Near the beginning of “Cubby,” as its 26-year-old protagonist is dropped off by his mother to start a new life in New York, she tells him with brusque candor, “Mark, you are somewhat unbearable…but all the unbearable people move here! You’re going to kill it.”
From what we see in the next 90 or so minutes, she’s two-thirds correct.
“Cubby” is the debut feature film of writer, actor, and co-director Mark Blane, who has used a sort of semi-autobiographical fantasia as the vehicle for a quirky, taboo-rattling Indie comedy about an immature, socially-challenged young man coming of age in the big city. It’s not a new story, by any means, but the way he tells it is undeniably unique.
Blane plays Mark Nabel (an easy-to-spot anagram for Blane, just to make sure we know he’s playing a version of himself), a sheltered Midwesterner with artistic dreams and a portfolio of fetish-themed homoerotic sketches to prove it. After living his entire adult life in his mother’s garage, he finally gets his ticket to the big city in the form of a job offer from a prestigious art gallery. There’s just one problem – the job is a lie, concocted by Mark as a means to escape his cloying and over-protective mother and try to make it on his own. At first, his new life looks promising enough; he manages to talk his way into a shared-rent apartment with an old school acquaintance, meets a nice boy in the community garden, and even finds employment as a baby-sitter for Milo, the precocious child of a busy professional couple, with whom he quickly develops a special bond.
Unfortunately, the sustainability of Mark’s new situation is as tenuous as his grasp of reality; going off the anti-psychotics that keep him stable in favor of street drugs obtained from his hippie-ish roommate, he soon finds that the demands of adult life are more than he can handle, and things quickly begin to fall apart. Not only are his roommates threatening to kick him out, his job is at risk – and with it, his friendship with Milo, the one person who seems to accept and love him just as he is. In order to turn things around, Mark will have to find within himself the maturity required to meet the responsibilities expected of him – with a little help, perhaps, from “Leather Man,” a handsome older “Dom” conjured by a psychedelic cupcake from memories of a porn magazine he discovered as a child, who becomes his imaginary friend and counsels him on the importance of discipline and self-control.
In most cases, the premise of “Cubby” would make for a charming feel-good comedy – irreverent, perhaps, but ultimately heartwarming and, well, safe. Blane’s approach, however, shifts the whole thing off its familiar base and into a territory that feels uncomfortable, at best, and downright off-putting, at worst.
This has nothing to do with the movie’s sexual content. Indeed, Blane could have stood to confront us more with his character’s queerness or his fascination with leather and bondage. Mark’s interactions with Leather Man are more sweet and tender than erotically charged, and his sexuality plays little part in his journey outside of being a condition of his character – though it is arguably a factor in a key plot development that comes late in the film.
Nor is it because of the talent involved; Blane and co-director Ben Mankoff do a fine job of crafting their film with a gritty, urban look that both complements and contrasts its content, and the cast capably delivers performances that match the tone perfectly – Blane, in his first film role, brings plenty of personality to the screen, and Patricia Richardson’s performance as his mother is a scene-stealing standout.
What makes “Cubby” difficult is its misanthropy, and this is not necessarily a criticism. There are enough of these little Indie films out there that charm and amuse us while reinforcing our core values; most of them, however, feature likable characters. “Cubby” foregoes this custom, and instead peoples its story with characters who are very hard to like indeed.
True to his mother’s observation, the various New Yorkers we encounter through Mark are largely an insufferable lot. From his self-absorbed and cruel roommates to the self-righteous moms he meets when he takes Milo to the park, everyone who crosses his path – with the exception of that boy from the garden, of course – is unabashedly unpleasant. As for Mark himself, much of what he says and does throughout the film is, to put it bluntly, cringeworthy. He is petulant, manipulative, rude, overbearing, disingenuous and stubborn; he is childish, as opposed to childlike, making him less an anti-hero than simply a boorish oaf.
Yet somehow, it works. As Mark struggles to make his way among these hostile and abrasive New Yorkers, we are able to see that they, too, are struggling, just as unsure of themselves and their control over the lives they lead as he is, and – in their own ways – equally childish. They serve as a foil for him, helping us to see his shine as he works his way toward meeting them on their level. Taken all together, they create a portrait of humanity comprised of broken, uncertain souls mustering all they have to rise to the task of facing their daily life. On paper, it sounds pretty bleak; on film, it manages to be empowering.
