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Ramblings on Sex and the City and Society Reacting to Media of the Past

January 11, 2021

I am absolutely thrilled at the conversation happening around Sex and the City at the moment, thanks to HBOMax’s controversial decision to greenlight a final season of the show without its most beloved and culturally relevant character, Samantha (Kim Cattrall). I’m thrilled because I ended 2020 binge-watching Sex and the City for the first time in a span of about a month and it’s been all I’ve wanted to talk about. The series was surprisingly life-affirming for me: a city-dwelling single gal navigating dating and sex in a time rife with changing attitudes towards the topic of monogamy and intimacy.

However, the level of problematic, transphobic, homophobic, kink-shaming, and cultural appropriation that takes place in the series is outstanding. In fact, there’s an entire episode that just gives me the willies and made me want to turn it off with its level of ignorant conversation involving transsexual prostitutes. But this isn’t an article to tear down a show that’s old enough to have a beer. That’d be silly, right? Even though the current social standard revels in that. Instead, I want to look at how certain episodes of the series reveal something very important about society at large.

When Carrie Bradshaw (Sarah Jessica Parker)—30-something white woman and socialite of New York— snooped around her boyfriend’s belongings and discovered he bought her a gold engagement ring, she balked at the sight of it. I side-eyed the TV in harsh judgment of her bougie discernment. “Bitch, at least he got you a ring!” I said out loud into my empty apartment. But it wasn’t Carrie’s reaction that stuck with me, it was her defense of the reaction. “But you wear gold jewelry,” her trusty honest best friend Miranda (Cynthia Nixon) reminds Carrie over brunch with their girlfriends. Carrie retorts, “Yeah, ghetto gold for fun but this is my engagement ring.”

There it was, and ooooh it stung. I had already noticed in earlier seasons that Carrie was rocking bamboo knocker-styled earrings, usually worn by Black and brown minorities from my childhood and all over America in the 1980s and early ‘90s. I even noticed she had a gold-plated necklace with her name on it, a piece of jewelry that’s the focus on an entire episode in the series’ last season. Once a symbol of style and coolness in my neighborhood was now a symbol of class and high fashion in these women’s world. But Carrie’s frank conversation with her friends over breakfast said it all.

And you know what? I wasn’t mad. I could have had an understandably knee-jerk reaction in a time where Kimberley Crenshaw’s coined term “cultural appropriation” is as well-known as the term “tweet.” But here, in 2001 New York City and more specifically in Sex and the City, that term and the lessons it packs in its powerful punch were far from the reaches of ivory ears wearing 24-karat gold earrings inspired by the urban Black residents of the boroughs that Carrie and her friends wouldn’t be caught dead in. (And if you let the show tell, didn’t exist.)

We’ve come a long way as a society in terms of how we see one another and the ways in which we interact with cultures and marginalized groups that we don’t belong in. And, looking back on moments in media and history with a negative emotional reaction is us recognizing that. But what we keep doing as a society is scapegoating the blame onto other people: white people, white women, the rich, the elite, the ignorant, the have’s, the technology-advanced, etc.

I told this Carrie ghetto-gold story to a friend who had already watched this show during its original run. She remembered every single detail about the scene I recalled except the “ghetto” comment. She was stunned she hadn’t heard it at the time. I reminded her, “you heard it, you just didn’t think twice about it because that’s not where society was then.” When we look back, historically speaking, it’s easy to think certain individuals were the only perpetrators and purveyors of such culture ills like racism, homophobia, misogyny, whatever names we want to put to it to box it up to differentiate the past from our highly esteemed better selves today. What we don’t do is recognize how implicit society at large was in the normalization of disenfranchisement.

We block out and forget that we laughed at homophobic jokes or didn’t think twice about a joke that said “chick” and “dick” in the same sentence because we were all conditioned together watching the same media, learning the same things about each other, and coming to the same wrong conclusions about ourselves. We broke away from these on our own accord years later thanks to more education, more experience, more awareness, more friends and acquaintances, and more representation. But that doesn’t make us immune.

I don’t speak for every person’s experience during this era when I say “we.” I am speaking generally because when Sex and the City was at its height, I was a 13-year-old media hungry teen watching any and everything television would allow my eyes to take in. Because of this, I learned through television what was “normal.” The outskirts of society were relegated to HBO’s more late-night programming like Real Sex, a show I watched during this era before  Sex and the City ever remotely even caught my attention. These elements of sex and kink captured on Real Sex were for the weirdos, the oddballs, the sex-obsessed people on the edge of society. Sex dolls, sex changes, latex fetishes, group sex, all of these things were normalized to me as a youth because I sought media that focused on the dredges of society.

