command of the screen, the strength and perseverance of their characters stands out. Additionally, there is something to be said for Ruskin’s perspective on the acts of violence. Among the most disturbing and upsetting scenes of the film are the Boston Strangler’s attacks. The assaults are not shown in full detail, and do not linger on how the violence is carried out. Ruskin admirably indicates that depictions of brutality committed against women do not need to be explicitly shown for an impact to be made. In the film, women’s perspectives are taken seriously, and their identities respected. “Boston Strangler” can be engaging to an extent, mostly thanks to committed performances by Knightley and Coon in the starring roles. The film also resonates in its focused perspective from women in the newsroom. However, the overall direction and writing feels far too reserved to capture the sense of urgency and suspense around the case. In a sea of films about true crime and journalism, “Boston Strangler” falls short of being memorable in retrospect. A still from season two of "Gay Mean Girls" (2023) Welcome to your chosen family. The viral sensation “Gay Mean Girls,” a web series based on a short film that amassed 3.5 million views in 2015, returns with a second season. Following the first season, which premiered at TIFF Next Wave in 2019, season two maintains a heartfelt journey of resonating characters and sharply written dialogue. Season one tells the story of prom committee member Lucy Ching, who in looking to foster a more diverse high school community makes the prom contest queer. The story sheds light on intersectionality and the uniquely personal experiences of navigating high school. Season two exists very much in the same vein, with the added layers of complicated activism and finding your own voice in the middle of community-driven spaces. With this new season, “Gay Mean Girls” creator and director Heyishi Zhang builds upon a raw and inspiring foundation. A brilliantly conceived idea anchored by a compelling narrative, “Gay Mean Girls” continues to shine as a deconstruction of chosen families. Season two centers on student journalist Savannah Lin (Jenna Phoa), who wants to make a documentary for a scholarship in the arts. In search of video essay subjects at Harper Heights High, she joins a queer POC safe space for young queer women and non-binary folks. A seemingly healthy discovery of individuality and friendship soon reveals to be a lot more complicated than expected. Issues of power dynamics and open secrets infiltrate what should be a safe space. As Savannah navigates the betrayal and corruption, she discovers the power of her own voice. Each episode builds on how her experiences — particularly at school and at home — shape the creator she is about to become. Savannah wants to be known as more than just a school reporter. The scholarship is an opportunity for a career in the arts and ultimately a turning point in finding her chosen family, a community that not only welcomes what she has to say, but believes in her voice. The first episode sets the tone for a deeply personal series. From the detail of Savannah’s bedroom to the lived-in family dynamics, each and every element feels derived from a truthful place. The visual touches also create a vibrant environment. From the dreaminess of “The Business of Justice” episode to the neat VHS conclusion of the series, there’s a nostalgia for physical media and enduring content. The family dynamics throughout the series reverberate as well. Savannah’s home life is one of the more engaging aspects of the series as it gives insight into her fuel for creating. Her father has made for an abusive and toxic environment in what should be a safe space. Her mother is doubtful of the artistic pursuit, just as she is about Savannah’s surroundings. “Women ruin your life in ways men can’t,” she tells her daughter. This line plants a seed for what’s to come — grounds of corruption that calls into question the meaning of inclusivity. After Savannah experiences a very troubling assault and is met with the pressure to let it go (“hurt people hurt people”), this becomes a key turning point in the series where Savannah learns the lesson of trust. Not only with what constitutes a safe space, but also when it comes to her own voice. In the protagonist’s search for a pitch for her scholarship, she learns how to be a storyteller, to invite conversation rather than demand it. She learns to unpack common phrasing such as “hurt people hurt people” and find trust within herself. It’s a scary place to be in, which the series depicts truthfully. A scene of Savannah sharing her first version of her video essay in front of an audience is something out of a horror film. From the palpable nerves to the surrealistic words of encouragement afterwards, so as not to make her feel bad about the film, it’s a strong depiction of vulnerability. What makes “Gay Mean Girls” resonate far beyond its short and sweet runtime is the creator’s commitment to those moments of being vulnerable. Creating and being creative are a window to the soul. The sensitivity around finding what truly attracts you and sharing it with the world is a leap in the dark. Each and every episode evokes the feeling of taking that leap of integrity. In the wake of such troubling betrayal, Savannah takes creative control of her life and in that turn of events, begins to flourish in a safe space of her own. She joins a