It’s unclear whether all of this is intended by Blane’s movie, which he has written and co-directed in a style that seems as influenced by the grotesquery of early John Waters as it does by the quirky Indie dramedies of the 21st century. It may be laying too much on “Cubby” to interpret it as a message of empowerment for a world increasingly afflicted by anxiety, social and otherwise – though the fact that the title refers to a safe space where Mark found comfort as a child suggests that such issues are at the very heart of its story. In any case, the fact that it’s possible to read it that way speaks volumes about its creator’s distinctive voice.
Because in the end, that’s what makes “Cubby” – as well as its awkward hero – lovable in spite of itself. It’s a film that is often infuriating and sometimes difficult to watch, but it has a voice of its own that is not quite like anything else you’ve ever seen – and there are very few films out there today, Indie or otherwise, that can lay claim to that.
A queer screen roundup for the holidays
Hotly anticipated films like ‘The Whale’ and a Whitney biopic are just around the corner
Thanksgiving is less than a week away, and we all know what that means.
No, we’re not talking about digging out all those saved recipes for using leftover turkey. We mean, of course, that it’s time for the Blade’s annual Holiday Entertainment Preview, when we round up all the new LGBTQ viewing options coming our way during the upcoming season. No, they’re not all themed for the holidays (because, let’s face it, sometimes everybody needs a little escape from all that seasonal cheer), but they’re all definitely worth spending a couple of hours’ worth of your time in between shopping, planning, partying, and going to the gym to work off all those giant meals and decadent sweets.
“She Said” (in theaters Nov. 18)
Carey Mulligan and Zoe Kazan star as New York Times journalists Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey in this true-life drama about the investigation that led to the bombshell 2017 report exposing Harvey Weinstein’s decades-long history of sexual misconduct against women. There’s no direct LGBTQ connection here, per se, but the #MeToo movement inspired by the revelations is cause enough for us to include it on our list, simply in the name of solidarity. The fact that it’s female-written and female-directed (by Rebecca Lenkiewicz and Maria Schrader, respectively) bodes well for the messaging in this one, which also stars Patricia Clarkson, Andre Braugher, Jennifer Ehle, and Samantha Morton.
“Wednesday” (Netflix, Nov. 23)
Again, there’s no direct LGBTQ connection within the content here (at least as far as we know, yet), but surely none is needed to explain why this new supernatural comedy/mystery series from Executive Producer Tim Burton and creators Alfred Gough and Miles Millar – detailing the crime-solving adventures of now-teenaged Wednesday Addams as she navigates her high school years at Nevermore Academy – has our recommendation. The goth daughter of Gomez and Morticia has long been a queer fan favorite, after all, and there are plenty of other reasons to look forward to this new iteration of “The Addams Family” and its “creepy and kooky” world. Starring Jenna Ortega in the title role, with Gwendoline Christie, Riki Lindhome, and Jamie McShane – and Catherine Zeta-Jones, Luis Guzman, and Fred Armisen making guest appearances as Morticia, Gomez, and Uncle Fester, respectively.
“The Holiday Sitter” (Hallmark, Dec. 11)
This one not only has LGBTQ appeal, it’s an actual holiday movie. From the notorious-but-beloved Christmas universe of the Hallmark Channel comes the network’s first holiday rom-com about two men (a queer couple was featured in 2020’s “The Christmas House,” but it wasn’t about them falling in love) starring out “Mean Girls” star Jonathan Bennett as a workaholic bachelor who finds himself overwhelmed while babysitting for his out-of-town sister and her husband and recruits a handsome neighbor to help him. We’re sure you’ll know where things will go from there, but it should be a cozy seasonal watch, anyway. Also starring George Krissa and Chelsea Hobbs.
“Spoiler Alert” (in theaters, limited Dec. 2 / wide Dec. 9)
December’s awards season push kicks off with this adaptation of Michael Ausiello’s bestselling memoir, in which a young gay couple meet, fall in love, and build a life together for over a decade – only to be faced with a terminal cancer diagnosis for one of them. We know it doesn’t sound like holiday cheer, but it takes as light an approach with the subject matter as possible; that doesn’t mean you won’t cry, of course, but this Michael Showalter-directed tearjerker is hoping you’ll get the point that love is worth it even when you know there’s going to be a sad ending – and you can’t ask for a more appropriate seasonal message than that. Starring Jim Parsons, Ben Aldridge, Sally Field, and Bill Irwin.
