My sixth day of TIFF happened on Wednesday, September 12th (I had to take a day off on the Tuesday, due to real-life work commitments and a small need to detox from all the dim lights and uncomfortable seats). Let me give you some advice: if you ever go to a film festival for an extended period of time, always schedule a day off. Pick a day when the screenings aren’t especially plentiful and sleep in. Your body will thank you for it. Otherwise, you’ll be liable to drift in and out of slumber during a film you’ve been especially looking forward to, and you won’t like it one bit. I should know.
Though I watched every single film this year without taking an extended nap, I can’t deny that I dozed off a little during some especially languid sequences, even with a few cups of caffeine in my system. Luckily, those bursts of sleep were short enough that I never ended up losing the plot. Those films will require a second viewing down the road, sure, but at least I can still review them with a measure of confidence!
Oh, and no, I won’t say which films they were. Be content that I gave you my sage advice, dear reader.
First Man (Damien Chazelle)
There is one sequence in First Man set to Gil Scott-Heron’s song “Whitey on the Moon” that tantalized me. It didn’t end up amounting to very much, sadly, but the fact that Damien Chazelle was able to include some pushback to the moon landing preparations was a smart move on his part. Even if briefly, he was able to semi-critique the egoism driving the campaign, which focused more on one-upping the Soviet Union than dealing with social inequalities and rising prices at home. I would’ve loved for a fuller critique of this aspect, as it would have offset the nationalistic beats of the story and actually lent a new face to this time in history that we might not have considered otherwise.
As it is, First Man does precisely what is expected: to chronicle the years leading up to Neil Armstrong’s legendary first steps on the moon, focusing on his training; the human, economic, and emotional costs of such an event; and the leading-edge technology that made such a feat possible back then. This is drier territory than Chazelle is used to treading, and it shows. The Oscar winner is not able to measure out a commanding pace, aiming more for a grand sense of wonderment that doesn’t translate well when his actors aren’t being jerked around by machinery or delivering Grade-A Acting Monologues. Say what you will about Whiplash and La La Land, but at least they knew how to build momentum. First Man is stuck on neutral for a good stretch of its runtime, and the effect feels off. This is supposed to be exciting, you know?
It’s quite possible that Chazelle has chosen a more demure tone to match the stolidity of Armstrong himself, who was known to be very private and reserved. Ryan Gosling, doing away with his impish charm for once, approximates this measured affect quite well, allowing himself a few moments of outward emotionality to compensate for his character’s general quietness. One ends up wondering, though, if perhaps Armstrong was never going to be the ideal biopic subject in the first place. How can you make a man so internally guarded interesting for a moviegoing audience? It appears that you can’t—not really.
Luckily, the film retains a few virtues worth mentioning. As Armstrong’s devoted wife, newly-minted Emmy winner Claire Foy breathes a lot of life into what could have been a throwaway role. She bristles with an electricity, which you see in her eyes and hear in her voice as she desperately tries to find greater connection with her husband. Technically, the film has very few faults, impressing with its rich sound and production designs. Chazelle also nails the actual moon landing sequence; during my screening, which was on an IMAX screen, the aspect ratio expanded once the Apollo 11 touched the lunar surface. Those who watch the sequence will surely have to catch their breath at the beauty which Chazelle achieves in this moment.
Unfortunately, there are not enough moments like this to make me sing the film’s praises. As competent and proficient as it is, it’s not a work that gets you excited. Maybe twenty years ago, in the age of Titanic and Apollo 13, it would’ve been seen as groundbreaking. Nowadays, it’s all a bit too stuffy and proper.
Roma (Alfonso Cuarón)
There’s hardly a frame in Roma that doesn’t make you sit up and take notice. No matter how mundane the action on the screen is—whether it is a courtyard being cleaned of dog feces, someone sitting tranquilly in a movie theatre, or shopping for a baby cradle—Alfonso Cuarón turns it into something reverential. The vision swoons to the tune carried by a Mixtec maid named Cleo (the unforgettable newcomer Yalitza Aparicio), who is the trusted caretaker of an upper-class Mexican family, lately without its patriarch (who flew the coop to pursue an adulterous affair, under the pretense of going to Canada for a business conference).
