Stick To The Script: 'Sorry To Bother You' Revisited

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Radical market swings … wage inequality … the deterioration of the middle class … conversations about capitalism have only become more fraught in the five years since Sorry To Bother You first premiered at the 2018 Sundance Film Festival. Firebrand social activist/first-time filmmaker Boots Riley sidestepped the modesty of most directorial debuts and burst onto the scene with a bold, defiant satire that amplified a wide range of social criticisms that have become more ubiquitous in modern culture.

The film introduces us to Cassius “Cash” Green (Lakeith Stanfield), an existentially-minded young black man from Oakland struggling to afford rent and find a sustainable means of income. After landing a gig as a telemarketer, he’s thrust into a bizarre web of conspiracy as he climbs the corporate ladder. Playful in nature, the film’s flamboyant edge has a funhouse mirror-like quality that distorts reality while calling attention to the flaws inherent in the way infrastructures decide how power is allocated in America.

Since 2018, these unfortunate truths have spilled deeper into our national discourse, shedding light on the uneven distribution of wealth in American society, especially with respect to marginalized communities. It’s resulted in an increased awareness around institutionalized racism, gentrification, and predatory work ethics — all recurring motifs that are targeted in Boots Riley’s Sorry To Bother You, an absurdist comedy with alarming relevance in 2023.

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“In trying to avoid cliché, I realized that if I bent the reality of the world, it actually drew attention to that parallel point in our actual reality.”

Boots Riley | TIME

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The madcap odyssey begins at the threshold of RegalView, a crusty marketing firm with a small office ambiance set by dull aesthetic composition: walls coated in a revolting shade of blue, whiteboard scrawled with daily metrics and bad motivational quotes, and an antiquated coffee dispenser — pay per cup, of course. During work hours, the energy buzzes around columns of cramped cubicles populated by a swarm of entry-level staffers. They grind out forty hours a week, cold-calling prospects to sell an assortment of solutions supplied by a controversial labor-for-housing enterprise known as WorryFree.

To fully grasp the scope of their profession, one must learn the implicit understandings embedded in the culture of telemarketing. When your paycheck depends on an unwelcomed phone call, you need to forge a vocal identity that sometimes demands certain aspects of your individualism be suppressed, or risk facing the cold sting of rejection. Especially so in such disproportionately non-diverse environments, in accordance to a 2021 study by the Bureau of Labor Statistics which shows that 78% of sales professionals are white, compared to the nominal 18% who are Latinx, 13% black, and 5% Asian.

After Cash settles in and struggles to find his groove, he embellishes an overly cheerful white accent (voiced by David Cross) at the suggestion of an older co-worker played by Danny Glover. This proves highly profitable for Cash; but by suppressing a strand of his own identity, he unwittingly surrenders the rights to his own humanity, an illustration of the film’s foundational thesis that argues the existence of a rapidly dissolving line that separates commerce and slavery.

This provocative idea comes to fruition in a shocking third-act revelation when our protagonist is invited to a mansion party hosted by WorryFree’s coke-addled CEO, played by Armie Hammer. While searching for the bathroom, Cash descends into a mysterious laboratory only to find workers that have been subjected to cruel experimentation, turning them into equisapiens, or human-horse hybrids. Although a little on-the-nose, this gonzo distortion of realism bends our perspectives around the oppressive nature of capitalism, especially with regard to disenfranchised classes.

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While Sorry To Bother You is best described as an absurdist comedy, the equisapiens are tragic figures that are reminiscent of “body horror”, a subgenre that explores sympathetic creatures with grotesque features. Often examining people who enter a downward spiral after suffering hideous physical transformations, the subgenre’s imagery functions as an allegory for the fear of unintended ways that circumstances can mis-shape us.

Despite its playful energy, the film has deeper intentions rooted in this pairing of genres. Consider the equisapiens; after being forced to undergo cruel operations by an employer that promised housing in exchange for grunt labor, they become caricatures of real-life victims in the fight for equality in the workplace, a symbol for the working class. This amplifies the core tension of Sorry To Bother You between the few in charge and the rest whose lives depend on a steady income. The latter is represented cinematically by supporting character Squeeze (Steven Yeun), a pro-union reformist.

After befriending Cash at RegalView, Squeeze sparks a revolution by organizing a group to advocate for wage increases and benefits packages for everyone on the payroll. This movement echoes with relevance in today’s society amid greater awareness surrounding the steeper-than-ever costs of living and the companies who fail to pay their workers accordingly. In taking such an aggressive stance against corporate toxicity, Riley injected Sorry To Bother You with an intense desire to reimagine the working class experience and frame it within the context of his work.

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“You’re not going to change any of this by yourself. You’re not going to change it by making a cute art statement, you’re not going to change it by just figuring out how to be there, to do something that gives you more power on your own. You have to join with other people and make a movement.”

Boots Riley | Vox

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As a protagonist, Cash has his own share of shortcomings. By appeasing his corporate executives and climbing the proverbial ladder, he reaps the benefits of “Power Caller” status despite urges from friends and colleagues to help them make a difference at RegalView. Regardless, the film takes measures to depict him as a figure worth your sympathy, a man caught in the crossfire between two conflicting ideologies.

Cash’s guide to recognizing this harsh truth is his girlfriend Detroit, played by Tessa Thompson, who during a contentious argument, points out the uncharacteristic traits he’s exhibited since becoming a Power Caller. Being a performance artist herself, Detroit is no stranger to betraying core principles for money; in a moment of weakness, Cash belittles her creative pursuits as “selling art to rich people”, an allegation that comes full circle at her latest showcase.

Entitled The New Fuck You, Detroit’s interactive art piece finds her onstage half-naked, reciting movie dialogue in a posh British accent while spectators throw blood balloons at her. While it pokes fun at the pretentiousness of modern art, it also spotlights the prevalence of sell-out culture in modern America. While society hurtles toward a future that prioritizes money over morals, Cash and Detroit are two flipsides of the same coin who do what they must in order to get by. By abstracting this cultural observation and fitting it to a world with exaggerated features, it allows us to see the nexus point in our own illogical timeline.