“Framing Agnes” (in theaters, limited Dec. 2/Dec. 9)
Not quite a documentary, not quite a fictional narrative, this innovative cinematic exercise from director Chase Joynt takes the story of Agnes – a pioneering transgender woman whose participation in an infamous UCLA gender health study in the 1960s allowed her to gain access to gender-affirming healthcare – and blends it with other stories from long-shelved case files to “widen the frame through which trans history is viewed.” Promising “vividly rendered” re-enactments of vintage trans history, collaboratively created by an all-star cast of trans performers, artists, and thinkers, this one is only getting a limited theatrical release, for now – but even if it doesn’t screen near you, keep your eyes open, because it looks like it’s worth waiting for. Angelica Ross, Jen Richards, and Zackary Drucker are among the featured stars.
“The Whale” (in theaters, Dec. 9)
Another award contender surfaces with this buzzy new drama from the ever-intense Darren Aronofsky, adapted by Samuel D. Hunter from his own play and featuring the long-anticipated return of former Hollywood hunk Brendan Fraser – who stars as an obese middle-aged man trying to reconcile with his estranged daughter after abandoning her and her mother to be with another man. It’s won awards already, at Venice and other film festivals, and if the advance praise we’ve been hearing – both for the film and for Fraser’s comeback performance – is to be believed, it’s probably going to get several more. But that’s not why we recommend it; we just know you love Brendan Fraser as much as we do. Also starring Sadie Sink, Hong Chau, Ty Simpkins, and Samantha Morton.
“Babylon” (in theaters, Dec. 23)
“La La Land” filmmaker Damien Chazelle returns with this original period epic set in 1920s Los Angeles, and he doesn’t skimp on the star power. With Brad Pitt, Margot Robbie and Diego Calva leading an ensemble cast, this lavish look at early Hollywood traces the rise and fall of several intertwined characters to spin a tale of “outsized ambition during an era of unbridled decadence and depravity.” We’re told there’s a queer storyline involved, though there are no details yet – but regardless of that, we’re in based on that description alone. Also starring Jean Smart, Jovan Adepo, Li Jun Li, P.J. Byrne, Lukas Haas, Olivia Hamilton, Tobey Maguire, Max Minghella, Rory Scovel, Katherine Waterston, Flea, Jeff Garlin, Eric Roberts, Ethan Suplee, Samara Weaving, and Olivia Wilde, this is bound to be another awards favorite, and probably a whole lot of opulent fun, too.
“I Wanna Dance With Somebody” (in theaters, Dec. 23)
Finally, this eagerly awaited biopic of Whitney Houston – directed by Kasi Lemmons and written by Oscar nominee Anthony McCarten – shows up just in time for Christmas to deliver “a no-holds-barred portrait” of the iconic pop star, following her life and career from New Jersey choir girl to one of the best-selling and most awarded recording artists of all time. Starring BAFTA winner Naomi Ackie as Houston, it promises to take us on “an inspirational, poignant – and so emotional – journey” through the late singer’s “trailblazing life and career,” with “show-stopping performances and a soundtrack of the her most beloved hits as you’ve never heard them before.” That’s a lot of hyperbole, but frankly, we’ll be disappointed if it doesn’t get real about Houston’s long-obscured sexuality. Even so, it gets our tentative recommendation on the basis of diva interest alone.
Gay Night at Hollywood Chinese
“As a gay Chinese American, I wanted to make sure that the gay part of my identity would be out front” Dong said
LOS ANGELES- The Academy of Motion Pictures is hosting a “gay night” on Friday November 18th and 7:30PM, as part of Arthur Dong’s twenty-three-day-long curated series, “Hollywood Chinese: The First 100 Years.” The showing will include a double feature of M. Butterfly with The Wedding Banquet as well as a conversation between Dong and Andrew Ahn.
Dong is an Oscar-nominated and award-winning filmmaker, author, and curator best known for his work centered around Asian American and LGBTQ stories. Some of his notable works include films Coming Out Under Fire, Licensed to Kill, and Family Fundamentals, and books based on his documentaries Forbidden City, USA: Chinatown Nightclubs, 1936-1970, and Hollywood Chinese: The Chinese in American Feature Films.
“Hollywood Chinese: The First 100 Years” showcases a film series that both critiques and celebrates Hollywood’s depictions of the Chinese and presents groundbreaking Chinese and Chinese American artists who navigated industry challenges from the beginning of film history to now.
“When the Academy Museum commissioned me to guest curate this series, I knew I had to include a gay element somehow,” says Dong. “After all, an important task in my programming the series was to undo the erasure of the Chinese from American film history. As a gay Chinese American, I wanted to make sure that the gay part of my identity would be out front.”
