Get Out (2017): America's Gaping Racial Wound

     New York City. The date is October 15th, 2014. Jon Stewart invites conservative pundit and professional talking-head Bill O’Reilly onto The Daily Show, hoping to convince him that white privilege exists, and that the minority experience is significantly more difficult than the white American’s experience. O’Reilly squirms in his seat, citing that back ‘then’ (during slavery and subsequently Jim Crow) whites had greater privileges, but in contemporary America, this isn’t the case. “America is now a place, where if you work hard, get an education, and are an honest person, you will succeed.” While this interview may be four years old, and O’Reilly is certainly a problematic figure, his views are emblematic of a culture of denial rooted in the American psyche that Get Out’s presence in the public sphere threatens to unseat. 

Daniel Kaluuya gives one of the year's best performances as Chris.

Tea with the villains.

     The contents of Get Out has no end to critiques- some explicit, some subtle- of institutional inequality, faux white liberalism (“I would have voted for Obama a third time!”), and America’s systemic exploitation of black bodies. However, the true genius of Get Out lies in the marriage of these realities to horror. Not only are these issues raised within ‘realistic’ contexts (such as when a cop demands to see Chris’s ID at the beginning of the film, and he warily complies), but they’re also represented through horror beats- Get Out contains contains a smorgasbord of horror discourses: body horror, cult activity (the slave auction), and scientific experimentation, oh my!

Director and writer Jordan Peele on set.

     One might think that to merge serious social realities with what are, in many other horror films, outlandish and ‘unrealistic’ horror beats would balloon issues of institutional racism into cartoonish scenarios, but the exact opposite is the case in Get Out. Through Jordan Peele’s masterful script, elements of horror accentuate and bring to the foreground those social realities in a familiar and illuminating fashion. Horror scenarios can even provide new and creative perspectives on "old" issues. For example, the idea of the 'sunken place' has effectively replaced the term ‘Uncle Tom’ as a way of describing black people who are perceived as having betrayed their community. The film asserts that it's all a grand conspiracy, the only reason black people would ever fraternize with those in white society is that they've literally been brainwashed. Get Out doesn’t seek to capitalize or fetishize African American’s oppression, but instead seeks to add to its’ discourse.

A chilling comparison a film professor made during a discussion of Get Out...

     The deer in Get Out is the subject of much online speculation. It's certainly a malleable symbol, something that effectively encompasses many different things, including Chris' mother (killed by a hit and run), and even the historical connotation of "black buck", a post-Reconstruction racial slur, is at play. But the deer also addresses a comparison of black people to prey that is so pertinent today, it hurts. On February 26th, 2012, George Zimmerman followed (stalked) unarmed 17-year-old Trayvon Martin with a gun, before fatally shooting him. Charged on April 11th with second-degree murder, on June 13th, 2013, Zimmerman was found not guilty.

A similar scene appears in Get Out.

     I do recognize and appreciate Get Out as a work of horror, but every time I watch it I’m consistently impressed by how it seems to transcend the constrictions of horror genre conventions. I remember the controversy last year surrounding Get Out’s classification as a Golden Globe’s nominee- it was nominated for Best Comedy, sparking much debate online. On the one hand, I completely understand the knee-jerk reaction to classify it as such- when I saw it in theaters during its opening weekend, the audience was nearly dying with laughter at the exchanges between Chris and Rod, partially because those scenes provide a succinct levity in a film that is otherwise encompassed in profound racial tension. Director Jordan Peele addressed the Golden Globe’s misclassification in a legendary tweet: “Get Out is a documentary.” The entire controversy speaks to its abstractness and elusiveness as a film object. Despite being representative of the difficulties of being black in America through means of horror, it transcends classification and has become a cultural object that to many of its' fans, is much more than just a horror movie.

Rose's duplicity is the worst of all.

     At the end of their discussion, Jon Stewart finally offers to O’Reilly, then-host of The O’Reilly Factor, that in America, your race is a factor- to which O’Reilly hesitantly agrees, and the crowd cheers. Similar to this shaky, public admittance to white privilege, Get Out’s presence as a celebrated film object in the public sphere is incredibly important- the existence of which, I believe, is a significant step forward in assuaging America’s unavoidable racial wound. We have so much further to go. 

-Nick, April 6, 2018, 9:03 pm, from the couch in his apartment.