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Toggling between surrealist humor and thought-provoking insight, Sorry To Bother You is a satire whose skewed realism has proven itself ahead of its time. Surveying the landscape of movies in 2023, the heightened sense of real-world panic has given way to a rise of escapist entertainment that ascends the boundaries of our own reality. From Jordan Peele’s Nope to the Academy Award-nominated Everything, Everywhere, All At Once, we live in a time where art reflects an existential worry masked with the boundless comforts of imagination.

In the footsteps of fellow Sundance filmmakers who came before him, Boots Riley blazed a path in a unilateral industry by pledging himself to unwavering originality. Over the span of five years, Sorry To Bother You has amassed a cult following and a renewed interest in the ways it dissected the landscape of American work culture. With a punk rock demeanor, it’s a supersonic rejection of norms and hierarchy that urges viewers to think more critically about the systems in place.

The Hits & Misses Of 2022: A Year-End Review

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For movie enthusiasts, 2022 was a grab-bag of scattered highlights. From tentpole blockbusters to finespun festival darlings to the long-awaited return of our favorite band of jackasses, this year has produced a multitude of cinematic expressions ranging from the highest calibers of art to the lowest brows imaginable.

As the instant streaming model continues to disrupt theatrical rollout strategies, diminishing COVID fears and mounting resentment over the monopolization of VOD platforms has helped stage a pushback in the opposing direction. Sales from domestic ticket revenue have risen over the last year, projecting $7.4 billion in domestic returns, with much credit to massive franchise players like Top Gun: Maverick, Jurassic World: Dominion, and a few surprise hits.

There’s a long road ahead in repairing what was lost in the pandemic, but this year gave us hope we can cling to and highlights that far eclipse the lowlights. Since I wasn’t able to write about everything I’ve seen this year, here’s a postmortem of the highs and lows on my 2022 long list.

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Hit:
Guillermo Del Toro’s Pinnochio

As a visionary who interprets the harshest truths of the real world through a dazzling kaleidoscope of myth and fairy tale fable, Guillermo Del Toro approaches Pinocchio as a dark, handcrafted fantasy that chronicles Italy during the First Great War and the rise of fascism.

Inspired by Walt Disney’s benchmark of 1940s animation, Del Toro’s iteration tells the story of an aging Geppetto and his wooden boy, whose naive tendencies often find him in precarious situations. With the world on the brink of global conflict, Pinocchio must make the ultimate sacrifice to find out what it means to have a heart.

Coming just one year after his Oscar-nominated noir thriller Nightmare Alley, Guillermo Del Toro delivers an immaculate experience with Pinocchio. Given free reign over his passion project by Netflix, this stop-motion animated feature evokes shades of his 2006 classic Pan’s Labyrinth in how it explores the grim realities of fascism through the wonderous lens of a fairy tale.

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Miss:
Angus MacLane’s Lightyear

To admit you didn’t enjoy Lightyear is to compartmentalize your lifelong adoration for the Toy Story franchise. In the 27 years since our first meeting with the intrepid spaceman, Disney’s creative priorities have shifted away from innovations in animated storytelling. Makes sense from a business perspective; in today’s competitive climate, there’s less risk in rehashing a formula they helped pioneer rather than taking a swing at something entirely new.

In stark contrast with Pinocchio, Angus MacLane’s Lightyear is an emotionally vacant return to Pixar’s most cherished property with a revisionist take on the iconic space ranger that expands his backstory but abandons the emotional weight behind its original concept. What began as a heartwarming tale about toys finding their purpose becomes a cosmic clutter of visual effects and labored execution that leaves audiences feeling manipulated by its force-fed character development.

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Hit:
Claire Denis’ Stars At Noon

Perhaps the most spellbinding spy thriller in years, Stars At Noon trades in its golden gun for a stylish, immaculate vibe with kinetic energy and a lounge jazz score. Despite its arresting visuals, it’s deliberately written to frustrate viewers who expect it to hold any hands through its elusive storyline.

Rather than cloning the framework of James Bond, legendary French filmmaker Claire Denis interprets the 1986 novel by Denis Johnson as a sleek, sexy arthouse film driven not by a straightforward narrative, but by the sheer sensual magnetism between its co-leads Margaret Qualley and Joe Alwyn.

Taking place in Nicaragua during a period of civil unrest, the film’s espionage component is the free-flowing undercurrent of a budding romance between Trish and Daniel, one a journalist stranded behind enemy lines, the other an intelligence operative carrying out a deadly mission. With no plot contrivances, we’re inevitably swept up in Stars At Noon’s orbit and held firmly by Denis’ powerful direction that paints the humidity of South America with youthful radiance and seductive bewilderment.

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Miss:
Olivia Wilde’s Don’t Worry Darling

Cheap shots and media headlines aside, Don’t Worry Darling was postured for potential greatness. All the pieces were in place: Olivia Wilde gave us reason to anticipate her follow-up to Booksmart, Florence Pugh’s cumulative track record was pristine, and pop icon Harry Styles did a good job occupying the limited space he was given in Dunkirk.

Although there are some highlights to mention, specifically Chris Pine’s subtle intensity as the film’s antagonist and the post-war era production design by Katie Byron, Don’t Worry Darling’s fatal flaw is in the structural integrity. Rather than its protagonist Alice, the script is only in service to its shakey third-act twist that suffers from deathly self-seriousness. Without proper context and clear motivations, audiences are unable to get a clear understanding of its heroine or her struggle against the shadowy order at the helm of its sun-bleached dystopian setting.

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Hit:
Daniel Kwan and Daniel Scheinert’s Everything, Everywhere, All At Once

With culture approaching a stalemate in the ongoing saga of live-action superhero movies, this cult sensation restored our faith in the multiverse as a sprawling playground of imagination when paired with the right choreography, detailed character development, original humor, cultural resonance, and well-rendered sentimentality.

Everything, Everywhere, All At Once is an eccentric sci-fi action adventure that follows a struggling Chinese matriarch (Michelle Yeoh) on a collision course with destiny as she confronts her financial woes, a failing marriage, and a strained relationship with her daughter all while on a daring journey through the multiverse.

Striking perfect harmony in the margins between action, heart, and absurdity, Daniel Kwan and Daniel Scheinert’s film finds elasticity in the framework of genre and obliterates all expectations for what a multiverse movie still can do. With a total devotion to creativity, Everything, Everywhere, All At Once attempts to reclaim and redefine a subgenre whose tropes we’ve grown desensitized to.