Filmmaker Andrew Ahn’s latest feature, FIRE ISLAND (Searchlight Pictures), starring Joel Kim Booster, Bowen Yang, and Margaret Cho, is currently streaming on Hulu. He has promoted diversity in the arts by mentoring youth filmmakers through programs like Pacific Arts Movement’s Reel Voices, Outfest’s OutSet, and the Sundance Institute’s Native Filmmaker Lab.
The conversation between Dong and Ahn will center around the significance of the two films as they relate personally to Andrew, his films, and his growing up gay, the significance of the two films in the history of LGBTQ AAPI films, and the state of LGBTQ AAPI films and filmmaking today.
‘Far From Heaven’ still packs a punch 20 years later
Queer classic a merciless deconstruction of American identity
One of the joys of great movies – as any real cinema buff can surely attest – is the ability to revisit them through a new set of eyes. Though the images they show us are frozen, unchanging from the day they were first captured, you the viewer and the world you live in are different each time you watch them.
This shift in perspective becomes even more apparent when the movie in question is one you haven’t seen in many years. There’s a risk involved, of course: re-watching a favorite, you may find it doesn’t live up to your fond memories. On the other hand, you could discover previously unappreciated layers that make you love it even more than you did before. Either way, you’re likely to experience the movie as if it were completely new.
Sometimes, though, the power of a movie over time can be deepened by just how much watching it feels the same – and that’s why queer filmmaker Todd Haynes’ “Far From Heaven,” which turns 20 years old this month, speaks even louder to us now than it did in 2002.
Even then, of course, it was a look back at a faraway past. Set in the upper-middle-class world of Hartford, Connecticut, in the late 1950s, it transported us into a seminal period of our history and forced us to take stock of just how much things have changed – and just how much they haven’t – in our own time.
Borrowing more than a page from the glossy Technicolor melodramas of the era in which it takes place – in particular, the work of Douglas Sirk, a German immigrant whose outsider’s eye tinged the soapy escapist films he directed with a subtle undercurrent of social criticism that would only come to be appreciated by a later generation – “Far From Heaven” is both a painstaking homage to a classic genre and a merciless deconstruction of American identity.
Awash in rich fall colors and adorned down to the smallest detail with pristine replication of the period’s iconic clothing, architecture, décor, and automobiles, its aesthetic – breathtakingly beautiful from start to finish – was accomplished by team effort. Haynes wrote a screenplay ripe with the familiar over-the-top style of the vintage films he wanted to recreate and directed with an eye toward emulating the visual conventions – framing, camera angles, editing choices – with which they were composed, even to the point of using old-fashioned rear projection process shots for driving scenes; cinematographer Edward Lachman captured it all on film utilizing the same lens filters and lighting techniques used by his 1950s forebears; Elmer Bernstein, who composed the music for many of the same classics that inspired the film, envelops the narrative in the lush romantic strains of his final major score, adding an even more tangible layer of authenticity to the package; and an impeccable cast of gifted screen actors, led by Julianne Moore in a performance that won her the Volpi Cup for Best Actress at the Venice Film Festival (and should have won her an Oscar, according to many awards-show pundits who consider her loss to Halle Berry in “Monster’s Ball” one of the Academy’s most egregious snubs), play out the drama with all the skill required to honor the movie’s mise-en-scène while still making each moment feel palpably real.
Yet as impressive as the film is as a technical achievement in style, it’s not defined by that measure alone. Rather, the style functions entirely in service of a larger goal, in which the myth of “the good old days” is lavishly rendered onscreen only to be torn down by a narrative that asserts all the reasons why they weren’t so good after all.
First and foremost, our identification is imprinted upon Moore’s character, Cathy Whitaker, a housewife living within a picture-perfect existence as an ideal and dutiful homemaker. Her husband, Frank (Dennis Quaid), is a higher-echelon executive at a television manufacturing company – the 1950s equivalent, perhaps, of a tech bro – whose paycheck she spends in the daily running of the household she shares with him and their two young children, a job made considerably easier by the presence of hard-working housekeeper Sybil (Viola Davis); her personal time is filled with the obligatory demands of her class position – organizing fundraisers, car-pooling kids to school and extra-curricular activities, and planning parties designed as much to show off her family’s position of status and privilege as for anything else. Her idyllic existence, however, is about to be disrupted.