You Were Never Really Here (2017): What Art Cinema Can Offer

     I just saw Lynne Ramsay’s You Were Never Really Here (2017) at a small, ultra-modern cinema in London, called the Curzon, and I was absolutely floored by it. This is an arthouse film about Joe (Joaquin Phoenix), a hired gun assigned to rescue underage kidnapped sex slave Nina (Ekaterina Samsonov), who he believes to be a politician’s daughter. The film follows Joe on his quest, and the consequences surrounding it. This film is a perfect example of the ever-expanding nature of what can be considered art cinema, and how it can be used to inform and critique well-known genres. So, let’s begin.

What is Art Cinema?

Jean-Luc Godard's Breathless (1960).

     As a pretext for this discussion, let’s talk briefly about art cinema, and why You Were Never Really Here may or may not fit neatly into that category. Art cinema is a mode of film practice, the ideas, and techniques of which are descendant of both German Expressionism and French Impressionism. The most useful framework for understanding art cinema is examining its’ departure from classical Hollywood cinema, or, how it refuses to fit into its’ norms. While Hollywood's narratives are motivated by clarity, the art cinema narrative is motivated by two principles: realism and authorial expressivity. In opposition to characters in classic Hollywood cinema, characters in art cinema lack clearly-defined goals, are incredibly passive and can seem to ‘float’ from one scene to the next. The narrative structure can be loose, sometimes contradictory, and difficult to grasp- something the classic Hollywood narrative structure will try to avoid at all costs. Of equal prominence as the narrative is the presence of the author in the art cinema text. The author is so pronounced, David Bordwell, who is largely responsible for contemporary film history’s understanding of art cinema, argues that the director should themselves be seen as a formal element. They are responsible for shaping the way in which the film is comprehended, and for sewing together the two elements that would otherwise be distant (realism and the radical authorial expressivity).

Antonius Block plays chess with Death in Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal (1957)

I kind of hate Drive (2011).

     That’s where we come to You Were Never Really Here. It certainly demands that one question whether or not it is ‘purely’ art cinema- and I don’t think it is. YWNRH is deeply rooted in having a conversation with the action thriller genre- in fact, it appears that there is a new wave of small, independent, art films that wish to tackle this genre. Nicholas Winding Refn’s Drive (2011) and Bronson (2008), and Jeremy Saulnier’s Green Room (2015), and Blue Ruin (2013) all come to mind. However, YWNRH unquestionably leads the pack. It has a distinct quality that the others seem uncomfortable to take on: a commitment to authorial expressivity through film form. 

Yes... I made this...

     Sure, Drive and Blue Ruin have psychologically complex characters and a great deal of ambiguity-both key aspects of art cinema- but neither of them uses editing, camera movement, sound design, or shot composition to express those concepts. Nevertheless, YWNRH is not fully ‘pure art cinema,’ like I said, because of its eagerness to converse with the action thriller. Something like The Seventh Seal, one of the pinnacles of art cinema, offers up an existential crisis on its own merits and unique narrative, whereas the narrative of YWNRH is incredibly familiar, almost trite. It inhabits an alternate dimension, one in which action films like Die Hard (1988) and Taken (2008) move beyond using narrative to tell their story, and instead, use film form. YWNRH exists in a radical, avant-garde, art-thriller limbo, the likes of which I’ve never seen before. 

Joe isn't just a killing machine, he has feelings too!

     But what I really want to discuss is how YWNRH uses art cinema’s concepts to twist and distort the action-thriller, until it becomes something entirely new. Let’s discuss three major departures.

The Hero Heals His Wounds

Joe's complex mental state is explored through form, not exposition.

     In the classic action film, the hero must always be injured. Repairing himself and licking his wounds are crucial to show off his tough, rugged persistence to overcome any obstacle, as he stitches himself together, or squeezes bullets from his body. Nearly every action movie has these scenes because they help establish the overall ‘look’ of the hero and encompass him in a rough blanket of gruff masculinity. YWNRH provides an interesting bend to this pattern. Joaquin Phoenix gets shot in the face early in the film and ends up having to pull a tooth out in a dark, grimy, back alley. Perfect! This is where action thrives! Let’s put that machismo on display! Hold on, wait- we do see Phoenix gruesomely pull a tooth, but, there is also a gorgeous, lingering, and evocative shot of his beard, shifting away from the violence. The lighting hits Phoenix’s slightly wet facial hair in such a way that it looks incredibly crystalline, complex, and magnificent- it’s one of the best shots in the film. At the moment when the action genre demands him to look his most manly and undefeated, Joaquin manages to look his most beautiful, and fragile.