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Miss:
Sam Raimi’s Doctor Strange In The Multiverse Of Madness

Heading into the new year, Disney’s Marvel Studios continues to rank among the highest-earning production companies, despite the massive dip in critical approval. The studio also found itself embroiled in controversy after numerous visual effects artists have come forward with their stories about worsening labor conditions and the churn-and-burn mentality that Disney has imposed for their cash cow franchise.

Among them is the sequel to Doctor Strange which finds horror legend Sam Raimi back in the director’s chair. While he displays a mastery of skill at creating set pieces that remind us of his roots, the scope of the story’s ambition ditches the organically scrappy vision that made Spider-Man 2 such a fun and campy superhero romp. Instead, his style becomes sidelined and eventually derailed by the contrivances of the studio’s multiversal plot element.

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Hit:
Martin McDonagh’s The Banshees Of Inisherin

Finding humor in dark places is a lifelong project for the playwright-turned-filmmaker Martin McDonagh. Re-teaming with his leads from In Bruges, McDonagh weaves this masterful folk tale about two best friends in a rustic lake town who abandon their long-standing alliance to enter a grisly and unexpected blood feud during the Irish Civil War.

Banshees Of Inisherin is a tightly coiled dramedy that makes the most of its lead performances from Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson, one being the lovable dimwit, the other a tortured artist who finds himself at a crossroads. By dealing out shock and wit in equal but contrary measures, McDonagh provides sobering reflections on the irresolvability of conflict and the impermanence of legacy.

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Miss:
Robert Eggers’ The Northman

Following the acclaim of his first two feature films, Robert Eggers has earned his place as one of the most talented young voices in cinema today. The Witch and The Lighthouse floored audiences with the degree of historical texture he applies to genre filmmaking. Though he’s an expert in authenticity, he gets lost in the weeds of a perplexing script with his Viking revenge epic The Northman.

The mud-and-bloodsoaked action movie tracks the fearless odyssey of a Norse warrior (Alexander Skarsgard) on a relentless quest to get revenge on the uncle (Claes Bang) who murdered his father and usurped his throne many years ago. With an unassailable premise, The Northman overcomplicates things by swerving into a mystifying realm of spiritual psychedelia. Perhaps expectations just didn’t align, but Eggers’ latest was a surprising letdown that feels like Hamlet on bath salts.

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Hit:
David Cronenberg’s Crimes Of The Future

Advancements in biotechnology and human evolution are the dueling forces at play in this mind-bending sci-fi trip from David Cronenberg, the ruling monarch of body horror. Returning to the subgenre he helped establish, Crimes Of The Future is one of the most disturbing moviegoing experiences of 2022.

The film picks up in a timeline where mankind is forced to adapt to the omnipresence of microplastics by miraculously growing new organs. Seen through a performance artist’s (Viggo Mortensen) morbid act of showcasing his own live surgeries, the artist’s death-defying act will attempt to bridge the gap between art and empirical science in an age where “surgery is the new sex”.

From Scanners to Eastern Promises, David Cronenberg is one of the last surviving pioneers of dangerous cinema. This stylized neo-noir isn’t without its imperfections, but its cinematic value lies in Cronenberg’s uniquely calibrated eye for peerless production design. Its aesthetic is futuristic but unmistakably body horror, all constructed practically, which pushes the boundaries of the medium to a gold standard he himself set over 40 years prior.

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Miss:
Alex Garland’s Men

There are very few filmmakers with such a high ceiling for greatness, they’re granted “hall passes” by disciples of their work. Like writer-director Alex Garland, who has amassed a fiercely loyal fanbase after his involvement in such contemporary sci-fi classics as 28 Days Later, Dredd, Ex Machina, and Annihilation. In spite of his outstanding track record, his latest film Men was a fumbling psychological puzzle whose pieces don’t ultimately align.

Starring Jessie Buckley and Rory Kinnear in a pair of key roles, Men is a hallucinatory thriller about a woman who embarks on a remote getaway after enduring tragedy, only to find a strange local man who harbors a dreadful secret. Using equal parts melodrama and psychological horror, the total sum of Men delivers flashes of impressive filmmaking but ultimately fails to set up an appropriate sense of resolution. Even its powerful, unsettling atmosphere can’t rectify Garland’s inane script that explores the inherent oneness of toxic masculinity, but trips itself up with its own lofty ambition.

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Hit:
James Cameron’s Avatar: The Way Of Water

The long-awaited sequel to James Cameron’s epic plunges you into the deep blue oceans of Pandora, a dazzling world that broke ground in its technical sophistication and total box office gross over 13 years ago. But what sets this installment apart isn’t just its robust visuals, but the bracing reminder of Cameron’s roots as an action movie director. And a damn good one, at that.

The Way Of Water finds the fully assimilated Sullivan clan seeking refuge in the oceanic realms of Pandora with an aquatic race of Na’vi, where a dangerous confrontation brews against a merciless fleet of Space Marines. It parallels Titanic, a movie that runs long in stretches but pays off with a barn-burner third act, whose jaw-dropping set pieces fill the big screen with lush bursts of color and fury and chaos.

As he’s known to do, Cameron also expands the horizons within the universe of Pandora, teeming with life both big and small. From darting schools of minnow fish to massive, sentient whale-like creatures, Avatar: The Way Of Water is a showcase in world-building whose recent crossing of $1 billion at the global box office is a proud vindication of Cameron’s seismic contributions to the history of breathtaking cinema.

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Miss:
Joe and Anthony Russo’s The Gray Man

Don’t be fooled by the name; there’s nothing gray about this gaudy spy flick starring Ryan Gosling, Ana De Armas, and Chris Evans that made Netflix history as their most expensive project to date, clocking in a staggering budget of $200 million. Directed by Joe and Anthony Russo, The Gray Man is a mediocre send-up of the espionage subgenre that, despite some visual flair, falls flat as a standalone action movie.

In the genre’s landscape post The Raid and John Wick, it’s easy to notice The Gray Man’s action sequences that are chopped together in jarring, spastic rhythms. With no sense of combat staging and action choreography, it’s hard to follow along with the visual feast the film attempts to offer its viewers. It may be pretty to look at, but the Russos’ latest comes across more like a Fast and Furious movie without an emotional investment in the characters.