queer safe space thinking she found her chosen family, but through the corruption, teaches a lesson on the validity of her own experiences — that this is more than being part of an activist community, it’s about getting to choose how to tell your stories. “Gay Mean Girls” premiered its second season on KindaTV from February 24 to March 3. All 8 episodes of season two are available to watch via KindaTV on YouTube. Maziyar Khatam and Amir Zavosh in “Baba” (2023) Filmmakers Anya Chirkova and Maziyar Khatam are two of the most exciting emerging talents in the industry. From writer-director Chirkova’s summer romance “Flower Boy” (which starred Khatam), to Khatam’s clever Sundance short film “Bump” (which he directed, wrote, and starred in), these 2021 works exemplify clear artistic voices. Through relatable characters and impactful gestures, they tell stories of everyday life. “Flower Boy,” filmed in a dreamy summer haze, captures the hopes and dreams of a teenager figuring out who he is. “Bump,” in broad daylight of a city sidewalk, finds physical humor in the trivial altercation of getting accidentally bumped into. These films are the epitome of short and sweet, which has come to define what one can expect from Chirkova and Khatam. Their new collaboration is a short film called “Baba,” which screened at Sundance earlier this year.
Co-directed by Chirkova and Meran Ismailsoy, “Baba” follows a middle-aged Iranian man (Amir Zavosh) as he desperately tries to keep his apartment. All the while, his relationship with his son (Maziyar Khatam) is unraveling in real time. From the moment these characters are introduced, the parental tension is palpable. The father, behind on his rent, is dodging his son’s attempts at conversation. Not to mention pleas from the landlord (James Choy) as well as an upset neighbor complaining about the noise. The film excels at placing you in the thick of a claustrophobic environment, both on an emotional level and by way of setting. A narrow apartment traps chaotic conversations in its walls. Each character who steps foot in this space is immediately caught up in the chaos. The flow of dialogue and use of setting create an echo chamber, which is a strong reflection of the film’s protagonist — he exists in an environment where he engages only with opinions that reinforce his own. Whether it’s his son or his landlord, no one can really get through to him. “Baba” holds attention on a father’s fall from grace, doing so with such a visceral approach that you feel present not only in the apartment, but in his frame of mind. Maziyar Khatam’s screenplay evokes a human experience in a way that feels effortless. The dialogue shines a light on the hurdles of communication barriers and the heartache of isolating from one’s surroundings. Amir Zavosh’s character is so deeply wrapped up in his personal scenarios, everyone else who steps foot into the apartment at some point becomes background noise to his centrality as a protagonist. It is also through the supporting characters that you get a glimpse into the protagonist’s relationships, such as that with his son. Amir Zavosh and Maziyar Khatam, who share wonderful chemistry with each other, bring a grounded quality to the story. You feel immediately drawn to the realism of their characters as they navigate one anxiety-ridden scenario after another. In feeling like a fly on the wall of their experiences, Zavosh’s character especially, the ending is made all the more reverberating as a stunning moment of self-reflection. From the frenetic handheld camera work and overlapping tense dialogue to the claustrophobic setting, “Baba” unfolds mostly in a state of disorder. The direction by Chirkova and Ismailsoy finds strength in beginning the story at a place where tension has already risen and you find yourself in the thick of it. Given the tensity, it is an unexpected surprise how “Baba” ends with such peacefulness. The film’s strong use of a close-up stresses a poignant moment for the protagonist; it’s a well-earned window to his emotional vulnerability, which Zavosh plays very well. Aligned with the direction and screenplay, the acting showcases strong commitment to making a day-in-the-life story feel as realistic as possible. A still from "The Proud Family: Louder and Prouder" (2023) The 2000s era of Disney Channel animated programming introduced one of the most original and enjoyable shows with “The Proud Family,” created by Bruce W. Smith. The show followed the life of Penny Proud (voiced by Kyla Pratt), a 14-year-old Black girl navigating teen-dom alongside her best friends, loving parents, and entertaining grandma. “The Proud Family” had a resonating, intelligent approach to societal topics, universal themes, Black history and representation. Through loud and proud characters, the show struck a chord with generations and carries a nostalgic power in retrospect. Such was the foundation for the Disney+ revival series “Louder and Prouder,” which lives up to its title and proudly brings the family back to audiences seventeen years later. From creators Bruce W. Smith and Ralph Farquhar, season one encompassed what made the original so charming, and incorporated greater relevancy for a new generation. Season two comes a year later, and continues to highlight the ground breaking quality of “The Proud Family.” “Louder and Prouder” season two continues to explore terrifically written characters, thoughtful representation, and layered storylines.