Faceless, Dead Henchmen

Color is used measurably, and effectively.

     Another hallmark of the action film genre is the seemingly endless number of henchmen our hero guns down. People have even become obsessed with how many people John Wick has killed (spoiler alert, it’s 84). These people are faceless, ineffective, and inconsequential to the narrative of these films, reduced, in the case of John Wick, to just a number. In an intense sequence in YWNRH, Phoenix finds two suit-wearing, handgun-toting henchmen in his house, after they’ve just murdered his mother. Phoenix takes a breath and shoots both quickly. One dies instantly, but the other is very much alive and in pain. He pitifully crawls into the kitchen as Joe pours himself some water. Joe demands information from him, which the goon gives up, but he’s clearly more caught up in the realization that he’s about to die, and the scene takes a strange turn. Joe lays on the floor with him and gives him some painkillers. The henchman stares up at the ceiling blankly, and some excellent close-ups of his eyes reveal the total terror within them, so afraid to die. Inexplicably, he grabs Joe’s hand tightly, and Joe doesn’t let go. Even stranger, Charlene’s “I’ve Never Been to Me” begins to play on the kitchen radio, and they both sing (poorly) along to with it for what seems like a solid minute. The moment passes, and Joe looks over to see the henchman dead. This is a complete 180 on the trope of the classic violent thug- I assure you, you don’t even see 90% of the faces that John Wick kills. In this sequence, Ramsay’s commitment to showing the fate of this random baddie is both tragic and unexpected to the point where it’s almost funny.

Joe’s & Nina’s Relationship

Neeson is pissed in Taken (2008).

     Nina isn’t the typical action film damsel-in-distress. I would claim that in most revenge films in which our sympathetic, besieged white-guy hero is out to save someone, it’s normally his ‘property.’ My wife. My daughter. Yes, the film expounds upon how much he loves and cares about them, but ultimately, the bad guys who have kidnapped them have upset the balance of the normative nuclear family- something that must be rectified immediately. In YWNRH, Joe’s relationship with Nina is the total opposite. Beyond the fact that they have no relation and that there is no ‘status quo’ to return her to, Nina is absolutely Joe’s foil. It’s ironic that she is quite literally property in this movie (an underage sex slave, passed between powerful men), but she actually has quite a lot more agency than most of the damsels in distress that our Neeson's and Willis's are so fond of, and even takes out one of her own abusers in the end. 

Samsonov gives a subtle, yet tragic performance.

     Joe recognizes himself in Nina-they're both broken, detached, abused, and without any place to call home- and this is conveyed beautifully through film form. There is a recurring motif of counting down throughout the film: Joe has used it while he’s strangling himself with a plastic bag, and Nina seems to use it as a way of detaching herself from the horrific sexual abuse she suffers. Through both sound editing and superimposition (a technique Lynne Ramsay is fond of, and utilizes wonderfully), the image of young Joe and Nina become intertwined, and they count down together at recurring moments in the film. In addition to this, in a dream-like sequence during which Joe tries to drown himself, he changes his mind at the last minute to go rescue Nina. As Joe begins to surface for air, Ramsay cuts to show Nina underwater, right there with him, following him to the surface. Their fates are intertwined- it’s disturbing, tragic, and beautiful. 

YWNRH was marketed as a modern-day Taxi Driver (1976), only
because it features a psychologically complex and violent protagonist.

Final Thoughts

     I didn’t even discuss the incredibly ambiguous way Phoenix’s backstory is established, essentially all through complex and unobvious flashback sequences that remarkably bleed into the rest of the narrative, but I will refrain. The bullet wound, henchman, and Nina and Joe’s similarity, each with interesting, expressive, and beautiful elements of film form make a compelling case for why YWNRH exists at an interesting intersection between art cinema and action-thriller, the likes of which contemporary cinema hasn’t seen. I sincerely hope that we see more and more movies like YWNRH produced in the future, because films like this have the potential to offer a wealth of commentary on the inner workings that motivate the besieged white-guy action thriller that currently saturate the Hollywood market so pervasively. I can’t recommend You Were Never Really Here enough, and I’ll definitely be checking out Lynne Ramsay’s other films!

-Nick, March 21, 2018, 2:23 am, from a hotel room in London, England.