But that still didn’t make me immune to words and how I talked about what was “normal” with others. And the fact that  Sex and the City helped “normalize” certain aspects around what goes on in the bedroom is telling of our conservative instincts at the time. It’s so interesting to think that in the late 1990s into the early 2000s, we were similar in our notions of sex as the 1940s into the 1950s. On the mainstream end, we were obsessed with it, investing our dollars and energy into singers who revealed enough of their bodies to titillate but damning and shaming them for it all the same. All the while, sex that leaned away from the cis, heteronormative way of seeing the world still kept happening, but god forbid if it made its way into the mainstream. Remember when Diana Ross playfully touched Lil Kim’s breast at the VMA’s or when Madonna, Britney, and Christina kissed on stage and how society’s head damn near exploded? When looking back now, we looked dumb, but this is exactly what this rambling is trying to convey. We can’t witch-hunt the past. Only learn from it and take those lessons to teach us how not to do the same thing now.

My line of work is separating the negative conations of the past with the moral responsibility to do better in the now and for the future. I work in the industry of classic movies, and I’m often asked how can I enjoy these movies with all of the negative factors stacked against them in terms of social representation. My answer is simply because I recognize the historical context. That doesn’t make me smarter, more focused, or anything special. I’ve learned a specific type of cognitive dissonance when engaging with media.

It hasn’t been easy. I learned that it does me no good to become angry with these images of the past. It’s a process that has been years in the making. The first time I remember having a visceral reaction to cinemtic images—the deepest sadness I’d ever known at the time— was when watching Spike Lee’s Bamboolzed for the first time in high school. His montage scene of offensive portrayals of African Americans in media was a disturbing insight into how society once saw my people—me—as shuffling, fried-chicken eating, lazy, good for nothings. I cried for days. I refused to eat fried chicken in front of white people for years after that.

But now, instead of getting angry or sad, I recognize the importance of calling these issues out to my friends and colleagues or whoever will listen whenever I’m talking about media that I engage with. That’s the only way to open other people’s eyes to something that has been normalized. Who all got mad back in 2001 when Samantha and Carrie made all of those awful trans jokes? Who all got mad in 2002 every time Carrie made a shitty, rude remark about Stanford being gay? Who all cared or even noticed when Carrie wore designer Kangol-inspired hats and gold bamboo knockers? Did anyone chew out the top designers of that era for re-appropriating a culture that wasn’t theirs and then marking up the price for rich white women who find out they’ve spent $40k on shoes? Who all batted an eye when Carrie dated that guy but couldn’t get over that he had sex with men? Did anyone realize then they were denying bisexual validity?

Sex and the City was made in a post-Kinsey world where sexuality had been realized to exist on a spectrum for 60+ years. But does that mean mainstream society was ready for it? Turns out the answer was no. That’s not necessarily the fault of the writer’s room or the producers. It’s the fault of our culture. Nevertheless, what I do love most about this show, besides their frank conversations around anal play, marriage, children, rape fantasies, promiscuity, love, friendship, shitty diapers and baby weight, balancing careers, giving up careers, and so on, is its ability to be a time capsule of what was considered “normal” behavior back then. This begs the question if a widely popular, syndicated television show like Sex and the City reflects a transphobic, cis-gender homogenous America of the early 2000s, then what media are we ingesting without questioning today, and what does it still say about what we largely deem acceptable and “normal”?

Quarantining on Letterboxd

September 14, 2020

I’m still alive but after six months of quarantining, my legs are buckling under the weight of America’s social reckoning and the global pandemic. I’m managing to keep steady and sane through a bevy of television shows and movies. I hope you’re safe and well too. Follow me on Letterboxd and let’s chat about recommendations!

Celebrating 25 Years of The Greatest Movie: A Goofy Movie (1995)

April 7, 2020

I don’t remember the first time I watched A Goofy Movie. I don’t remember the first time I saw the character Goofy either. I don’t even remember when I made the declaration that A Goofy Movie was my all-time favorite film. Feels like it just always has been. I was introduced to it at some point in my elementary school-era daycare center. Most of my early memories were formulated around television and movies. And, in those days, the afternoons and early mornings at Children’s Friend Day Care center fed my novel but growing infatuation. Of the dozens of movies I remember seeing at that center (Pete’s Dragon, The Aristocats, The ButterCream Gang, The Never Ending Story, etc,.), the one that always stuck out as my favorite was Kevin Lima’s A Goofy Movie.

Released April 7, 1995, this animated feature marked Lima’s directorial debut before going on to head Disney’s Tarzan (1999), 102 Dalmations (2000), and Enchated (2007). Modeled after the Disney series Goof Troop, which followed the antics of Goofy, his son Maximillion, and his neighbors, A Goofy Movie fast forwards the lives of Goofy and Max. Both are now older with Max in high school dealing with the pressures of feeling unseen as fears of becoming his nerdy, lonely father have taken over his thinking. He’s compelled to do something, to stand out. So he performs a musical stunt in the middle of his principal’s presentation which makes him a legend with his peers but the enemy of authority. His principal places an urgent, furious call to Goofy scaring the poor old sap into reforming his son. And what better way to reform than by taking your teenage son on a cross-country road trip? Let the angst and goofy hijinks begin!