Frank, as she discovers in the most awkward way imaginable, turns out to have long-repressed homosexual desires, upon which he has begun acting by delving into the hidden underground world of closeted 1957 queer life and which have put an even greater emotional distance into their already-perfunctory marriage. At the same time, she begins a friendship with her Black gardener, Raymond (Dennis Haysbert), a widowed father raising a daughter on his own while operating a successful landscaping business that serves the prosperous white community. Naïve but good-hearted, she clings to the hope that psychological conversion can “cure” her wayward husband, while denying her own feelings toward Raymond and remaining willfully dismissive of the “Karen-ish” outrage and salacious gossip that infects her social circle – even her closest friend (Patricia Clarkson), whose loyalty ends up extending only as far as her own prejudices will allow – about the nature of her relationship with him. Even in a real 1950s melodrama, she would be in for a hard lesson.
That lesson might be entirely predictable from our contemporary point-of-view – most of us have long acknowledged the homophobia and racism hiding behind the cheery domestic bliss of the Eisenhower years, and the punitive stigma levied against anyone who dared defy that social order is sadly still an oft-told tale. It’s easy for us to foresee how wrong things will go for Cathy as she persists in going against the grain to follow the yearnings of her heart – but what makes her story resonate with modern audiences has nothing to do with any expectation of a happy ending.
Instead, the power of “Far From Heaven” lies in the uncomfortable realization that sexuality and race are still, decades later, a great divider within the American social order, and the melancholy chill which comes from watching Cathy (and Frank, too, for that matter) fall inevitably from grace into ostracized “other” status. Haynes – who rose to prominence as one of the architects of the “new queer cinema” of the ‘90s by exploring the traumatic memories of Boomer childhood in films that questioned then-dominant assumptions of established norms and illuminated the crushing isolation of being someone you’re not “supposed” to be – crafts his film with a heightened reality that feels more like a sedative-induced hallucination than a tranquil dream; in paying tribute to the Hollywood tearjerkers that influenced his youth, he re-imagines them through the lens of hindsight, revealing the “American Dream” that reinforced our preconceived assumptions about the “natural order” of things to be nothing more than a cruel and manipulative lie. That message was clear two decades ago; now, it rings truer than ever.
In 2002, it was a quietly devastating assertion that only the privileged few had reason to look back fondly on mid-20th-century life in our country. In 2022, in the wake of a disastrous conservative push to “make America great again” by regressing to the strictures of a long-tarnished fantasy, it’s a chilling reminder of just how much we have to lose.
Blanchett triumphs with tour-de-force in ‘Tár’
Year’s best film so far a testament to genius of Todd Field
The only thing you need to know before going to see “Tár” is that it is not a true story.
Lydia Tár, the acclaimed female conductor profiled in Todd Field’s newest film, is entirely fictional, despite confusion online from people who mistakenly believed otherwise. It’s easy to see why; a story about a respected cultural figure’s fall from grace might easily be drawn directly from current headlines, and the world depicted onscreen – an exclusive, insular environment in which high art, big money, and base motives exist eternally in uneasy tension with each other – comes across as completely authentic, down to each granular detail. It feels real, even if it’s not – and that, of course, is one of the things that make “Tár” such a singular film.
This shouldn’t surprise those familiar with writer-director Field, whose short-but-eloquent resume – he’s made only three films in 21 years, perhaps mirroring the less-than-prolific pace of former mentor Stanley Kubrick, and “Tár” is the first since 2006 – speaks volumes about his mastery of cinematic craft. His earlier works – “In the Bedroom” (2001) and “Little Children” (2006) – were distinguished by a literary instinct for finding big truth in tiny details and for a keen, almost merciless understanding of the psychology of their characters. In each case, too, there was a focus on the uncomfortable corners of our lives – grief, adultery, domestic violence, pedophilia, murder – and on the way that our intimate secrets spin webs into our public lives. Above all, perhaps, those films were about the masks we wear to disguise the desires we don’t want others to see.
Lydia Tár (Cate Blanchett) is the natural legacy of these previous explorations, a culmination of all those potent themes in one enigmatic character. As maestro of the prestigious Berlin Philharmonic, she’s at the peak of an already monumental career; she’s renowned for her interpretations of the classical canon and an accomplished composer in her own right, a respected musical theorist and practitioner who has achieved world-class fame and success as a woman in a field overwhelmingly dominated by men. She’s also a lesbian, raising a young daughter with her wife, Sharon (Nina Hoss).
None of these biographical facts, however, tell us anything about who she really is. To learn that, we have to watch as Field’s intricately crafted movie unspools her for us.
More a montage of slice-of-life episodes than a traditional narrative, “Tár” introduces us to its title character through a series of text messages about her between unknown others, just enough to imply that something about her is not what it seems. From then on, everything we see is tinged with suspicion. Field examines her life like a researcher documenting observations, drawing us in with a perspective heightened by specificity – more hyperreal than surreal – as he reveals the gradually widening cracks in her inscrutable façade.