Eyes Without a Face (1960) & Historical Allegory

     Georges Franju’s Les Yeux sans visage (1960) follows the story of esteemed surgeon, Dr. Génessier, living on the outskirts of Paris. With the help of his faithful assistant Edna, he seeks to recreate the face of his daughter Christiane by abducting, murdering, and transferring the faces of young French women onto Christiane. Christiane, who has been presumed dead in the car accident that permanently scarred her, spends her days hidden in her family’s estate, wearing a mask to hide her hideous face, as she slowly realizes that her father will never be able to permanently give her a face. Eventually, Christiane comes to terms with the misery of her existence and frees the latest young woman her father has abducted, and the hunting dogs being kept in the basement, who then proceed to tear Dr. Génessier to shreds. With that, Christiane disappears into the night.

Christiane, in all her cinematic glory.

     This review comes off what is only my second viewing of Franju’s Eyes Without a Face, but this watch only supplemented and reinforced my original thoughts on the film. I appreciate Eyes Without a Face as both a horror, but also as a tragedy, which is expounded upon by film studies professor Adam Lowenstein in his book, Shocking Representation, in which he explores how the film grapples with traumatic histories. I myself, as a history major, am always fascinated by works that seek to explain or represent horrific events or histories that are otherwise unapproachable- one that comes to mind most immediately, especially in relation to the Holocaust, is Art Spiegelman’s comic Maus. Of course, Eyes Without a Face is an allegorical text, whereas Maus is a pseudo-biography, making it a much different beast to tackle.

Christiane tries to contact the outside world.

From The Battle of Algiers (1966).

     But that’s not to say allegory can’t be effective: films such as Pan’s Labyrinth (2006), District 9 (2009), and The Fly (1986), come to mind. Eyes Without a Face, I believe, operates on the same level as these films, and is full of imagery closely related to the Holocaust. The film was released in 1960, at a difficult, and contradictory historical moment in France. Just decades after the end of World War II and the horrors of the Holocaust, France found itself try to reassert its failing grip on its’ military colony in Algeria. The Algerian War, which saw France’s use of brutally violent counter-insurgency tactics, put France in an uncomfortably hypocritical position, widely criticized by French citizens (and the world). By exploring and representing the historical trauma of an event such as the Holocaust, Georges Franju hoped to reassert the horror of violent oppression in France's national psyche. 

Dr. Génessier prepares for a face transplant.

     One of the connections that I find exceptionally apt is that Génessier’s experiments portray him as a Joseph Mengele-like figure.

One of the doctor's victims.

The operation.

     First, to associate the two (though a cinematic surgery and the actual Mengele experiments are truly incomparable) gives a much greater weight to the film. To “replay” a traumatic history such as this is a difficult pill to swallow, but it lends legitimacy to those who suffered, for the fundamental frameworks for any histories are centered around whose stories we tell. Lowenstein warns that “The allegorical encounter with historical trauma entails an opening out to complex and often contradictory representations…” (Lowenstein, 50). While it’s healthy to be cautious around any kind of text, especially film, that seeks to interact with history, these “complex representations” spark important debate and consideration that can be critical to discovering new ways of thinking about the past. Just as Lowenstein identifies the issue of the feminine agent, Edna, as the one who seemingly carries out violence against other women, he concludes that this is related to the frailty of Génessier/Mengele’s masculinity, and the desire to hide his inadequacies through the employment of a surrogate. Working through these issues is inherently productive.

With incredibly high-contrast lighting, this shot is straight out of a melodrama.

     A critical moment in the film is Génessier’s discovery that even under the best circumstances, he will never permanently repair Christiane’s face. Shortly after his most successful transplant, Christiane’s face begins deteriorating and rotting. Instead of dramatically revealing Christiane’s decaying features, Franju chooses to give us this exposition through a series of still frames, documenting the decay over a period of weeks, while Génessier gives a voice-over. This documentarian and detached style is highly cognizant of the style of photographs and documentaries and that served as the first exposés of concentration camps, such as Night & Fog (1956). It’s unsurprising (and incredibly effective) that in his allegorical horror-text, Franju would choose to utilize historical realism in lieu of shock-tactics to convey his horror.

Christiane's transformation.

     I also deeply appreciate that Eyes Without a Face is not a horror film that fetishizes, or rather, romanticizes its’ frightening aspects. Unlike other monster movies of the 1950s and 60s, there are no clearly defined monsters, only victims, and perpetrators (yes, the creatures of these films are sometimes victims, but they are dramatically “monster-ized,” and fetishized). Clearly, Christiane is a victim, but it’s more complicated than that.