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Hit:
Todd Field’s TÁR

The drama of TÁR is human in nature but massive in the scope of its questions. Todd Field’s exquisite script examines polarizing issues through the eyes of Lydia Tár, a world-renowned symphony composer who’s rocked by a scandal that threatens her prestige in the public and personal eye.

This powerfully relevant drama walks the balance beam of modern life by painting a fair depiction of her psychological erosion as the world around her begins to question the content of her character. In an ever-changing world that begs a total reconsideration over how we define the endurance of legacy, TÁR begs audiences to ponder the question: can we ever truly separate the art from the artist?

The film’s nucleus is the career-defining heel turn from Cate Blanchette as its egocentric anti-hero Lydia Tár. She plays the part to absolute perfection, with many not realizing she wasn’t actually based on a real person. With award season well underway, Blanchette is poised for overwhelming recognition.

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Miss:
Steven Spielberg’s The Fabelmans

From unwarranted reboots to the revival of Kate Bush, nostalgia is the primary force driving most entertainment in the 21st Century. As the streaming model puts a huge question mark on the future of cinema, a new trend has emerged that finds filmmakers recapturing the dramatic essence of their childhood.

In recent examples like Kenneth Branagh’s Belfast and Charlotte Wells’ Aftersun, these cinematic period pieces explore a wide swath of emotions that feel tenderly excavated from the filmmaker’s past. Though they generally find universal acclaim, few have been bogged down by the glaring presence of hyper-melodrama like Steven Spielberg’s The Fabelmans.

For someone like Spielberg who has mastered the language of film, every stylistic choice that defines his signature style feels weirdly out of place in a movie so personal to his own life. Outlining an assortment of personal struggles including his Jewish American heritage and the dissolution of his parent’s marriage, the bloated melodrama undercuts some astounding performances with an exaggerated romanticization that better suits his less intimate work.

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Animal Instincts: The Mind of Darren Aronofsky

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There are endless ways to unpack heavy themes using metaphor in movies. Just like James Cameron employs the Terminator to examine our reliance on technology, Darren Aronofsky uses animals to expose the heart of human frailty. From black swans to ‘roid-raging rams, his protagonists are spiritually vulnerable outcasts on a quest to reclaim the humanity within—or die trying.

This high-concept storytelling device can be traced back to ancient theological texts like the Bible and the Book of Enoch, both of which depict animals allegorically to represent the many spectrums of human nature. Some of Aronofsky’s films even tackle these subjects head-on, such as 2014’s Noah and 2017’s Mother!

With this in mind, the acclaimed filmmaker returns to big screens on December 9th with a poignant drama unsurprisingly titled The Whale. Premiering at the Venice Film Festival, Aronofsky’s latest was met with overwhelming praise for Brendan Fraser, the once-luminous star you might remember from The Mummy and Encino Man. His towering performance as the film’s protagonist Charlie has been widely regarded as the resurrection of his career, although many critics have condemned Aronofsky’s portrayal as empty and stigmatizing.

To provide further context, The Whale follows a 600 lb. gay man who attempts to rekindle a relationship with his estranged teenage daughter (Sadie Sink) amid growing health concerns. For those familiar with Aronofsky’s movies, it’s clear that he’s drawn toward the provocative side of human drama. From eerie tales of corrosive ambition to gut-wrenching tragedies about drug addiction, his films are deeply immersive character studies that seek to unspool the mortal coil.

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“It is often said of directors that they are control freaks. Aronofsky goes one better: He’s a loss-of-control freak. His films are immaculately calibrated surrenders in which his heroes splinter and break upon the rocks of their own consuming obsessions.”

Tom Shone | New York Magazine

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Aronofsky stormed onto the indie scene in 1998 with his debut film Pi, a low budget black-and-white thriller that assured his reputation as a scrappy new writer-director with craft and preternatural vision. It shined a light on his uncanny talent for creating stylish thrillers with layered psychological depth on a modest budget, the core virtues that would eventually define his trademark.

Just like his heroes Stanley Kubrick and Terry Gilliam, his movies often begin and end with the human mind. They follow outcasts whose obsessive tendencies lead them into pits of self-destruction. As they fight to claw back every inch of hope that once gave them equilibrium, they yearn for a fulfillment that’s just out of reach.

For Pi’s protagonist Max Cohen, that fulfillment comes in the form of his fixation on the mathematical patterns found in daily life. As a reclusive soul who can only understand human behavior through the lens of his own obsession, the film does a phenomenal job detailing his gradual descent when he comes upon a discovery that uncoils his neurotic existence.

Through word of mouth, the film became an object of cult fascination and the first film ever to be downloaded for sale on the internet. With all its scrappy 90s intrigue, Pi established the template for Aronofsky’s filmmaking career, igniting a fuse that sparked well into the following century.

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“For me, the promise of independent film is the ability to experiment. Because the money is independent. I think the best way to get recognition is to do something out there, to push the edges. Unless you hit it — and do something traditional really well, it’s going to be nothing.”

Darren Aronofsky | IndieWire

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With his confidence as a filmmaker blooming, Aronofsky scaled up his vision for a stylish sophomore feature entitled Requiem For A Dream, a film you probably recognize for its notoriety as the greatest anti-drug PSA ever committed to film. This crushing adaptation of a novel by Hubert Selby Jr. follows a trio of heroin addicts in New York City whose personal aspirations are blurred when their reliance becomes increasingly dire.

While its crippling depiction of drug culture makes Euphoria look like Paddington in comparison, the film’s key takeaway is its underlying humanity. Where Pi follows an antisocial recluse, Requiem For A Dream observes characters from up close that an audience will inherently empathize with; in spite of their imperfections, they have motivations and backstories that establish a grounded sense of three-dimensionality.

Since the film’s pathos hinges on humanity, Aronofsky avoids depicting his characters as burnouts or degenerates. Instead of distancing the audience, he’d rather lure us into the cockpit of their headspace and tighten the throttle, even after they’ve spun out with an inevitable chance of impact. He’d go on to repeat this gritty psychological approach with films like Black Swan and The Wrestler.

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For someone with such a conscious understanding of human nature, it’s curious that spiritualism is a recurring theme in Aronofsky’s work, especially given his agnostic beliefs around subjects of faith. Religious motifs such as original sin, divinity, immortality, betrayal, redemption, and finding life’s meaning are central themes of his more fabled works in the spiritual triptych of The Fountain, Noah, and Mother!