I cry EVERY TIME I watch this movie. Every time. What is it about this father/son road trip movie that gets me deep in the gut and always has? Honestly, I have no clue, but I’ll try to figure it out by the time I finish typing. It’s fascinating when I think of how A Goofy Movie has come to define me for so long without me fully being aware of it. Someone in middle school, maybe even high school, gave me the VHS tape as a gift because they knew how much I loved it. (When I threw out all my VHS’s in the early 2000’s it was one of three that I kept.) In my current profession, I am well respected for my movie tastes and knowledge of cinema. And yet, a co-worker recently texted me to tell me how she mistakenly said that The Tigger Movie was my favorite and a room full of grown, corporate-working adults corrected her in unison to say “no, it’s A Goofy Movie.”

For me, A Goofy Movie isn’t just a lighthearted Disney musical that I watch through nostalgic lenses. I see it as a flawless coming of age tale that captures the angst and awkwardness of learning to find yourself. It possesses an abundance of heart and maturity, and it’s a time capsule of America in the mid-90s. I’ve had multiple people tell me in recent years that for some reason black people tend to cite A Goofy Movie as their favorite Disney film. The first time I heard that statement, I was confused because I never thought of it as anything other than a cartoon. But then upon reflecting, I realized I’ve never not seen the characters as anything other than “black.” I only just now learned that by some accounts, it was considered the “Blackest Nerd Classic” of its time. While I never associated myself with the characters racially, because at the end of the day they’re dogs, I do think that my deep connection to the film did have something to do with it being set within an urban environment with darker leads driving the story.

Disney films are known for taking characters, and thus audiences, to a far-away magical land of adventure and fantasy, but A Goofy Movie explores the fantastic within the very real landscape of America. Los Angeles; Lake Destiny, Idaho; that backwoods southern Possum Park; amusement parks; baseball stadiums; monster truck shows— all relics of America in its bright shiny glory and its harsh, blemished reality. A Goofy Movie shows both the heartland of the country and its sprawling cities, where adventure awaits on the highways and backroads of this geographically exuberant land.

Max begrudgingly embarks on this adventure. And rightfully so. There’s a calling to fulfill and a girl to impress back at home. Goofy’s attempt to bond with his son is only ruining Max’s future happiness, from his teenage preceptive of course. Because of this, we get a film that is rooted in tension, and it crackles with angst, lies, and pain. Goofy’s best friend Pete warns him against his kind-hearted ways of dealing with Max. Pete’s method is simple, keep the kids “under your thumb, and they’ll never end up in the gutter.”

Typical of American society, there is indeed a gutter for Max to fall in. Max’s principal berates Goofy all the same for it, warning that Max’s gutter will be the electric chair—and all because he pulled off an incredible artistic stunt. It’s interesting watching that scene now in the America of 2020, as Goofy sits in shock repeating the awful words the principal (who is notably a lighter shade than Goofy and Max) is throwing at him: “dressed like a gang member, your son has started a riot.” Interestingly enough, this film was made in and around the time of the East Coast vs. West Coast rap beef, the Los Angeles Riots, and a rising mainstream focus on inner-city crimes and issues.

Nevertheless, my most beloved aspect of this movie—besides Tevin Campbell being the angel that he was—is the moral dilemma Max is challenged with: how far is he willing to take a lie and deceive to appear as something that he’s not? It’s an interesting concept that Disney often plays around with in humorous ways but it’s so affecting here because the stakes of that lie are so high. If shattered, that deception risks breaking bonds with the people Max loves. It’s a hell of a lesson to drop in a children’s film. A Goofy Movie is more than its often given credit for. It’s a heartfelt drama about the journey to self-actualization and confidence. It’s about conquering fears and owning what makes you unique. It’s all these things and more, and for these reasons it will always be among my all-time favorite films, right up there with Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless and Frank Capra’s It Happened One Night.

Cats (2019); Whatever You Do, Don’t Pay to See It

December 29, 2019

Cats has proven to be a failure and its mostly due to its own hubris. It’s a bloated catastrophe that rested on the laurels of a legacy brand’s built-in fan base, thinking said fan base, and other casual theater goers, would be enough to blow smoke up the film adaptation’s ass long enough to balloon it into a profit. Yet the bigwigs behind Cats didn’t seem to take into account that its golden calf of a property hasn’t held weight in popular culture since being the butt of jokes in the 1990’s. Nevertheless, the careless way this movie was slapped together is the reason I’m smiling ear to ear after learning this $100+ million dollar picture only made $6.5 million it’s first week.

Cats shows that Tom Hooper’s prowess is not directing musicals (and yes, I thought Les Misérables was trash). He sort of can’t really direct actors either. There are some strong and tender performances in Cats that should be noted, albeit the really wild, uncomfortable ones stand out the most (Sir Ian McKellen and that damn water bowl). But Hooper misfires constantly with Cats by refusing to let moments crescendo into a emotional bang. Right out the gate, everyone on screen is at a 10, and they just keep going up. I would say that Jennifer Hudson gives an astounding performance, if she had performed only one “showstopping” number where she cries streams of saline from eyes and even nostrils, but she does it not twice but thrice! Hudson’s intense emotional number is outdone by herself doing it again two more times with all the trimmings — nostril snot and all — making it tedious and eye-rolling to watch. And in typical Hooper fashion, the performance is captured through tight close-ups, you know so you can really FEEL the emotions.