Season two picks up directly from where the season one finale (“Old Towne Road Part 1”) ends, when Suga Mama (Jo Marie Payton) walks away from the Towne Ranch after once again experiencing sexism from her father. The emotional resonance could have benefited even more without this episodic split, which seems to be a recurring trend across television. Nonetheless, the episode overall brings strong closure to Suga Mama’s relationship with her father, and starts off season two with a narrative refresh. “Louder and Prouder” continues exploring the offbeat adventures of Penny and her family: including parents Oscar (Tommy Davidson) and Trudy (Paula Jai Parker), twin siblings BeBe (Aiden Dodson) and CeCe (Bresha Webb), plus friends such as Dijonay Jones (Karen Malina White) and LaCienega Boulevardez (Alisa Reyes). Within the first few episodes alone, the direction and writing set the tone for what’s to come: another energetic season that balances slapstick comedy with mature commentary and memorable characters. To its credit, the show has always been able to maintain this wonderful stability, while also being sincere and intently observational of societal constructs. The storylines cover extensive topics from social media influence and interracial dating to the history of Juneteenth, as well as perspectives from the LGBTQ community and individuals on the autism spectrum. Much of the strength around how this material is presented rests on the intelligent writing, which does not talk down to a young audience. Instead viewers get an open hearted approach and a lesson on engaging in social commentary. Adding to the energy of “Louder and Prouder” is the brilliant voice acting and the insightful character work. All the humor, excitement, and poignancy of the show comes through. Kyla Pratt returns with her iconic performance as Penny. Just as iconic, Jo Marie Payton as Suga Mama and Tommy Davidson as Oscar bring the characters to life with astounding vocal range. The characters are given mostly entertaining, clever scenarios and fun physical comedy. While some episodes feel a little more repetitive and simplistic than others, the overall focus is consistent with telling a modern story about a dynamic group of characters. Season two also keeps up with the energy of season one, which landed on clever jokes without losing the point of a narrative message or a particular character arc. The storylines are more resonating, the topics more expansive, and the animation design vibrant than ever. Each character is given a distinctive expression and personality. The revival of “The Proud Family” reminds audiences, whether returning fans or brand new ones, that animation is one of the most powerful styles of storytelling. Through a charming family, louder and prouder than ever, the series continues to bring universal themes to the hearts of all ages. “The Proud Family: Louder and Prouder” season 2 is now available on Disney+. Ellie Moon stars as “Rosy” in director Karen Knox’s ADULT ADOPTION, a levelFILM release. Credit : levelFILM Director Karen Knox and actor-writer Ellie Moon make a charming collaborative team in the absurdist comedy “Adult Adoption.” Set in contemporary Toronto, the film follows Rosy (Ellie Moon), who has aged out of foster care and is now working as a bank teller. She has a solid job, but is living a life that does not feel personal to her. Rosy seeks to make sense of the world around her, to find a semblance of purpose and to fill the void felt from growing up without parental figures. One day her coworker Helen (Leah Doz) brings up the idea of meeting prospective parents, an idea to which Rosy immediately warms to. Through an online service, Rosy decides to connect with older adults who are in search of adult surrogate children. The journey of familial love introduces her to “dates” with various parental-like figures who have the potential of stepping into a guardian role, but they are figuring things out just like Rosy is. Karen Knox brings an off-center sensibility to her direction, which complements the protagonist’s awkward path of self-discovery. The zany storytelling accentuates the ridiculousness of assuming anyone has the answers to all of life’s mysteries.