At first, she seems an aspirational figure – brilliant, poised, and supremely confident; gradually, her personal interactions – with overworked PA Francesca (Noémie Merlant), or fawning associate-and-rival Eliot (Mark Strong), or promising young cellist Olga (Sophie Kauer), among others – reveal glimpses of more questionable qualities, perhaps even a hint of narcissism; finally, a pattern emerges, and we begin to recognize, even before she does, that Lydia’s compartmentalized life is about to come crashing down around her.
It’s an intensely visceral experience, a twist on the “unreliable narrator” motif that invites us to identify with a character that will later be revealed as a fraud. It’s hardly a new tactic, but in Field’s provocative movie, it strikes a hauntingly dissonant chord – in large part because of the cultural moment in which it comes.
Without revealing too much detail, it’s clear enough that sexual misconduct is part of the equation in “Tár,” so it’s not a spoiler to discuss the way the film subverts the all-too-familiar narrative around that sensitive subject. We are now, sadly, so saturated with scandals around men who use their power as a vehicle for sexual predation that they are dangerously close to becoming a trope. By suggesting that a woman might be the predator, Field challenges our assumptions about that dynamic; yet, far from diminishing the culpability of male abusers by showing females are capable of the same behavior, he reminds us that “toxic masculinity” is a systemic phenomenon. Lydia Tár is the product of a long-established order in which the road to professional success is both paved and defined by male-centric hierarchy; though that order may have become more inclusive, the hierarchy remains unchanged – and the gender lines around sexual predation have become blurred.
Some queer audiences, it should be said, may find further controversy in the film’s presentation of the queer woman as victimizer – an old and toxic bit of coded subtext that has been a part of cinematic storytelling ever since the days of the silent vamp. While this might feel particularly tone deaf when current conservative rhetoric includes terms such as “grooming” in its effort to stigmatize LGBTQ people, there’s no homophobic agenda in “Tár” – only a cautionary assertion that real life is not subject to the expectations of the bubbles in which we find safe haven. More than that, Field arguably accomplishes the fairest representation possible by allowing its queer protagonist – and despite whatever moralistic judgments his movie may invite us to explore, that’s what she is – to be as imperfect a human being as anyone else.
There are many other perspectives, as well, through which to view “Tár” – much has been made by commentators about its focus on “cancel culture,” for example, and the influence of social media and virtual discourse over our social mores and ethics. It’s a testament to the genius – yes, we’ll use that word – of Todd Field that all of them are valid, but none of them define his film.
Great as his talent may be, though, none of what works about the movie would be possible without its star. Field has said he wrote the role for Blanchett – if she had declined it, the movie would never have been made – and she gives a career-defining performance as Lydia Tár; her dedication goes much further than simply learning the necessary musical skills required – which she did, in order to flawlessly play piano and conduct a live orchestra onscreen – to realize a monumental and multi-faceted character from the ground up. Fierce yet vulnerable, tender and loving yet cold and compassionless, she’s a walking contradiction, subject to the same hubris as the rest of us; because of this, we are able to find empathy for her no matter how far out of control she goes – and without that crucial element, the film would fall flat.
It doesn’t. Instead, it’s an engrossing, even thrilling piece of cinema that keeps us wrapped around its finger for a two-and-a-half-hour-plus running time that feels far shorter than that. It’s also the kind with which one must sit for a while before deciding whether we loved it or hated it, and the kind for which there can really be no response in between.
That means we can’t guarantee which side you’ll come down on, or for what reason – but for our part, “Tár” might just be the best film of the year so far.
Celebrate Judy Garland’s centennial by watching her movies
The dazzling force of nature made 34 films
When the world ends, aficionados will still be watching their favorite Judy Garland movies.
Queer icon Garland was born 100 years ago this year (on June 10, 1922).
Everyone knows how tragic much of Garland’s life was. MGM feeding her uppers and downers when she was a child. Bad luck with husbands. Getting fired from movies because of her addiction issues. Her death at age 47.
You can’t deny that Garland’s life was often a mess. Yet, it’s too easy to encase Garland into a box of victimhood.
Contrary to the misperception of her as a sad figure, Garland wasn’t a morbid person. She was a fabulous comedian and clown, John Fricke, author of “The Wonderful World of Oz: An Illustrated History of the American Classic,” told the Blade in 2019. Lucille Ball said Garland was the funniest woman in Hollywood, Fricke said. “‘She made me look like a mortician,’ Lucy said,” he added.