If only that same intention of realness was brought to the insanely bad visual effects, which makes the entire film embarrassingly goofy in the worst ways. The use of motion-capture on the actors ruins any chance of witnessing the impressive flexibility of the feline or even the human body, as the VFX can’t capture minute, subtle details. Instead, it makes the dancer’s movements appear boxy and stiff while making all the cats look creepy in the most uncanny way possible. Perhaps this all could have worked if the characters of Cats had all been long-haired cats, but alas most are short-haired leaving a constant reminder to audiences that the human body just doesn’t resemble a cat’s anatomy at all.

The plot isn’t as daffy as others have exaggerated. It’s simply about a stray cat who stumbles into a cult that annually selects a member to die. Of course, this is a prestigious honorable death, so all the old heads of the cult want some of that sweet death release. The stray meets most of the gang and learns about them through song and dance, then she selects one of them to die and becomes accepted by the cult. It’s basically Midsommar. Some of the music is actually fun and entertaining, but again this movie is just god-awful because it didn’t attempt to bring true artistic integrity from the beginning. The cats don’t move like cats because they’re not trained contortionists or dancers, most of them are just actors. So then why use such elaborate visual effects if their bodies really aren’t the focus here? It instead just leaves trails of matrix-like glitches over background actors faces and inconsistent feet and hands.

Sometimes Cats is funny on purpose, but most times it’s not. In fact, when it actually tries to be funny through James Corden or Rebel Wilson, it falls flat through fat jokes and Wilson’s annoying shtick of being aggressively raunchy. Cats is a stupid movie, plain and simple and the more I think about it, the more frustrated I get. Cats doesn’t care about you and you shouldn’t give that smug sonofbitch the sanctification of pretending it cares you. Skip this one. Knit a pair of booties or something instead.

Belladonna of Sadness (1973); And Gaining Sexual Liberation After Trauma

August 28, 2019

BosBelladonna of Sadness is one of the very few films I’ve seen that focuses on the violation of a woman and her subsequent perseverance through it in an empowering way. The subject of this film isn’t seen as a victim for long, instead she learns to embrace her sexuality and gives in the anger that resides within because of her attack. Unlike most other films dealing with such a heavy-handed topic, our lead’s recovery is marred by complications of internal grief in learning to reclaim her body for herself – a sentiment that is seen by the characters within the film (and undoubtedly viewers of it) as “sinful” or the work of the devil. On the surface, we are meant to believe her transformation is the devil’s work too, but the subtext of this film—for me at least—is female empowerment through sex positivity and self-assurance. Not bad for a 1973 animated film written and directed by men.

Our subject in Belladonna of Sadness is Jeanne, a gorgeous fixture of a woman with doe-like eyes, pristine features, tumbles of curls flowing from her crown and full jaw-dropping lips. She’s a caricature of beauty in the most objective form drawn with delicate lines and gentle strokes of varied water colors. Her curse is merely existing during the Middle Ages under feudal rule. Jeanne is unconditionally in love and newly wed to Jean. But on their wedding night, the baron of their village exercises his power and malevolence by raping her. Devastated, Jean and Jeanne are forever changed and Jean, although still in love, can’t face Jeanne the same way leading to the breakdown of their marriage and their humanity.

A woman of her times, Jeanne has no one to comfort her. She is given no empathy, guidance or help in dealing with the tragedy that has affected her. That is until a small figure appears in her bed one night. Claiming to be her, it has manifested from her cries of desperation and bargains to give her the help she begged for on that ill-fated night. In exchange for power to Jeanne, the being simply wants to feed off her hate and rage for growth. Jeanne spends the rest of the film bargaining with this figure, whom she later assumes to be the Devil, while undergoing a metamorphosis in her perception of self and in her power among the town leaving her adversaries— the lord, his lady and his court— out for blood.


Like so many other films that come into my life out of pure synchronicity, I’d long heard of Belladonna of Sadness as one of the many underground, cult films that I needed to watch but it never piqued my interest until recently. Not knowing anything about the film, I rented it out of a desire to watch something animated and foreign. I didn’t expect such a heavy topic and brutal imagery when I turned it on at 11pm on a Friday night. Nevertheless, as synchronicity would have, it’s the type of film that came to be at the right moment and time in my life. I wouldn’t have fully understood this film in my younger years nor appreciated the deeper spiritual conversation that exists within its story. I think I would have purely seen it as a titillating sex show in animation form.

Instead, Belladonna of Sadness resonated with me on a deep psychosomatic level, at a time now where I’m working through my own past trauma. It’s a mind-blowing, beautifully animated film with a rich story centered around female empowerment. Jeanne is a commanding figure full of grace and poise but she’s also vulnerable and filled with doubt. The Devil that she speaks to is merely an apparition of her own inner voice, one that isn’t evil at all but a provocateur pushing the limits and defying social norms and standards against how women should behave. She’s raped on her wedding night and her husband’s first reaction isn’t to console her but attempt to kill her. Much later in the film, he abandons her when she needs him the most. He can’t deal with her trauma and leaves her to figure it out alone.


