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Depicting the horrifying cycle of abuse in the state’s prison system, The Alabama Solution is tough to watch. It was already hard to reckon with the related news reports, but what makes this documentary necessary is the way filmmakers Andrew Jarecki and Charlotte Kaufman teamed up with activists inside to get a deeper look into the prisons themselves. We mean this literally. A third of the footage comes straight from smuggled phones by the inmates, compiled for more than a decade, with much higher stakes than other works that employed guerilla filmmaking. Piecing together their footage with case reviews, news releases, and the state government’s wasteful, lackluster response, The Alabama Solution reveals the need for a better approach.
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Come See Me in the Good Light takes a somewhat conventional approach in documenting poet Andrea Gibson’s battle against cancer, though that doesn’t mean it’s boring. It works because of the people this documentary follows. It won’t be surprising to hear that Gibson and their partner Megan Falley have the precise words to express this journey– They are poets, after all– but the way each conversation is arranged builds upon each other, easily capturing the context for some of Gibson’s works, as well as how their love transformed the both of them, in spite of all odds. Come See Me in the Good Light does exactly what it says in the title, transforming a familiar battle with illness into an uplifting inspiration of a life well lived.
In Sorry, Baby, an unspeakable act of cruelty disrupts Agnes’ ambitious rise to the top. Despite being a literature professor, she struggles to find the words to describe what happened to her. Likewise, the audience isn’t made privy to the details of the incident and relies only on what Agnes chooses to show. It’s a far cry from the sensationalist way trauma is often depicted in films. In place of sexy or valiant acts of revenge, Sorry, Baby focuses on the slow, circular, and confusing process of healing. It hides more than it shows, which, oddly, says more about the reality of assault than most post #MeToo films. Sorry, Baby is an unassuming film, but its honest writing, poetic cinematography, and rich expressions pack a powerful punch.
Given that this is based on a recent, real life case, and the defendant has chosen to remain behind the titular pseudonym, it makes sense why Belén doesn’t focus entirely on her. We don’t get to know much about the defendant other than the case reveals. That being said, what was given is already infuriating enough. Filmmaker Dolores Fonzi, who also stars as her lawyer Soledad Deza, gathers a compelling defense, starting everything off with the terror and confusion Belén’s hospital check-up turns into her arrest. It strengthens the somewhat standard legal proceedings that is to follow, but nonetheless effectively highlights the multiple ways Argentina’s institutions have failed Belén. But what makes Belén so compelling is the way it also celebrates the movement formed around her case. Belén strikes at the core of the injustice made, with the same determination that secured her freedom, and the rights of every woman in the nation.
Based on the 2011 novella of the same name, Train Dreams depicts the life of Robert Grainier in the first half of the 20th century. It’s a pretty ordinary life. Born without parents, and not quite sociable, Grainier lives a lonely existence, a loneliness that’s interrupted occasionally by talks with his fellow co-workers and the limited time he gets with his family. However, that doesn’t mean it’s boring. Joel Edgerton delivers one of his best performances that subtly depicts his inner world, while writer-director Clint Bentley pairs Grainier’s day-to-day with surreal dreams, feverish imaginings that captures Grainier’s deepest hopes for the people he’s lost. Train Dreams depicts an ordinary life with extraordinary sensitivity.
What would you do when you win the lottery? Most people would travel, buy a home, spend it on all the things you love, and maybe invest it somewhere. In The Ballad of Wallis Island, Charles Heath does this and uses the remaining pot to bring together the separated folk duo he loves. It makes for a kooky premise, but instead of forcing Herb and Nell back together, the film pushes them to reconsider their stances in love and life. It’s all played out in a surprisingly warm and peaceful way. The Ballad of Wallis Island is quite a charming film.
It’s Never Over, Jeff Buckley depicts the life of a musician whose time was cut too short. It’s a tale you might have heard before. He fell in love with the guitar at a young age, busked in small cafes and downtown bars, and won over fans and record labels to create one excellent album, but died just before stardom. This documentary depicts this somewhat conventionally. That being said, while it lacks in original approach, it captures the emotions well, understanding what moved Buckley to his craft. Tackling the loss of his father, music as his refuge, and his conflicted thoughts about fame, It’s Never Over unpacks the artist in a deeply personal way.