Christiane considers her fate. Again, the influence of melodrama.

Not the exact shot, but this is the painting.

     In her role, she exists partially between the living and the dead with no real agency or mobility- her facial scars (and Génessier) have condemned her to this fate. For all intents and purposes, Christiane died in that car accident. Nonetheless, her father hopes to “bring her back” to the living by means of more death and reconstruction, but it’s an impossible task. One extremely poignant shot frames Christiane, wearing her mask, in front of a large portrait of herself with her true face. Looming over her is the picturesque ideal that will never be. This viewing cemented Eyes Without a Face as one of my favorite horror movies- it works for me on a purely narrative and aesthetic level, but also functions as an insightful and important allegorical text for traumatic histories.

-Nick, March 17, 2018, 10:34 pm, from a hotel room in London, England.

Starship Troopers (1997): Totalitarianism Dismantled

This was my very first viewing of Paul Verhoeven's film adaptation of Starship Troopers, which was originally a science fiction novel written by Robert A. Heinlein. The story follows Johnny Rico (Casper Van Dien), a Mobile Infantry Recruit fresh out of high school sometime during the 23rd Century. In the midst of trying to figure out army life and maintaining contact with his Airforce pilot girlfriend Carmen (Denise Richards), the Earth is attacked. A civilization of hostile insectoid creatures (referred to as 'Bugs' throughout the film) fire a meteor at Earth, obliterating Rico's home of Buenose Aires. Earth immediately declares a full-scale invasion of the Bug homeworld, Klendathu, and Rico and his Mobile Infantry unit are deployed.

They're doing their part. Are you? Join the Mobile Infantry and save the world. Service guarantees citizenship.

Every day, Federal Scientists look for new ways to kill bugs.

Although the story and action of Starship Troopers is enthralling and keeps the film moving at a brisk pace, I found the universe within which the film takes place to be much more engaging. The appearance of pop-up menus throughout the film asking the audience, "Would you like to know more?" is particularly genius- it serves to give exposition, yes, but it also makes the film incredibly meta- as if we, the viewers, are perhaps army recruits who exist within the characters’ world. Or perhaps instead, this movie is a text that is literally meant for army recruits or high-schoolers within that world, and we’re watching this movie as though it were suddenly transported into our laps from a different galaxy. I love that.

Starship Troopers show off their guns to the next generation.

A key facet of the film, the unabated nationalism is as hilariously entertaining as it is intriguing. It’s as though this film is that universe’s Black Hawk Down (2001) or American Sniper (2014). Join up now! Prepare to fight! Kill the bugs! Something that struck me was how similar thematically this film is with one of my favorite books, Ender’s Game. They’re both chock-full of the sentiment that the enemy, creatures clearly less-than-human and light-years away, are not meant to be understood, but destroyed. It’s evident that they’re similar enough to humans to be organized in their attacks, but they’re different enough to be classified as the 'other.’ In fact, it wouldn’t have surprised me for the film to have taken a twist in which our hero Rico finds out that the government (and his buddy Carl, played by Neil Patrick Harris) have lied to him about the real reason humans are at war with the bugs, and for this movie to become a kind of existential anti-nationalist cautionary tale.

Neil Patrick Harris even looks like a Nazi!

Everyone is doing their part. Are you?

As much fun as that would have been, the film’s commitment to being critical by means of being a meta-text is admirable. In their analysis of the movie, film scholars Martin Barker and Thomas Austin write, “It’s as if Verhoeven wants it both ways. He clearly wants us to see how ridiculous all this is even as he revels in the ridiculousness itself…” (Barker & Austin, 133). This duality defines the film: by inhabiting the universe (and headspace) within which fascism reigns supreme, Verhoeven can disassemble it from the inside-out. It appears critics of the film wished Verhoeven was more direct in his criticism of totalitarianism by either providing us with a hero that realizes they’re trapped in the system, or by having the government itself become the villain.

All good Troopers know, the only good Bug is a dead Bug.

Again, as interesting as that would have been, I’m nonetheless satisfied that the film was confidently self-contained in being a fully functional piece of propaganda from another galaxy. From reading his review, it appears Ebert may have misunderstood that. He writes “It’s one-dimensional. We smile at the satirical asides, but where’s the warmth of human nature? … ‘Starship Troopers’ is totalitarian” (Ebert). He mentions ‘satirical asides’ as though they're sprinkled throughout the film to provide a small giggle. But I think the film is better understood if one views the entire text as satire. Perhaps that’s not what Robert A. Heinlein intended when he originally wrote the Starship Troopers novel, but it's clear that in the film adaptation, Verhoeven is criticizing totalitarianism and fascism by encompassing the movie in it. From the acting, to the obejctively 'beauitful' heroes, to the campy dialogue (“The only good Bug is a dead Bug!”), to the emphasis on symbols, this is a movie that ‘revels’ in its’ own ridiculousness and propaganda-esque nature.