The tragedy of women who find themselves in similar situations in the past and present is unsettling and by setting the film in the Medieval period, writers Yoshiyuki Fukuda and Eiichi Yamamoto call awareness to the centuries-long abuse and neglect of women conventionally accepted by the moral and religious thoughts of our times. Yet Jeanne’s only way to recover after her violation is by reclaiming her sexuality and giving herself permission to own the pleasure that her body can produce. This is all done through the voice in her head, the ominous figure that she can only imagine is the Devil, because certainly no God-fearing holy woman could or should ever enjoy sex or the pleasure of someone they love after having their first encounter with it be so horribly soiled.

Herself as a manifestation of this figure begins when she recognizes that her body is reawakening one night in bed next to her husband. Her nipples become erect and she begins to feel a sensation all over her body before that feeling blossoms in between her legs. Her husband’s sleeping body isn’t the catalyst nor is it fantasies or thoughts of anyone else. It’s the thought of relief which will give her power that makes her excited, although naturally she’s ashamed of the act of self-pleasure.

I believe that most women who have been sexually abused in their lives battle this dilemma: conflict between dealing with shame and self-hatred versus sexual desire and control. Socially, we have perpetually told abuse victims that they are unworthy or damaged after their assault. That they should now be ashamed of someone else’s sin on their bodies. That now you alone have to bear the brunt of that violation for the rest of your life. What I loved about Belladonna of Sadness is that very thought is present for Jeanne. The tragedy and memory of her rape will never go away. Sexual trauma, no matter how many therapy sessions you undergo or how much self-care you partake in will never go away. It stays with you in random flashes of memory that are triggered by trivial things, like a passing stranger’s beard color, a darkened hallway, the way someone may touch or pull at your arm. These things will only remind you of someone else’s sin on your body.


But Jeanne learns to overcome the memory. She learns to regain pleasure for herself in her own body. She learns to heal, though the ability to do so proves difficult. The Devil, again a personification of her inner voice, goads her to forgo what others think, and sometimes she can. 

There’s an interesting scene where Jeanne sees the world and herself through the eyes of the Devil: beautiful, chaste and irresistible in the purest, most innocent way. Its hard for her to accept this vision. She’s convinced that the image can’t be of God. In fact, she thinks she’s being tricked when she revels in the “sin” and sees the power she could have by becoming a witch, i.e. a sexually liberated woman in tune with nature and therefore God. She is certain there is no beauty for her, there can’t be. She’s still filled with anger and resentment to those who’ve harmed her and when she decides to give in to her “badness,” we see there is no true wickedness in her heart. Being “bad” – sinful, a witch – to Jeanne and women like her is to rebel against an oppressive system, one that uses sex as control over women.


Jeanne learns that sex can be a shared pleasurable experience, and through it she becomes a woman of the people, giving them empathy and love and intoxication like they’ve never experienced before. She utilizes this new power to heal others from their various forms of pain and because of it, her influence is tenfold. This overarching theme is what I enjoyed so much in M. Night Shyamalan’s Split. This notion that trauma, once acknowledged and reconciled from within, can awaken new strength and power in someone. “Superpowers” that not only help us heal but helps us heal others. We can grow from it. We can be stronger in spite of pain and suffering and because of it while teaching others in our community to do the same.

Us (2019); And Why I’m Not a Fan

March 23, 2019

I’m attempting to decipher my current rambling mind about my first impression on Jordan Peele’s highly anticipated sophomore film, Us. I almost feel at a loss for words. I have so much to stay about this but nothing is coming to the surface in one cohesive thought. It’s just words bumbling around into one another attempting to latch on to what’s familiar enough to sound cohesive. I didn’t not like it, but damn I didn’t enjoy it either and that makes me sad. Insatiable even. I’m craving a release from the tension I built for Us, even when I proactively told myself before—and during it—to curb my expectations: be present, witness what’s unfolding without attachment…what I try to remind myself in basic day to day existence. Still, I couldn’t help but want more from the entire experience, all the way up through to the credits (which btw big ups to the font designer there).

Now I don’t think the desire I had for more is unreasonable. Peele is a competent and intelligent writer-director with great instincts. These instincts are prevalent throughout his career and surfaces on occasion throughout Us, but there were multiple scenes that forced me to confront the fact that maybe the hype surrounding his talent was a bit premature. During a particular scene in which a car is used for blocking a mirrored cat and mouse chase, the camera moves slowly with the showdown and a character stops to crouch down disappearing out of sight from her mouse while we anticipate the anxiety that should build up from this creepy moment. Yet, somehow the scene progresses without any terror or fraction of tension due to Peele’s subsequent camera angles and directorial choices for how the scene plays out. In fact, most of those instincts for capturing a truly effective and scary moment are there on the surface but they indulge themselves too much in homage or symbolism that they lack any personal defined characteristics themselves and becomes void of tension.