From loneliness and neglect to chosen families and self-acceptance, significant themes are approached from a tinted lens. “Adult Adoption” is made with a soft pastel palette, as though depicted from rose-colored glasses. The production design by Talia Missaghi and the cinematography by J Stevens add to the cautious optimism this film evokes. The protagonist shares some of her deepest most vulnerable thoughts to strangers. One potential parental figure in particular, with whom Rosy spends increased time with, is not as attentive as Rosy would like. The sense of frustration Rosy experiences when the disillusion of life kicks in is one of the more resonating moments in the film. After years of not feeling wanted from foster families and adoption agencies, she wants to finally experience being part of a family. Ellie Moon’s strength both as an actor and writer brings a great level of openness to understanding Rosy’s perspective. Moon’s screenplay finds strength in the dynamics shown between Rosy and two prospective parents. Through the characters’ interactions, the film engages with manifestations of love and loneliness in familial relationships. Everyone involved in the adult adoption process is searching for a balm to solitude in some way. Sometimes the simplest gestures can speak to a need of being comforted. Rosy at one point asks one of the prospective parents she regularly meets with to brush her hair. With a quirky pop song bopping in the background, the hair-brushing scene shows Rosy’s level of maturity as though she is frozen in youth. In addition to Rosy’s childlike bedroom and the various uses of pastel colors throughout the film, “Adult Adoption” makes use of visual cues to accentuate that the protagonist is emotionally stuck at a certain age. Self-love plays a role in Rosy uncovering her hurt and finding a way to process it. She often searches for emotional support in other people. She brings with her a certain level of expectation from them, in addition to her needs of being accepted. The journey leads her to realize the importance of her own self-acceptance. With a single line in the film — “I am the creator of my own life” — Rosy embraces the practice of self-love with much greater complexity and control. As such, the world begins to open up for her. In one of the film’s most resonating moments, she walks out of a club with a spring in her step. Through Moon’s facial expression and the way this scene is shot, her surroundings become clearer. This moment is a fitting parallel to the very last shot of the film that sees Rosy surrounded by trees: a significant symbol of growth, change, nourishment. Rosy’s life is in bloom. The film tackles a subject not often explored in many films — adult adoption. This subject is conveyed with care, and an emphasis on the wide range of emotions one would imagine this process involves. There’s also a quirkiness to the telling of this story. From the music choices and acting, to the direction and writing, “Adult Adoption” brings a mostly refreshing approach to big themes. While some scenes feel too lightweight for the subject matter, the film more often than not reaches a strong balance of humor and sadness. Above all, Ellie Moon’s performance as Rosy is an endearing anchor. She captures the sensibility of a young woman trying to figure out her path in life while frozen in time. “Adult Adoption” is currently screening at the Revue Cinema in Toronto. Adolyn H. Dar and Ali Kazmi in "Desi Standard Time Travel" Sometimes it’s easy to forget that your parents are more than your parents. That they have their own history, aspirations and dreams in addition to raising children. With time and the passing of it, comes a deeper appreciation of the sacrifices and responsibilities involved within parenthood. The weight of such responsibility isn’t always at the forefront of every conversation between a parent and child. Nor is the possibility that any given conversation could be the last. You don’t know how much time you have with someone on earth. Time is the one thing you can’t make more of — but what if you could relive past moments with lost loved ones? What if you could go back in time and say what you wished you could’ve said more often? Kashif Pasta’s “Desi Standard Time Travel” answers these questions with a gentle urgency. This sci-fi drama short finds a sweet narrative within the wishful train of thought that is, ‘If only I could go back in time’. The film tells a character-driven story centered on fatherhood and unconditional love. With an incredibly human story at the core of a fantastical plot, “Desi Standard Time Travel” is an enjoyable and poignant reminder to be present in life.