In some respects, he’s the perfect guide to ferry us through such vast topics; with an impartial baseline, Aronofsky translates the fantasy of religious myth as a function of the human psyche. Perhaps best illustrated in 2006’s The Fountain, the story chronicles one man’s (Hugh Jackman) sprawling cosmic quest to defy mortality and find the key to eternal life.

Boasting a $35 million budget, The Fountain was a monumental stretch in Aronofsky’s scope and creative capability as the first studio-funded feature after his two introductory films. Thanks to some impressive art direction, its visual language is one of splendor, cosmic beauty, and vibrant colors that complement the overall breadth of the story he’s ultimately trying to tell.

Despite its trio of parallel narratives, the film’s structure bears resemblance to an ancient parable with an overarching theme: natural law will always prevail over man’s attempts to defy mortality. By establishing an allegory of mankind seeking immortal wisdom, Aronofsky’s epic fantasy highlights our primal fear of universal forces and ultimately results in a powerful tale about finding acceptance in the face of inevitability.

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For Darren Aronofsky, the underlining principles of his films run parallel to his personal beliefs as an avid environmentalist. Being an outspoken advocate for animal rights, it’s no wonder he finds ways to incorporate them into his work so organically. From his intimate human portraits to his bold sweeping epics, animals are the symbolic expressions of Aronofsky’s deeper meditations on human psychology.

For Black Swan’s protagonist Nina Sayers (Natalie Portman), the title creature represents more than just a part she’s trying to attain. As a ballet dancer in New York’s most prestigious and competitive dance company, perfection is a non-negotiable condition. In order to perform at the highest levels, Nina must embrace her long-suppressed darkness and abandon her inhibitions—no matter the toll it exacts on her mental stability. Aronofsky’s career-defining thriller is an immersive plunge into the mind of a dancer with ambition that’s all-consuming.

Two years prior, he took a similar approach to The Wrestler, a vérité sports drama that follows Randy “The Ram” Robinson (Mickey Rourke), a faded icon of 80s pro wrestling that hits an existential crossroads after suffering a massive heart attack. The Wrestler is an intimate character study that humanizes Ram as a big-hearted brute with invasive anxieties about dwindling relevance, steroid addiction, poverty, loneliness, and regret over the strained relationship he shares with his estranged daughter.

On the other end of the scale, Aronofsky’s 2014 Biblical adaptation Noah is a magnificent tale that uses animals to express purity. As a filmmaker who normally focuses on smaller stories, Aronofsky took a sharp turn into the massive world of creation mythology. In Noah, the filmmaker depicts its protagonist (Russell Crowe) as a man of steadfast faith who obeys a calling to escape a doomed planet that has forsaken its place in the collective consciousness by killing animals for sport and sustenance. By taking a Sunday School story and beaming it through a lens of staunch humanitarianism, Noah is a grounded yet epic distillation of Aronofsky’s truest aim as a filmmaker.

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“I got connected to the story in such a deep way when I was in seventh grade. I had this English teacher. One day, she said, ‘Everybody take out a pen and paper, and write something about peace.’ I wrote a poem called ‘The Dove’ about Noah. Turned out, it was a contest for the United Nations and I ended up winning the contest and reading the poem at a U.N. convention a few weeks later. It was the first time I perceived myself as a storyteller.”

Darren Aronofsky | Washington Post

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It’s easy to watch Aronofsky’s films and not see past the surface level downer-ism of bleaker stories like Requiem For A Dream. But there’s a visible poise at play that invites audiences to explore someone else’s headspace with unfettered access. In doing so, he challenges audiences to watch actively by thinking how his characters think and feeling what they feel when placed in their own respective hell, regardless of scale or budget.

As we eagerly await the arrival of The Whale this Friday, it might help to re-frame your viewing experience by putting it into context with the rest of his canon. As a master of depicting headspace, Aronofsky invites audiences to follow along through an uphill struggle that will help his characters find their own interpretations of humanity.

Big Draws and Monkey Paws: The Meteoric Rise of Jordan Peele

Not too long ago, the thought of a sketch comedian writing and directing horror was inconceivable. After all, they’re completely different genres in two separate lanes with so little in common. Naturally, no one could have expected the outcome when Jordan Peele announced his move from an award-winning series into feature filmmaking. Yet here we are; five years into his creative odyssey, Peele’s work continues to excite, disrupt, and ultimately mystify.

Examining Peele’s prior work, it makes sense how his background in comedy helped shape his vision as a filmmaker. Immersing himself in a genre defined by extremity, his past work on Mad TV and Key & Peele molded his mastery at identifying archetypes and weaving them into exaggerated circumstances.

Clearly, he was really good at it; winning an Emmy for his work in sketch comedy, Peele’s prominence was elite as a writer/performer. Despite being draped in preposterous wigs, dressed in drag, or bearing false teeth, his comedy was unanimously recognized as one of the hottest commodities in the improv scene. In spite of all this, something within him remained unfulfilled; that’s when he and longtime partner Kegan Michael Key called it quits to explore their potential outside the realm of their Comedy Central series.

Two years after the split, Peele wrote and directed Get Out, a groundbreaking debut that follows Chris, a young black man (Daniel Kaluuya) who travels to meet his white girlfriend’s family, only to find their overt pleasantries hide a menacing secret. Scoring big with Oscar nominations in Best Original Screenplay, Best Director, and Best Picture on his very first outing, Get Out was a resolute entry for Peele that welcomed a whole new era of artistic expression.

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“The best comedy and horror feel like they take place in reality. You have a rule or two you are bending or heightening, but the world around it is real. I felt like everything I learned in comedy I could apply to this movie.”

Jordan Peele | The New York Times

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Aside from its ensemble cast, sharp humor, and nail-biting suspense, Get Out established Peele’s reputation as a storyteller with something important to say. Disguised as a puzzling psychological horror-thriller, it’s also a pressing study about racial tension at its core. Peele’s tight script and inspired direction navigate timely social issues with thoughtfulness, resulting in an expert blend of subversion and conventionality, both balanced in equal measures.