In the midst of the sentimentality and morbidity shrouding her legacy, you can readily forget Garland’s prodigious talent and productivity.
Garland was a consummate, multi-faceted, out-of-this-world talented performer. She (deservedly) received more awards than most performers would even dream of: two Grammy Awards for her album “Judy at Carnegie Hall,” a special Tony for her long-running concert at the Palace Theatre and a special Academy Juvenile Award. Garland was nominated for an Emmy for her TV series “The Judy Garland Show” and for Best Supporting Oscar for her performance in “Judgment at Nuremberg.”
Garland, a dazzling, force of nature on screen, made 34 films. There’s no better way to celebrate Garland’s centennial than to watch her movies.
Garland was renowned for connecting so intimately with audiences when she sang. She’s remembered for her legendary musicals — from “The Wizard of Oz” to “Meet Me in St. Louis” to “A Star is Born.”
But if you watch, or re-watch, her movies, you’ll see that Garland wasn’t just a singer who sang songs, and sometimes danced, in production numbers in movie musicals.
Garland was a talented actor. She wasn’t appearing on screen as herself – Judy Garland singing to her fans.
Whether she’s tearing at your heartstrings as Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz,” performing brilliant physical comedy with Gene Kelly in the “The Pirate,” breaking your heart with “The Man that Got Away” in “A Star is Born” or unrecognizable as Irene Hoffmann in “Judgment at Nuremberg,” Garland is acting. Her performance etches these characters onto your DNA.
Picking Garland’s best movies is like deciding which five of your 20 puppies should go on an outing. But, if you’re cast away on a desert island, take these Garland movies with you:
“Meet Me in St. Louis”: This luminous 1944 musical, directed by Vincente Minnelli, has it all: Garland in top form, the Trolley song, Margaret O’Brien, along with a stellar cast, and the best Christmas song ever.
“The Clock”: This 1945 movie, also directed by Minnelli, showcases Garland as a gifted dramatic actress. Shot in stunning black-and-white near the end of World-War II, the movie is the story, set in New York City, of a young woman (Garland) and a soldier on leave (Robert Walker) who fall in love.
“Easter Parade”: Sure, this 1948 picture, directed by Charles Walters, is thought of as a light musical by some. But, who cares? It’s in Technicolor, and Judy’s in peak form – dancing with Fred Astaire.
“A Star is Born”: If you don’t know the story of this 1954 film, directed by George Cukor, starring Garland and James Mason, you’re not a member of queer nation. There have been other versions of “A Star is Born,” some quite good, but this is still the best. Garland should have gotten an Oscar for this one.
“Judgment at Nuremberg”: This 1961 film, directed by Stanley Kramer, will never be a date night movie. It’s long (3 hours, 6 minutes), grim (about Nazi crimes) and Garland is only in it for about seven minutes. But the story is gripping and Garland’s performance is mesmerizing. When you watch her as Irene, you won’t be thinking that’s Judy Garland.
Happy centennial, Judy!
A fine ‘Bro’-mance
Eichner, Macfarlane performances essential to movie’s appeal
If you’re reading this, you probably already know that “Bros” is a history-making milestone for LGBTQ representation in the movies — the first gay romantic comedy produced by a major Hollywood studio, written by an openly gay man (Billy Eichner) who also stars in it – and that it was made with queer talent filling virtually every role, both on camera and off. The “Billy on the Street” writer/comedian/actor, true to his brand, has been loud-and-proud about his efforts to foster authenticity and inclusivity throughout the making of his film, and rightly so.
Still, now that his much-anticipated movie is finally out, we can finally stop talking about all that. After all, even when a movie scores as many points for LGBTQ representation as this one does, what really matters is whether or not it’s actually any good.
When Eichner was tapped to make his film for Universal, many may have assumed it would be a showcase for his signature comedic persona — acerbic but disarmingly funny, more than a touch manic, somehow confrontational, defiant, and self-deprecating all at the same time — that would also poke fun at a heteronormative genre beloved just as often by its queer fans for its camp value as for anything else. This expectation seemed all but confirmed when Eichner announced the casting of actor Luke Macfarlane – known for playing handsome hunks in the very romcoms his movie would presumably be sending up – as his love interest.
As it happens, those assumptions were not entirely wrong. “Bros” is unabashedly autobiographical in tone, presenting Eichner essentially as an alternative version of himself if he had been a queer history scholar and author instead of a poly-hyphenate show biz celebrity; his character, Bobby Lieber, has even got a podcast, allowing him to voice the kind of take-no-prisoners witticisms and shrewdly queer observations about life and culture for which both versions of himself have become famous.