When new father Imran (Adolyn H. Dar) suddenly loses his own dad, an opportunity arises to travel back in time for an evening. Imran receives a call to accept a time travel voucher in his late dad’s name — in substitution of a will, this voucher is left behind for Imran to redeem wisely. He reflects on a time he was assembling a crib while on the phone with his dad. The conversation ended on a haunting note; that Imran will call one day, and his dad won’t be there to pick up. With regret and longing, Imran jumps at the opportunity to end things on a better note. But instead of the travel device taking Imran back to that particular phone conversation, he is transported to the early 90s — before he was born. His parents had recently immigrated to Canada. His father was not a father yet; he was on the cusp of it, awaiting Imran’s birth. When Imran steps into this 90s childhood home and is faced with a younger version of his father, the sense of rediscovery is overwhelming. His father didn’t have all the answers. He too felt uncertainty around becoming a parent for the first time. The film packs plenty of resonating themes in a short timeframe, which is fitting for the overall message this story conveys about time itself. The relationship drawn between the concept of time travel and the fragility of life is beautifully depicted. The concept never overpowers the story; it has the opposite effect, where the characters and the family dynamics ground the sci-fi elements. Pasta’s direction, in addition to the screenplay he co-wrote with Nessa Aref, highlights intimate moments of being alone with your thoughts. You spend enough time with Imran’s character to understand he is quietly processing different stages of grief — from regret and anxiety, to much deeper realizations and his urge to understand as much about his dad as possible when presented the opportunity. Time travel as a plot device is used so intimately here, and is a touching reminder that the very concept of time after losing a loved one can be indistinguishable. Days blend together and before you know it, a year has passed. The abyss of grief can feel as though life has come to a standstill. “Desi Standard Time Travel” hits pause on the fast-forwarding of life in its unwavering focus on a father and son opening up to each other. Their emotional vulnerability, played beautifully by Adolyn H. Dar and Ali Kazmi, invites you to reflect on how present you are with your own loved ones. Which particular moment in your parents’ life would you revisit, or want to learn more about? “Desi Standard Time Travel” poses just as many if not more questions than answers. Through an intimate use of the time travel concept, the film shines at its own pace and sparks moments of personal reflection. It’s a deeply personal story of second chances, new beginnings, and making memories full of joy. The decision to take the story back to before Imran was born stresses his parents’ individuality and particularly his father’s nerves about becoming a parent. The nostalgic warmth that radiates from Imran’s childhood home conveys a home full of love and possibility for what the next day will bring. "Desi Standard Time Travel" leaves you in a state of deep appreciation and wonder for the most cherished relationships in life. “Desi Standard Time Travel” has screened across film festivals in Canada, and won a variety of awards including Best Short at Toronto Reel Asian. The film is currently in contention for a Canadian Screen Award this year; nominations will be announced on February 22. A still from "Wendell & Wild" From the brilliant visionary behind “Coraline,” “The Nightmare Before Christmas,” and “James and the Giant Peach” comes another dark stop-motion animation picture. Director Henry Selick is back in his element with “Wendell & Wild,” an entertaining coming-of-age fantasy that comes thirteen years after his previous film. Is it worth the wait? While not as terrifying as the button-eyed nightmare fuel in “Coraline,” the director once again proves his artistry in an awe-inspiring sub-genre of animation. His signature spooky style is crawling all over “Wendell & Wild,” which introduces an exciting collaboration between Selick and co-writer Jordan Peele for a tale of inner demons. Peele’s insightful humor and remarkable experience in the horror genre shine with something to say. There is plenty to admire in the sprawling ambition of the story, and the stunning handmade animation that brings creative ideas to life. Clever punk elements add layers to a recurring core theme of rebellion. The world-building is vivid, and the characters are fun, but the story is over-packed with subplots. “Wendell & Wild” stands out as a horror-comedy that fulfills its animated promise, only leaving you wanting more focus on the story.