In an age of horror that was overpopulated by demonic possession movies, Peele and his creative team at Monkeypaw Productions rejected the blueprint offered by the Conjuring franchise in favor of slow-burning social commentary about the black experience in America—for a fifth of its budget. Released to widespread acclaim and spirited discussion, Get Out upended expectations by bucking against the trends of its time. And with it came a new generation of ambitious visual storytelling that uses metaphor to explore the modern human condition like never before.

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Eager to keep the momentum alive, Peele set out to capitalize on his newfound success as a filmmaker of substance. His second creative venture was Us, another film that uses genre to convey a deeper message about society as a whole. Wearing the veil of a blood-curdling slasher movie, his sophomore feature explored family dynamics through the macro lens of socioeconomic status. In doing so, forced audiences to re-evaluate the blurred line between heroes and villains.

Us finds darkness beneath the sunny shorelines of Santa Cruz, where the middle-class Wilson family (Lupita Nyong’o, Winston Duke, Shahadi Wright Joseph, Evan Alex) are terrorized by their own vengeful doppelgängers. Modeled after an episode of The Twilight Zone, man-against-self becomes literalized in Peele’s full-blown horror film that examines the class divide between those with privilege and those without.

Earning comparable returns to Get Out though it wasn’t as well-received, the general masses seemed to have reached an agreement. While Us was a bold swing of creative ambition with a career-defining performance from Nyong’o, it was unfocused at times, which muddled the story it tried to tell. Yet still, it justified Peele’s aim as a filmmaker who boldly attempts to one-up himself with each new story. Each of them original, each significant in its own declarative right, regardless of critical consensus.

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Thrust into the jetstream of his first two films, Peele’s intrepid momentum screeches to a halt as the COVID-19 pandemic forces him into a state of re-evaluation. Can movies survive this unprecedented standstill? Emerging from that headspace, he set out to write a love letter to the great American spectacle with Nope, a cacophonous sci-fi/horror movie about a pair of siblings who come face-to-face with a strange flying object over their late father’s ranch. Employing decades of influence in the well-treaded alien subgenre, Peele implores viewers to abandon their notions of an extraterrestrial thriller by adorning Spielbergian pageantry with a sharp and pointed twist.

Led by Daniel Kaluuyaa and Keke Palmer, Nope is a daring cosmic western that makes great use of its multi-layered construction. At its most basic level, it functions as an IMAX movie with deep visual immersion and supersonic sound design. Hidden beneath, there’s a thought-provoking study of society’s toxic addiction to spectacle and how it’s fed by a need to exploit others for our own monetary gain.

From one character’s incessant urge to make money from UFO sightings to a series of grisly flashbacks depicting a trained chimpanzee’s rampage during a live studio taping, Nope is earnestly pining for larger concepts. It’s the kind of movie that rewards multiple viewings; if not for the showy pomp of its spectacle, come back for the full comprehension of what it’s really trying to say.

Though it’s seen as an improvement over his last, Nope isn’t quite flawless. Like many other movies are guilty of, the atmospheric setup can’t match how its resolution takes shape in the third act. But its relentless commitment to ambition helps cement Peele’s prestige in the realm of stories that dare to stand out. Nope defies genre while still drawing a large audience, and it contains moral complexity without bordering on preachiness. Viewers can’t help but leave the theater with a palpable sense of awe for what an original movie can be in 2022.

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“I really connect with Peele’s films: His approach to filmmaking is very much like an artist, like somebody who’s done a painting or sculptures. It’s very open-ended, but it has a direct view.”

Keke Palmer | The Washington Post

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The 43-year-old filmmaker’s belated reach expands beyond his own directorial scope, with a CV that includes co-producing credits on HBO’s Lovecraft Country and a co-writing credit on Nia DaCosta’s Candyman reboot. Both are noteworthy projects that stand beside Peele’s own, by virtue of poise and execution. His work speaks for a voiceless generation of artists whose films reframe the context of contemporary American society by way of familiar narrative templates.

Taking his place among the boldest cinematic voices of the 21st Century, the former comedian now stands as a figure whose work is more than just postmodern—it’s inevitable. Enriched and inspired by decades of film history, his platform elevates a time-honored genre to give horror more relevance in our surreal new world. Building his edifice at the intersection of progress and tradition, Peele’s work interrogates how we navigate an eruptive social climate.

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Lost in Perpetuity: A "Palm Springs" Study and Review

*WARNING: Mild spoilers ahead*

You awaken in a groggy haze. Struggling to reclaim your bearings from what seemed like an oddly vivid dream, you shuffle out of bed but feel an unshakable sense of déjà vu as you take in your surroundings—you’ve been here before. Is your mind playing tricks on you? Or are you stuck in some strange, inescapable vortex somewhere in the folds of time? Believe it or not, I’m not actually referring to any given morning in quarantine; I’m talking about Max Barbakow’s latest Hulu Original that just set a streaming record for biggest opening weekend, Palm Springs starring Cristin Milioti and Andy Samberg.

This sun drenched sci-fi/rom-com revolves (literally) around Nyles and Sarah, an unlikely pair whose chance encounter at a Palm Desert wedding quickly spirals out of control when they find themselves trapped in an infinite time-loop where both are fated to relive the same day over and over again. Ripe with Lonely Island-esque comedic silliness but taking solemn influence from the seminal films that paved its way (specifically Groundhog Day), this film breathes new life into a decades-old concept by doubling up the lessons to be learned.

The Structure

From a narrative standpoint, Palm Springs ideally seeks to explore the idea of personal growth by disguising itself with a high-concept premise. Structurally speaking, time loop movies usually follow a flawed character who, by some twist of fate, becomes doomed to repeat their actions in perpetuity until they manage to learn the life lessons necessary to get it all just right. In a way, the protagonist usually finds themselves stuck in a personal hell of their own design that, by being given the opportunity to try it all over again, highlights the futility in running away from internal conflicts that they can’t or don’t want to confront. While Nyles and Sarah’s predicament can be considered “supernatural”, its underlying heart is always rooted in the human struggle—therein lies relatability.

A major factor that distinguishes Palm Springs is how it blends its sci-fi element with a vastly opposing genre so seamlessly; while this film executes on the basic structure of a time loop narrative, its romantic comedy never feels overshadowed. The rom-com structure begins with a fundamental difference in philosophies about the way our two protagonists live their life: while cynical Sarah’s (Milioti) turbulent life choices leads her to doubt the existence of true love, carefree Nyles (Samberg) chooses to live by a code of total complacency. This duality that separates them as individuals is ultimately what draws them closer together as they learn to tolerate and gain insights from one another.