The conclusion of the film isn't some major military victory, the true victory lies in humans' realization that the enemy is afraid of us.

If the film has any faults, it would be that it assumes there is excessive visual pleasure found in watching soldiers with machine guns shoot CGI bugs. Some battle scenes go on for longer than is bearable, mostly because the film's strongest aspects lie not in its action, but in its mythos. Granted, the graphics do hold up to a 2018 viewing, but they are taken to their extremes. Overall, I was incredibly engaged with this film through its entirety, and I appreciate Verhoeven’s deep commitment to not holding back on any aspect of this totalitarian outer-space fever-dream. Definitely an instant favorite.

-Nick, March 4, 2018, 1:34 am, from his cozy bed.

Wet Hot American Summer: Understanding the Review

My very first review on this blog is going to be Wet Hot American Summer (2001), which I think is appropriate, because I'm also going to unpack what it means to 'review' something!


David Wain’s Wet Hot American Summer is a total joy to watch. It wholly encompasses a warm feeling of reminiscence for summer camps gone by, and is irreverent in the best way: it holds absolutely no stakes, and mocks the summer-camp genre to boot. The movie is chock-full of moments that subvert expectations, like the big softball game that never happens, the campers who are left river-rafting for 12+ hours, or Paul Rudd’s ridiculously over-acted tantrum in the cafeteria. These moments, which is exactly what they are- fleeting circumstances- define the movie. More like a string of back-to-back skits than a cohesive narrative, the movie’s small sequences are representative of what looking back on a summer is like, which is what makes the film so familiar and lovable. That, and it has a balls-to-the-walls dedication to getting a laugh from the audience, at whatever the cost, which is kind of commendable.

But how does my review for the film coexist with a seemingly endless void of other reviews and critical appraisals? What purpose does it serve? I think that in some sense, a review is a kind of ‘recreation’. Reviews provide an idea of what the critic was thinking about and grappling with while they watched- what connected and didn’t connect. The review grants a concrete way of reconstructing and interacting with previous experiences, to create new meanings: to dig a little deeper into why we loved or hated the film. Cinema isn’t some lifeless statue, meant to be gawked at for 2 hours in a room by hundreds of people. Well-crafted (“good”) movies are full of life and interact with audiences in a way that no other art form can.

The esteemed movie critic Mark Kermode once said, “…what the reviewer brings to the cinema is every bit as important as what’s up there on the screen.” Effective reviewers should aim to offer a similar kind of interaction with the film through their writing, at the same time utilizing their (hopefully) vast knowledge of the context within which the film exists- and it doesn’t hurt to make them entertaining to read. 

For instance, the “going into town” montage in Wet Hot takes the bright, poppy, optimism of summer fun to its extremes (ending in a crack-house), while also ripping on the montage as a cinematic tool, as featured prominently in the Rocky series of films. This montage sequence embodies what I stated earlier about the film being comprised of mostly disparate, funny moments (the content of which might later turn in to cherished memories), because that’s what the sequence is. An irreverent, funny moment. The events that take place have no dramatic impact on the narrative, and the audience is told only one hour elapsed- it’s episodes like this that make the film so enjoyable. Just from this handful of sentences, one can get a good sense of exactly what I liked about the movie while at the same time understanding that this sequence is referencing a large body of other works- in fact, the film requires you to have a certain set of expectations of what a montage is for the gag to truly pay off, something I illuminated.

Now, this is not to say that reviewers are necessary to ‘explain the joke’ for the layman, but truly exceptional reviewers are able to synthesize their knowledge of cinema with a coherent and thoughtful appraisal of the film. All the while, reviewers maintain a healthy (and what critics like Kermode argues as necessary) distance from the filmmakers to achieve an opinion that is untainted by those who aim to profit on the movie. This honesty is something I find admirable about reviewers, and as the can of vegetables voiced by H. Jon Benjamin says, “If you wanna smear mud on your ass, smear mud on your ass, just be honest about it.”

-Nick, February 25, 2018 11:04 pm, from his parent's couch