While at a launch event for a new dating app, Bobby meets Aaron (Macfarlane), who – as one of the crowd of shirtless gay scenesters he’s used to being ignored by, he assumes is shallow, not too bright, and not into him at all. It turns out he’s wrong on all counts, and the two men soon find themselves drawn into a relationship, despite some serious issues around commitment and the fact that they seem to have nothing in common.
All of this is a perfect match for Eichner’s comic sensibilities – he’s built his image on calling out society for the absurdity of its assumptions, the illogic of its priorities, the depth of its shallowness, and “Bros” gives him plenty of opportunity to do exactly that, as well as plenty of fodder for his usual zingers and pop-culture references. It’s very much the kind of savagely iconoclastic spoof we would expect from its creator, making fun of social conventions (both gay and straight) and lampooning everything from awards-show stunt fashion to celebrity athletes coming out of the closet to “Dear Evan Hansen” — but it’s not nearly as scattershot as it sometimes feels. There’s a method to Eichner’s madness, and it hinges on reminding us that we are all, from a certain perspective, utterly ridiculous.
If that were all that “Bros” accomplished, it would be enough, but it gives us so much more. Not content to simply settle into familiar territory, he sets his sights on rising to the level of the romance classics he boldly references throughout, from “When Harry Met Sally” to “You’ve Got Mail” to “Manhattan.” With the help of director and co-writer Nicholas Stoller, whose sure-handed cinematic sensibility allows the star’s broadly satirical strokes and flights of absurdist fancy to flourish while still remaining grounded, he succeeds.
In large part, this is because Eichner’s screenplay doesn’t fall into the trap of being governed by the same tropes and expectations it makes fun of. Instead, it undermines them to take us further; unlike many romances, this one goes past the feel-good “falling in love” stuff and explores what it’s like for two adult men to build a relationship that works. It’s hardly a spoiler to say that’s not an easy or comfortable process, especially for a generation that came of age under the lingering shadow of widespread homophobia, but “Bros” is willing to go there – and because of that, its seemingly mismatched and dysfunctional lead couple are infinitely more relatable.
That doesn’t mean Eichner and Stoller ever allow their movie to become a “bummer.” Things might get a little messy from time to time, but what relationship doesn’t? By choosing to give “Bros” the kind of maturity that’s able to weather the storm, they’ve built something deeper and more lasting – the kind of movie that’s worthy of setting a few milestones – without sacrificing any of the comedy. And despite the cynical pose that’s always been at the heart of Eichner’s persona, they’re not afraid to let it get a little sappy, too.
As for its two stars, Eichner and Macfarlane’s performances are essential elements in the movie’s winning appeal. It’s perhaps not too surprising that Eichner, who’s been able to show us hints of his wider range before, rises to the occasion for his debut as a leading man; it’s the kind of work with the potential to elevate him into a whole new echelon of talent. A greater revelation is Macfarlane, who dives way below the pretty surface of Aaron to deliver a braver and more vulnerable performance than anyone might have expected. Together, the two actors find an easy and affectionate chemistry that is not only believable but makes it easy for real-life couples to recognize themselves in their relationship. They front a superb cast that includes Monica Raymund, Dot-Marie Jones, Jim Rash, Guillermo Díaz, Amanda Bearse, Miss Lawrence, TS Madison, Bowen Yang, and Jai Rodriguez, not to mention a host of queer and queer-friendly celebrity cameos from Kristin Chenoweth, Harvey Fierstein, and Amy Schumer, among several others.
It would be easy to go into detail about the many things that make “Bros” stand out as a piece of “queer cinema” — the way it weaves educational tidbits about LGBTQ history into the story as a tongue-in-cheek primer for straight viewers, or the sex-positive attitude with which it boldly and playfully depicts gay love-making, or its assertion of the differences instead of the similarities between same-sex relationships and straight ones — but it’s better to let viewers discover these things for themselves, along with all the movie’s other pleasures. We don’t want to give any more away, though we will tell you to watch for a scene-stealing turn by Debra Messing, who seems to be having the time of her life.
Other than that, all you need to know is that “Bros” lives up to its hype to become one of the smartest, sexiest, and yes, sweetest comedies of the year so far – the kind of rom-com that’s good enough to recommend even for people who don’t like rom-coms.
And yes, it sets a lot of LGBTQ milestones, but don’t see it because of that. See it because it’s good.
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