The story follows protagonist Kat Elliott (Lyric Ross), a teenager holding onto survivor’s guilt from the death of her parents when she was a little girl. Ever since her parent's death, their hometown of Rust Bank deteriorated into a ghost town. Once full of thriving people and businesses, the town is now plastered with posters of a corporation that wants to build a private prison on the land. The villains of the film are quickly identifiable, and their plot looms over Rust Bank like a stormy cloud. Meanwhile, Kat attends the town’s Catholic school where she meets a variety of characters: teen classmate Raul (Sam Zelaya), teacher Sister Helley (Angela Bassett), and headmaster Father Bests (James Hong) to name a few. Walking the halls with her father’s boom box blaring, Kat is not in the mood to make friends. But all that changes when she unearths supernatural powers and meets her demons, who have names. Kat’s inner demons take on the form of scheming brothers Wendell (Keegan-Michael Key) and Wild (Jordan Peele), who reside under the nose of their father Buffalo Belzer (Ving Rhames). When the demons discover that Kat has a portal to the Land of the Living, they propose she summon them above ground and she agrees on one condition: they must bring her parents back to life. What follows is a rebellious adventure in a world where demons are not the scariest part. The story is embedded with punk-rock energy that also lives in the characters, who challenge positions of authority and learn more about their surroundings in the process. Kat’s character speaks to the significance of approaching one’s inner demons face-to-face and being lifted by the company of a supportive community. When the film is focused on the protagonist and her relationship with the demons, the story flourishes. Kat navigating a new setting while facing obstacles from inside and out is a strong core. But the screenplay has a lot of moving parts, not all of which are fleshed out. “Wendell & Wild” is pulled in multiple directions, often at odds with where to go. Commentary on the prison-industrial complex is one example of how the film establishes a narrative in real-life horrors. The villains reek of dollar sign eyes and heartlessness. As they scheme their way to take over Rust Bank, using various characters as pawns, their actions spawn subplots that are too loosely connected. Not enough time is spent fleshing out all these new threads and the characters born from them. As a consequence, the film feels rushed in terms of character development and story revelations. This can be felt strongest in the final act, where several subplots are given conclusions too quick to even digest. While the story is swimming in an overflow of ideas, there are plenty of positive elements to the film that make it stand out. The characters are interesting to watch and feature fantastic voice work. There is strong representation to be found in the film, most memorably with trans character Raul, who holds space as Kat’s sidekick while also having his own backstory. The screenplay incorporates different aspects of his life and personality as well. The film also lives up to the expectation of Selick’s return to stop-motion animation. The world-building is wondrous. Spooky, gooey, nightmarish production design brings the land of the living, the dead, and the in-between to life with a punk edge. The detailed animation is a marvel – from the fuzz of a hair strand to the lifelike material of a doll. As well, the look and sound of a pop-up booklet unfolding – when Wendell and Wild show their theme park presentation – is a great example of sound design adding weight to the visuals. A lot goes on in “Wendell & Wild,” and while not all of it comes together coherently, the level of ambition and creativity is admirable. The film has heart and touches on strong themes from facing your inner demons, to the grip horrors of the past have on the present. The punk elements are a hit, including a wonderful soundtrack that gives a boost of energy to scenes. The soundtrack features hints of choral music that will remind you of “Coraline,” and is used effectively here as well. Enough of “Wendell & Wild” works to overpower the weaknesses in pacing and story-building. The film does well at starting with a strange idea, then adding elements to ground the story from there. If only there were a neater grip on bringing all the subplots together into a more coherent experience. |
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