Despite its bold creative choices, the film manages to maintain a consistent tone throughout by not getting lost in the minutia of its mechanics. With a tightly written screenplay by AFI alum Andy Siara, the film’s multi-layered characters navigate their existential oasis with profound morality like few would ever come to expect from a movie that so prominently features Andy Samberg being chased butt-naked down a mountain by a sadist with a crossbow. Palm Springs is everything that it sets out to be (and maybe more) by reinforcing its ability to balance clever tonal shifts while simultaneously serving as an inward reflection on what it means to live and love in what seems like the neverending continuum of life.

The Cast

With standout lead performances turned in by Samberg and Milioti, both get the chance to showcase multi-dimensional acting chops that are largely unexplored in their mainstream repertoire. Together they bring life to Nyles and Sarah—their crude humor, while typical of any Lonely Island-produced film, is cleverly counterbalanced with an equal measure of emotional depth that underlines their palpable onscreen chemistry.

Backed by a deep supporting bench in Peter Gallagher, Camila Mendes, Meredith Hagner, June Squibb, Tyler Hoechlin and most notably, J.K. Simmons in one of the most comically appropriate roles of his career as the slightly deranged Roy, each maximize their presence in our duo’s ever-repeating world by helping provide context, comedic relief, ethical reflection and living subjects to the film’s philosophical question: “if you could live every day without any relative consequence, how would you choose to spend your time?”.

The Breakdown

While Barbakow’s sun-soaked fantasy world is densely loaded with moral principle, radiant aesthetic composition, gut-busting humor and an extremely likeable collection of complex characters, its timely release on a major streaming platform might just be what makes Palm Springs the perfect snapshot of our strange Summer. While Nyles and Sarah’s raucous hellscape plays out like premier genre filmmaking, their unfolding struggles mirror tangible life issues that almost everyone has had to confront in some form or fashion these past few months—but amidst the gloom of modern uncertainty, one of the film’s most resonant lessons might just help us cope with our struggles by reminding us a key essence of finding happiness within ourselves: being stuck doesn’t mean we can’t live. 

What Lurks Below the Surface: "Jaws" in the Age of Social Distance

A resounding *chomp* shook the theater and sent the crowd shifting visibly in their seats. The visual onslaught prompted audible gasps. Through a slit between fingers, I saw the crimson waters. My palms felt slick and my blood ran cold, but I didn’t really care; my undivided focus was on the tension in the room...a frantic energy, an aura so thick, you could cut it with a knife.

It was that day I learned the captivating grip of what the cinematic experience could be. I’ll never forget watching Renny Harlin’s aquatic adventure, Deep Blue Sea.

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In hindsight, maybe I was hereditarily disposed to have a fascination with shark stories--even genetically modified ones that have a taste for mega famous movie stars.

Flash back to a sweltering Summer in 1975; my dad, 15 at the time, scraped together what funds he could to participate in what was being commercially touted as the must-see experience of the Summer. When Hollywood’s most eager rising filmmaker, twenty-seven year old Steven Spielberg took on directing efforts for the film adaptation of a best-selling adventure novel, he overcame the challenges of a famously burdened production that not only went on to break records, but laid the foundation for an entirely new movie industry moving forward.

Raking in $470 million at the box office worldwide, Spielberg’s film Jaws became the highest grossing smash hit of its time. Aside from making people afraid to ever touch water again, it created the formula for what we now know as a Summer Blockbuster. 

With an unprecedented $2 million marketing strategy that saturated mainstream media outlets, Jaws was the first monumental moviegoing event with an associated phenomenon attached. Its captivating thrills ensnared audiences globally and re-wrote the roadmap for how studios distribute their biggest films. With its lasting sensation and groundbreaking box-office success, Jaws established the blueprint for what we still classify as a must-see zeitgeist...or at least we did. 

Swing back to 2020 where the altered complexion of our new reality leaves the movie industry in grave uncertainty, putting the future of the cinematic experience as a whole in questionable limbo. Undergoing a painful metamorphosis, society finds itself engaged in a series of struggles against a relentless onslaught of social unrest and the looming threat of a lethal pandemic.

In a hazy new world where each day unfolds with an overwhelming sense of fear, I hope to nurture a haven from the existential dread through appreciation for the art that helps remind us why we so desperately need entertainment in dark times. With Summer in full stride, we reflect on some key elements that make Jaws a strangely relevant but thoroughly enjoyable classic at the 45th anniversary of its original release—though it still doesn’t measure up to Renny Harlin’s underwater opus, Deep Blue Sea.

Fear of Uncertainty

The mounting concern of our present state has thrown a wrench in the gears of perceived normalcy, as paralleled by the film’s main protagonist—police chief Martin Brody. Jaws unfolds through his eyes when he’s thrust into confrontation with an uncontrollable force he can’t quite understand.

When his ordinary life as a devoted family man in idyllic Amity Island is rudely upended by the arrival of a man-eating shark that prowls the harbor stalking its prey, Brody must abandon his comfort zone and reluctantly take to the open sea with his two mates: the cocky academic Hooper and the salty sea dog Quint in an effort to slay the menacing beast. 

Brody’s initial instinct to the bloodshed awakens the implied trauma he sustained as a former NYPD cop. Those demons and the subsequent fear that it brings manifest themselves through unhealthy coping mechanisms, mainly drinking—and if there were a single frame of the film more emblematic of the spirit of 2020, it’s Brody in despair guzzling red wine out of a pint glass.

Mrs. Brody looking like the concerned Rite Aid cashier as I buy my fourth bottle of cheap merlot this week.

A partial factor of Jaws’ lasting entertainment value lies in its ability to tell a compelling story without relying solely on spectacle. While, sure, it’s admittedly thrilling to see a 25-foot behemoth crunch into the stern of a capsizing boat like it’s a hardshell taco, the essence of all truly great horror lies in its ability to find a relatable human element. That element sometimes eludes viewers at first or second glance but reaches their subconscious from a level that’s not always obvious at face value. Though most of us can’t relate to what it’s like being terrorized by a sea creature, we can all find commonality in Chief Brody’s mortal struggle to maintain control and find resolve in the midst of uncertainty.