Many scenes play out far too long to truly be effective. When the slasher fans in the audience are treated to gory moments and kills, Peele only gives us quick glimpses promptly and consistently cutting away before the moment of impact. This isn’t a problem in the hands of director who knows how to make an effective gory scene without excessive gore (take moments of the chainsaw scene in Brian De Palma’s Scarface for instance). Instead, Peele’s haphazard cuts and shifts from moments of impact or heightened action pushes the viewer further away from the action, its severity, and the ultimate danger of the Wilson family.

This isn’t helpful to the story considering by the 2nd act of the film, much of the steam for truly fearing for their lives is lost as that equation gets thrown out the window. By the 3rd act, once we leave the home of the family for a different house, Peele’s use of comedy bulldozes through any moments of potential horror or even thriller. I never once truly felt that the family was in danger for their lives. Half the time they don’t even seem truly worried (see the annoying “who’s driving” scene for reference). The Wilson’s seem impervious to traditional fear and reservation about the dire situation around them, and Peele’s script has subsequent action happening at random, continually shifting the cinematic world and its own reality in the process. By the film’s climax, Peele weakly attempts to tighten the loose threads that are connecting motives and unveiling motivations but he does so with enough laxness to leave room for audience interpretation rather than using the film itself to explain the story.

In fact, my favorite part of the film was the after-movie discussion with my group of friends, where we asked questions, traded interpretations and, for me, fumbled over expressing my disappointment. I enjoyed hearing the answers to my questions which constantly made me ahh at the light bulb going off. But for every answer, there were dozens of other questions: “Well if this, then why that?” “Well yeah, but how?” or “But if that why not?” and definitely “wait, they’re doing what now?” For a good two hours after seeing this movie, I questioned myself… “am I dumb? Did I just not get it? Did having a five-month writer’s block make me forget how to analyze a movie? Did I really not get that piece of symbolism?” The jury’s out if the answer to these are all yes, because possibly. But the more I ruminate over Us, the more I see less of a sharp, creative think piece of a film and more of a bunch of great ideas and thought starters that never develops past bullet points. By the end of the film, I felt like I had M. Night Shyamalan whiplash. The last chunk of Us feels rushed, clumsy even, and almost like a “gotcha” moment. Just because certain elements foreshadowing where we end up, doesn’t mean that it makes for a cohesive story and definitely not a horrific or even thrilling one.

Regardless, the few elements that are well executed are done extremely well, particularly the original music by Michael Abels and some of Peele’s most stunning shots and use of body doubles. I can’t possibly end this piece without discussing the brilliance of Lupito Nyong’o’s performance. Her talent is pure and genuine, one that just naturally seeps out of her. Nyong’o’s skill reminds audiences that she is a thespian tried and true who can conjure emotion and new personas right before our eyes. Watching her in two wildly distinct roles interacting creates perfect book ends of her range as an actor. She’s wonderful and steals every scene she’s in. Nevertheless, while Winston Duke is charming with some of the funnier moments and the children are impressive newcomers that I’d love to see more from, Peele honestly wastes their potential by relegating them to being props and a means for Nyong’o to shine.

I’m always happy to see black faces on screen in varying genres and God bless Peele for being a black man creating a new vision, but I refuse to grade this movie on a “curve.” I know Peele has the potential to be great based on Get OutKeanu, and Key and Peele, but I’m very worried about his ability to handle other properties with care, like Candyman. My biggest fear after watching Us (and no shade or pun intended with that, just genuine concern) is that Peele won’t have the chops needed to make the upcoming Twilight Zone reboot a needed addition to the cannon. Perhaps he got too much freedom with Us to explore an extremely complicated idea. Maybe no one reiterated that to do that successfully, he you should focus more time on creating that world and not staying with the faux-home invasion angle. Perhaps this is just a sophomore slump that will progresses with his future endeavors. Either way, I thought Us was a poorly constructed horror film with very few redeeming qualities. I’m grateful for my brother’s quip when debriefing the film: “you’re not crazy. That movie sucked.”

SPOILERS: Below are a list of questions that I had while watching. Feel free to answer in the comments!

Who’s in control of this underground bunker? How do these clones exist and who’s taking care of them? Are they all evil or just soulless? If that’s the case, why did adult Red have love for her kids? What’s not stopping them from killing each other? Why harm themselves (as Red Elisabeth Moss does) yet have the capacity to work together and hold hands? Why did Red have to be evil and smile those creepy little smiles to let you know she’s the evil twin? Wouldn’t it have been more effective if it was simply clones just wanting to live a new life, no good/evil attached like in Ex Machina? The Tyler family already got killed, so why kill others who aren’t them or try to? No one else did that, did they? Aren’t all the clones just supposed to kill “themselves”? Who were they trying to prove something to, the government… if they’re killing all of their doubles? Was it drugs they were being given? How did young Red even find out the upper ground? Do they all just know they’re clones? Why did Jason walking backwards cause his clone to do that into the fire? Are all clones subject to mimicry? Where did they get those scissors???