Not everybody holds a good relationship with their sisters, but ideally, we get to reunite and repair things in a good time. Unfortunately, for some families, the only time they reunite is due to a parent nearly dying. This is the case in His Three Daughters, where the three sisters meet after years living apart. It’s a common plotline, mostly depicted in the feel-good, family friendly variation, but writer-director Azazel Jacobs makes the three sisters distinct by taking the easy assumptions many people would make about them, and naturally push them to reveal the opposite. Carrie Coon, Natasha Lyonne, and Elizabeth Olsen form a great trio, delivering equally excellent performances under the same roof.
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There are three threads in Daughters that directors Natalie Rae and Angela Patton weave beautifully together. The first thread follows the incarcerated men who gather every week to talk about fatherhood, mostly, because of the program that they’re in, but also: masculinity, race, systemic poverty, social mobility, and the skewed prison system in America. The discussions are raw and enlightening. “This isn’t normal, that we’re all in here,” one of the men wisely says, and it feels special to witness that moment of shared empowerment. The second thread follows the daughters, whose ages range from 5 to 15. In line with the film’s honesty, it shows us girls who miss their fathers and girls who don’t; girls who know everything about them and those who can’t even remember their faces. One is oblivious, the other suicidal. This part is enlightening in a different way: you hope the kids are too young to realize what’s going on, but that’s almost never the case. The final thread is where the two others meet: it offers the most heartbreaking parts of the film, but also the most beautiful. Both parties dress up, take pictures, move on the dancefloor, and say their inevitable goodbyes, and all this is captured in the same darklit, grainy color as the film cameras the fathers and daughters are given to document the dance. The direction and editing is artistic, but never in a gratuitious way. Instead, like other parts of the film, it’s filled with gentleness and empathy.
On paper, Crossing’s premise reads like a movie about two different people forging an unlikely but sweet bond. Lia is a no-nonsense grandma, after all, and Achi looks like he lives day-to-day, not really caring what the future brings. And it’s true, at first their stark differences provide amusing moments, but the pair quickly subvert expectations. Lia is almost unrelentingly distant (“Let’s be clear,” she warns Achi, “I’m not here to take care of you.”) while Achi proves to be surprisingly sweet. Then there’s Evrim (Deniz Dumanli), a local trans lawyer advocating for the marginalized. Through her and her friends, Lia grows to understand her missing trans niece, the reason she came to Turkey in the first place. There’s a meandering vibe to Crossing that fits into these three characters yearning for connections. But though it can get lost in those paths, the movie feels coherent and kind, like a comfort drama if there ever was one. All the while, Istanbul—both its fringes and its colorful center—serves as a ruggedly beautiful, kaleidoscopic backdrop.
Hollywood loves its fair share of bad guys, but it’s not easy to call the titular robber one. For starters, he’s portrayed by the very charismatic Channing Tatum. But secondly, Jeffrey Manchester is introduced in a compelling way. Even as he’s robbing a McDonalds, he does his best to get the startled workers to calm down with a nice voice and the coat on his back before herding them into a freezer. He’s considerate. He’s smart in handling a situation. He’s just not able to adapt to day-to-day life. The film doesn’t examine why, whether that be from lack of opportunity or lack of financial literacy, but it doesn’t really aim to, nor does it have to. Roofman is already an interesting guy, and the movie about him gets him captured in the warmth of an old-school biopic, albeit with a slice of true crime.
At the heart of Bring Her Back is grief. It’s already painful to lose a family member, but this supernatural horror unpacks the ways grief can be complicated, when shared or carried alone. It just so happens to be presented with brutality and gore. We do have to warn some viewers: It’s pretty intense. The newcomer cast deliver incredibly visceral performances, especially that one knife scene that nearly had us puking our guts. But if there’s one performance you have to see, it’s Sally Hawkins as this film’s mysterious foster parent, wielding her signature empathetic style of acting to sinister effect.
At the height of a military dictatorship in Brazil, forced disappearances were an unfortunately common occurrence. It was the government’s brutal way of weeding out perceived enemies, even though, more often than not, their accusations were baseless. I’m Still Here tells the true story of one such victim, Ruebens Paiva, but through the eyes of the wife he left behind. And so while it is crucially a political movie, I’m Still Here is also a heart wrenching tale of grief and resilience. It subverts expectations, too, by never being overly dramatic. Fernanda Torres commands her character, Eunice Paiva, with dignity and restraint. Though she barely voices it out, you can see the pain in her expressive eyes and her tensed muscles, in her strained voice and her determination to keep her five children afloat. Things happen matter-of-factly in the film, which adds to the sadness of the reality. Life doesn’t owe us explanations, and it can remain mysterious till the bitter end. Like Eunice, sometimes the best we can do is to hold on to what we know is true, and to never forget.