Though she is of few words, Cleo always gets things done around the expansive house, and her benevolent presence is enough to light smiles on her young wards’ faces. Though not on her employer Sofia’s (a striking Marina de Tavira) face. Having lost her husband to another woman, Sofia becomes a deflated and dispirited shell of her former self, and whether Cleo can get into her good graces again is one of many threads that line this remarkable work. Female solidarity, fidelity to particular causes (including violent ones), questions of technological and social mobility, and the indifferent treatment of the working classes are all topics carefully unspooled by Cuarón, with every detail traced back to Cleo and her busy life. It’s a trite saying, but it’s not inaccurate: she is the heart and soul of the film. Full stop.
The crux of Roma is the love Cuarón felt for his own childhood maid, which branches out to a love for his own homeland. While Cleo represents the beauty of a harmonious domesticity, her travels around Mexico City coalesce into a panoramic admiration for its sights and sounds, which Cuarón imbues with its own especial kind of sanctity. The way birds chirp, car tires squeal, musicians sing, and airplanes hum from up above all become part of a sonic reverie that mixes Cuarón’s memory with the act of memorialization, preserving the past while actively bringing it back in its fullest form.
It’s not an entirely idyllic past, as Cuarón shows when he includes a portion of the Corpus Christi massacre in the narrative. He does not shy away from the civil unrest that changed his country’s history, and he takes great care to tie it to a tragedy in Cleo’s own life, so that no one can accuse him for having a blinkered view of historicity. Those who perpetrated trauma in his country cannot be excused for their crimes. However, Roma is also a way of moving forward, comforting the wounded and showing them that life can still go on, with the same majesty as before.
There is only one aspect of Roma that Cuarón does not manage to nail: Cleo’s indigeneity. Though he allows her to speak in her native Mixtec language, he does not really delve into the importance of her native heritage with much insight—like, how, for instance, her treatment by Sofia’s family would be different compared to another Mixtec maid working in another household. It often feels like an important part of Cleo’s character is being elided, made even worse when the story is told from Cuarón’s non-indigenous, colonial perspective.
It’s also troubling to see Cleo made a paragon of virtue in a way that stifles her interiority, having the privilege of an inner life taken away for the privilege of being a living saint. Aparicio does her best to sidestep these problems, usually through the way she uses her face as a tool for silent expression. But it’s not enough to get past the unsatisfactory way overall in which Cuarón handles her indigenous ancestry, which should be front and centre if Cuarón really wanted to respect his character (and, by extension, his former maid).
That being said, Roma is still quite an artistic achievement, proving once and for all that the most intimate settings and characters can be told on an epic scale. Take my advice: try not to settle for Netflix when this is released online in December, and see if a local theatre in your area will screen it. The indelible black-and-white cinematography and vivid sound design can only be done justice on the best screen and equipment possible.
Widows (Steve McQueen)
It’s immediately clear about a quarter of a way through Widows that Steve McQueen is not operating at his very finest. It’s possible we’ve been spoiled after the great one-two punch of Shame and 12 Years a Slave, or maybe McQueen is simply better suited to more contemplative pieces than he is to full-out action thrillers. In any case, Widows is not quite the three-peat that I was anticipating, though I was still mightily entertained by the performances and some of McQueen’s out-of-the-box choices (like shooting a conversation between two people on the hood of their car rather than inside it, allowing us to take in urban Chicago in conjunction with the conversation’s tenor).
The screenplay is adapted by McQueen and Gone Girl author Gillian Flynn from Lynda La Plante’s primetime ‘80s hit series of the same name, updating the action to the present day and moving the setting to Chicago, so that the seedy underbellies of the city’s criminal and political circuits can be explored in fuller detail. The premise, though, remains roughly the same: a heist gone wrong takes the lives of a trio of armed robbers and destroys the money they’ve been trying to steal. The lead robber’s widow, Veronica (Viola Davis), is threatened by an intimidating crime lord (Brian Tyree Henry) and his even more intimidating brother/enforcer (Daniel Kaluuya) to pay back the money that was lost, so Veronica recruits the other two widows (Elizabeth Debicki and Michelle Rodriguez) to get the money through one last heist.
There is a parallel subplot involving Colin Farrell and Robert Duvall as a legacy politician and his loudmouthed father, respectively, that makes the film busier than it needs to be. Whenever the film cuts to their story, I could hear a few seats creak with impatience. That may be because the women really do rule the day on this one. Davis gives yet another commanding performance to add to her impressive arsenal, painting Veronica as a grieving woman who wants nothing more than to get Henry’s Jamal Manning off her back so that she can slowly heal from the multiple shocks that have assailed her.