His Girl Friday (1940) is Really a Drama and Not As Screwy As You Think

October 20, 2018

I’ve watched His Girl Friday dozens of times, and each time I’ve howled in laughter and felt all light and charmed afterwards. On Tuesday, I had back-to-back personal bombshells dropped in the middle of my night, so I thought to myself, “girl, let’s chill and watch His Girl Friday for peace of mind.” That plan completely backfired. This time around, His Girl Friday was a dark and sad experience. In this time of conscious awakening where the parallels between life and art feel more prevalent than ever, that night was the first time I’ve ever seen His Girl Friday as a drama, art completely intimating life, with some comedic moments and really likable faces sprinkled throughout. It’s ability to live as either a comedic love story or a truly satirical downer is a testament to the brilliance in its all-around production: Ben Hecht’s 1928 play The Front Page and the 1931 film adaptation of the same name,  director Howard Hawks’ decision to change paper man Hildy Johnson to a woman, Charles Lederer’s brutally honest screenplay, and Rosalind Russell’s strong yet subtly stunning performance.

I know what some of you hardcore screwball fans are thinking, a subtle performance from Russell… in the most iconic screwball comedies of all time? The woman who tackles a man to the ground for a scoop on a story? Yep, that woman. There’s a moment when Russell, as Hildy, is so flustered—near panting with anxiety—that she stops a beat to realize her predicament, where her chance of comfort and peace of mind is at stake. She’s near tears at the compulsion to keep going, attempting to find her coat and hat so that she can finally leave the circus of a newsroom she’s called home behind. But she’s somehow swept back into it, when all she wanted to do in the first place was to tell her conniving ex-husband that she’s about to marry someone else and leave the news for good. It’s deeper than a career vs. marriage in Rosalind’s portrayal of Hildy. It’s reconciling one’s own destiny. Hildy’s dilemma is figuring out what will bring her true happiness: a lucrative position being a voice for the people (regardless of how delusional that truth is) or using her skills to raise new voice.

But Walter’s (Cary Grant) personal collusion knows no bounds. He knows Hildy is addicted to the glory of the news world, the fast-paced business of it all and the thrill of a good story. And here, it’s not just some story, it’s a story for the books. Earl Williams, a white mentally unstable man, has killed a black police officer in cold blood. Although his mental capacity is in question by some, the city’s mayor and sheriff will do what it takes to rule him as sane (and a Communist) so they can expedite his execution to secure the black vote for re-election. There’s a scene between the sheriff and a medical examiner discussing the politics of the situation and Earl’s execution while Earl sits exhausted and ignored in the background. This scene is frankly horrific to watch especially in contrast with today’s transparent political attempts to sway voters regardless of whose life is at stake. This type of sadistic political warfare with no regard to humanity is what disgusts Hildy. There’s a trail of broken lives this type of lying leaves in its path, and Hildy witnesses that clear as day when Mollie arrives.

An emotional wreck determined to speak truth to power, Mollie bombards the newsroom intent on correcting the defaming lies spread by the paper about her friendship with the lonely, disconnected Earl. Mollie’s anger is met with a callous disdain from the men in the newsroom. They verbally and emotionally eviscerate her until Hildy soberly escorts her out the room as Mollie yells “they ain’t human!” to which Hildy retorts, “I know, they’re just newspaper men.” After she leaves, the men are quiet. Hawks forces the viewer to sit in silence and feel the men’s shame in response. But like true “chumps,” the ring of a phone and the appearance of a potential quote resets the men to their wise cracking, jaded ways.

Watching that moment of silence, feeling it, and hearing Mollie’s cries, along with re-watching the scene between Earl, the Mayor and the psychiatrist, completely shifted the tone of the movie for me for the first time ever. I was pulled out of this fast-talking, silly “screwball” and thrown into a reality that has been going on for decades, but we’ve been too busy viewing media passively to notice or care.

Never mind the European war, we’ve got something bigger than that! … No never mind the Chinese earthquake, this is more important… Leave the rooster story alone, that’s human interest.

And then we’re hit with a weird contrast at the film’s 3rd act, when Walter and Earl have roped Hildy back into the news world. Oddly enough, Hildy becomes a gendered stereotype only when the promise of career advancement is placed in front her. It’s a stark difference from the woman we meet at the film’s start. That woman, who is two hours away from starting a life as a wife and eventual mother, is tough, strong, independent, and a step ahead of Walter’s bullshit. She can even have two separate conversations at once by phone and in person. But when the promise of career development is an option—as Walter so casually convinces her— she’s short-sighted, apologetic, pushed around, and easily manipulated. She’s foolishly ego driven, allowing Walter to convince her of a hubris filled dream. ‘You do this story, then you’ll be the talk of the town. You’ll change the world. They’ll name streets after you!’ She lights up.

It’s the American Dream. ‘The whole world will recognize me for my brilliance and the change that only I can make. I can change minds with a few written words.’ I’ve personally felt this. I do this. We all do in this in social media age, right? Hildy falls for Walter’s lies therefore falling into a stereotypical gender role in order to follow a “destined” path to achieve it. It’s her hubris—not necessarily love—that convinces her to throw an alternate life with Bruce (Ralph Bellamy) away. I never noticed any of this before any time I’ve watched His Girl Friday, but this time it was all clear as day.