Immersion & Catharsis

While a film’s deeper meaning can serve to provoke inward reflection, its ever-reaching power can transcend the fourth wall to create a living, breathing sensory experience. A transaction occurs between the film and our brains; what we see with our eyes, what we hear with our ears, what we build with our mind can poke at emotions and stimulate psychological responses that manifest themselves in physiological ways. This very real response is the reason horror fans..well, love horror movies--it helps purge the conscious mind of the fears we face in real life.

As legend would have it when Jaws made its gargantuan splash, it famously targeted the fears of a beachgoing Summer audience, as exemplified by the now universally recognizable promotional image used for nearly every single piece of its marketing content.

From John Williams’s foreboding main theme to the haunting imagery of a young boy’s bloody raft washing in with the tide, the film’s most engaging horror elements prey on subconscious fears of our inability to control the forces of nature. The film’s portrayal of sharks as cruel, deadly and uncaring inspired a generation to never want to set foot in water again. According to common cultural lore, its very release caused a downward trend in beach attendance that very Summer.

The immersive visual element of the film’s out-to-sea portion remains a staple in its use of space and atmosphere. A large part of the film takes place aboard a shabby fishing vessel, the Orca, as it bobs up and down a vast stretch of ocean. Much like Alien’s (1975) Nostromo hurtling through an empty black void, Jaws set the gold standard for blockbuster horror in solitary locations.

Floating on a boundless stretch of sea with no land in sight, the film illustrates the terror of isolation by effectively trapping you on a hunk of buoyant steel in a slow, disorienting cradle with an incomprehensible force lying nearby in wait. The madness and tension it awakens in our three distanced heroes is sure to strike a chord with stir-crazy viewers trapped in their apartment, belching tequila breath and howling songs into the night like a couple of drunk sailors.

Lasting Merit as a Political Statement

Through the gunsmoke of social struggle, we still battle an unseen enemy as COVID-19 shows no signs of slowing. While states begin to open up tentatively, massive ideological rifts have formed between those who firmly believe in city closures in the name of public safety, or reopening in an effort to avoid a full scale economic meltdown. This ethical dilemma is mirrored in one of Jaws’ most enduring motifs that bears striking resemblance to the current state of our global affair.

A crucial thematic element of Jaws is the underlying motivation of people in power--specifically, that of Amity’s incumbent mayor, Larry Vaughn.

In a tight-knit New England beach community where the crux of their economy relies on Summer tourism, the two primary factors behind Vaughn’s most critical decisions are money and reputation. When the remains of a local teenage swimmer washes ashore mere weeks before July Fourth, Vaughn, thinking solely in terms of economic consequence, refuses to shut the beaches down--much to Chief Brody’s chagrin but met with support by various business owners in the community. This decision ultimately leads to further bloodshed.

While the man-eating shark is clearly used as hyperbole, it represents underlying themes that are still just as resonant today, but with implications that have potential to be innumerably more fatal. In a time characterized by deepening ideological polarity, individual priority has proved to be a big indicator of stance. While more states begin to open up and reported deaths soar past the 100,000 mark in the US alone, we can’t help but draw connective lines to the potentially grim downsides of a Capitalist mindset.

The Blockbuster Prototype

For years prior to our present day turmoil, we’ve been undergoing a transition in the way we ingest and define entertainment. In a digitally connected age where streams of content are perpetually churned and spoonfed to us from the comfort of our own homes, most of us feel no obligation to go out and experience a film unless it has instantaneous commercial recognition like Avengers: Endgame or spectacle event marketability, like anything Christopher Nolan touches.

As theater chains tremble under the weight of an indefinite disruption due to COVID-19, studios are forced to suspend the release of their biggest projected films until further notice. Meanwhile--prospective audiences, weary from endless months spent cooped up at home in restless desperation, are flocking to take part in alternative means of pastime entertainment by rebooting an artifact long thought to be extinct.

Last weekend, 45 Summers after its initial release, Jaws swam back into 187 drive-in theater screens across the nation, grossing over $516,000 in revenue. While the concept may seem like a novelty relic from an ancient past, Jaws’ continued success in the drive-in movie theater resurgence and its recent addition on the HBO Max streaming platform indicates agelessness, a proven influence and global appreciation that transcends all notion of time.

In simplistic terms, the true legacy of Jaws lies in its undeniable rewatchability; the scale and spectacle of this brisk two-hour creature feature somehow always feels like a fresh experience, regardless of year. A major factor in that timelessness is its ability to distinguish itself from the entertainment of its time; while it’s not actively trying to be as existentially ambitious as 2001: A Space Odyssey (1969) or as ancestrally poignant as The Godfather (1972), Spielberg approaches a high-concept premise with a masterful balance of childlike wonder, gripping intensity and stunning execution that made audiences fall in love with how much fun the moviegoing experience could be.

For all intents and purposes, Jaws was rolled out to be a home run. As previously mentioned, Universal took a big swing by investing $2M in the marketing of this film, whose mythical production hiccups were once thought to be the ultimate undoing of everyone involved.

Nevertheless, Jaws burst onto the scene on an unprecedented 460 screens across North America and fundamentally popularized the key tenets of Blockbuster film structure: a harrowing hero’s journey set to the tone of an Oscar-winning musical score that features cutting-edge special effects, a slew of tremendously complex, multi-layered characters and maybe most importantly, you can never underestimate the power of a witty one-liner:

You have to admit even John McClane would be proud of this line.

To Make A Long Story Short...

The quality of a film’s appreciation value over time is most aptly measured by the sum of its moving parts—sometimes literally. The legacy of Jaws and its animatronic antagonist stands out as a monolith of pop culture phenomenon whose groundbreaking influence on the movie industry built an everlasting legacy that formed the foundations of entertainment as we know it and cemented Steven Spielberg as one of Hollywood’s most prolific filmmakers.

The half-century span of Jaws’ continuous reign is cold, hard proof that it simply does not age. Its ability to trigger emotional and sensory response pioneered the moviegoing experience and helped us understand how entertainment gives fleeting shelter from the hardships of life. But with all its praise and definitive universality, did we ever get Roy Scheider doing an end-credit rap song like LL Cool J in Renny Harlin’s Deep Blue Sea? I think not. Catch up, Spielberg.