Even better, though, is Debicki as the bruised Alice, who is at the mercy of a controlling mother (Jacki Weaver) and finds a kind of liberation in Veronica’s scheme. In a scene where she goes toe-to-toe with Davis, Debicki’s damaged psyché and broiling anger add an impressive layer of tension to what is already a tense-enough film, and you come to almost wish that Debicki were the headline act. It’s a similar case with Kaluuya, whose presence in the film is limited, but is more than felt whenever he resurfaces. Wild-eyed, bloodthirsty and imbuing a swagger in his relaxed physique, his Jatemme is the very personification of the greed and corruption that trickles like a stream throughout the film, and Kaluuya clearly relishes every chance to make that known.
You cannot say no to any trio that involves Davis, Debicki and Kaluuya, and so, no matter how perfunctory and predictable Widows can be at times, there is still a lot to be said about the people who make it work as well as it does (it’s also a much more confident female-led outing than this summer’s Ocean’s 8). You can also be sure that a lot of people will be clamoring for a spinoff or sequel in the future, and since La Plante’s show had a second season, there’s certainly material left to warrant consideration…
Maya (Mia Hansen-Løve)
I hate to report this to everyone, but it’s true: Mia Hansen-Løve has served up a disappointing feature after a string of successes in Eden and Things to Come. I’d like nothing more than to say otherwise, as she has quickly become one of France’s most lyrical and evocative filmmakers. One wants to see her prosper, but unfortunately, she won’t be able to do so if she makes more films like Maya.
It’s frustrating to say this, because the film opens promisingly, with Gabriel (Roman Kolinka) taking a shower while the camera lingers from afar over a huge bruise on his back. You initially take it to be a birthmark, until you see Gabriel trimming a rather unkempt beard. Within a few minutes, you’re given the full story: Gabriel is a war correspondent for Middle Eastern affairs who was kidnapped and held hostage while in Syria. He has just now been released and sent back home to France; there he meets with an ex-girlfriend and assures her that he does not have PTSD. In fact, he does not take to being psychologized in any way. He would much rather go back to India, where he grew up as a child, and renovate his old family home.
And so he goes to Goa, where his godfather also lives. There he meets the titular Maya (Aarshi Banerjee), his godfather’s studious daughter, who takes an instant liking to our contemplative reporter. If you can guess where things are going, well, you’re not altogether wrong. Despite a refreshingly uneventful ending that chooses not to set anything in stone, Hansen-Løve still manages to take her tale to corners that she would’ve been wise to circumvent, peddling in a stock “older man meets younger girl” trope that actually feels disingenuous to the characters. Especially Maya, who is initially presented as thoughtful and not constrained by the typical amorousness of youth.
What is even less satisfying is the pervading idea that Gabriel be “cleansed” of his demons by the “mystical” power of India (the quotes being intentional, as I don’t subscribe to such notions). Hansen-Løve is, of course, much too careful to make this idea explicit, but it is implied all the same. Gabriel’s travels to the subcontinent help him to heal from his traumas, even if not substantially. His relationship to Maya extends this even further, as both of them find each other’s presence beneficial. During the Q&A, Hansen-Løve repeatedly told the audience that she was offering up her vision of India to us, and yes, her vision is not culturally insensitive as other visions tend to be. But the colonizer/colonized dichotomy is still at play, giving the story a discomfiting edge that rarely lessens as it moves forward.
In the era of postcolonialism, a film like this cannot work, no matter how subtly it tries to play down its uneven power dynamics. There’s no use making films about white people taking trips of enlightenment to former colonies, without having some kind of meaningful critique about such a venture. One could argue that there is no enlightenment at the end of Maya, or that the protagonist being a war correspondent (and thus a man of complete itinerance) somehow mitigates some of the problematic elements of his arc. To me, though, that’s not good enough. Even if the film’s aesthetics retain Hansen-Løve’s quiet suffusion of thoughtful poeticism and warm ambience, they cannot veil over what is, at its heart, a troublingly anachronistic sentiment.
Toronto International Film Festival: Next Time
We go high with a look at another space-fueled epic, I give you the lowdown on woozy noir with a special 3D surprise, and the Russians are coming with a wartime espionage tale that takes a sympathetic look at national treason.
Will you be seeing Roma in a theatre or at home… and why? Let us know in the comments below!
The Toronto International Film Festival ran from September 6th to the 16th.
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