Frankly, Classic Hollywood really does have a magical quality of putting rose-colored glasses over your eyes. That’s the struggle many of us who love films from the past deal with, especially when recommending them to more to modern-day minded folks. But honestly, that’s what all media does, from people feeling warm and fuzzy when singing “Pumped Up Kicks,” to families laughing with Archie Bunker of All in the Family, rather than realizing the point was to laugh at him. Sometimes deeper meanings are right in your face when engaging with art. We all just choose engage or disengage with them but sometimes subtext is hard to focus on and satire can be a dangerous tool.

Sicario: Day of the Soldado (2018); And Strong, Resonating Themes Within a Weak Script

August 2, 2018

It’s been almost two months since I watched Sicario: Day of the Soldado and my brain won’t rest until I get this review out of my system. Day of the Soldado seemed to come and go from theaters without much fervor, and while it pales in comparison to its predecessor—the superior and gut-wrenching Sicario (2015)— it’s an impressive story that manages to hold its weight, although at times not so gracefully. Stefano Sollima’s sequel doesn’t match the depth of Denis Villeneuve’s original vision, but it’s a force all on it’s on like a hurricane that pounds its cyclical viewpoint of American politics into your face. Taylor Sheridan’s script is flimsy at times, causing the narrative to skip over important elements that require laser focus, but Day of the Soldado’s story foams over with anxiety and tension until you reach the momentary calm at its end.

Day of the Soldado follows two major plot points. One is the journey of Mexican immigrants crossing the border by following Miguel (Elijah Rodriguez), a teenager looking to make money as a “coyote,” a head transporter of immigrants into American soil. Meanwhile, when an American diplomat wants to start a war with Mexican cartel leaders for profit, our main focus gets set on the daughter of the cartel leader, Isabel (Isabela Moner), whose path unfortunately crosses with the renegade black ops agents from the previous film: Alejandro (Benicio Del Toro) and Matt (Josh Brolin). We watch in gruesome detail how meddling into foreign politics creates a vacuum for hate and anger that keeps the cycle of violence and retaliation moving in the form of drone strikes, suicide bombings, and automatic weapons, all of which does horrific damage to homes, body parts, and buildings in the film.

I saw Day of the Soldado its opening weekend and have yet to shake it from my mind, especially as gross mistreatment of immigrants on the Mexican/American border continues to dominate news stories. While Sicario felt like an unveiling of how America negatively interferes in other country’s affairs, Day of the Soldado reveals the bloody receipts of our country’s selfish transactions in neighboring lands. It feels like rallying cry for viewers to take note and understand the brutality of our world in its current status – ISIS, Boko Haram, Libyan slave trade, etc. It also gives revealing insight into the dangers Mexican immigrants endure in attempting to cross the border into American soil. During a very rough, and extremely raw moment in American history, Day of the Soldado couldn’t have come out at a more relevant time. In fact, the synchronicity of the film’s release felt chillingly divine.

The day before I saw it, I marched with over 10k people to Atlanta’s Detention Center to raise awareness of the mass ill treatment and incarceration of Mexican immigrants and their children. I stood outside the brick-laden, barricaded building where the windows look like tiny slits where only air and sheets of paper can pass through. From inside of those slits that blocked any distinguishing features of a face or head, were the tiniest semblance of hands waving down at us out. I imagine in united support, but again the building’s façade concealed any facial features that would indicate emotion from a human being. We rallied for common sense and decency. Sure, they’re not citizens and yes they crossed over a line that some person that I’ll never meet said was illegal – but does that make them monsters? Does that justify taking their children away from them for a life of growing up lonely, confused, and angry? What do you think that anger will do to them? What do we think that separation will achieve? Will the outcome of our actions benefit America in a year or two? In 10? Are these questions even thought of or does immediately dehumanizing someone debilitate logic?

In Day of the Soldado, we watch as men and women, often older and in poor shape, cross raging tides of cold rivers on constant alert with fear of being caught by border patrol, or worse renegade bounty hunters who treat the border like a hunting excursion. These immigrants stay cramped in tight spaces and crevices. They have no idea what awaits them on the other side. They pay large sums of money to travel with no guarantee of prosperity if they make it through. These people get shuffled around like meat and treated as animals, if for nothing else but for the hope of a new life and the escape from an old one. Their lives are at risk on this journey and Day of the Soldado follows what happens when they slip and shows just how easy it is to be caught.

Sicario: Day of the Soldado unravels into a silly, weak ending that pits Del Toro’s Alejandro as a superhero. But the most poignant, haunting moment of the film is owed to the thousand-yard stare delivered by Isabela as her chapter comes to a close. In that moment, as the camera lingers on her stunned face and dead-eyed gaze, the film begs audiences to recognize the trauma our actions have on others. Whether it’s separating families under the guise of “teaching a lesson” or starting wars with the “bad guys” who may or may not have it coming to them, for every action there is an equal and opposite re-action. If Sicario: Day of the Soldado does nothing else, it reinforces that law.


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