East of Wall (dir. Kate Beecroft, 2025)

I was grateful to breathe a sigh of relief last weekend while watching East of Wall, the first film I’ve seen at the cinema so far this year that didn’t feel either like a total bore or a letdown to me on some level. It’s reassuring to see a movie that not only holds together well and very intentionally inspires the viewer, but that also looks unsparingly at difficult but important topics such as poverty, suicide, and how women’s lives fit against the widescreen backdrop of the sprawling (and typically overly masculinized) American West. An impressive hybrid of fictionalized documentary filmmaking written and directed by Kate Beecroft, East of Wall brings to mind several other recent films that I enjoyed just as much: Chloé Zhao’s Nomadland and The Rider, Morrisa Maltz’s The Unknown Country, Max Walker-Silverman’s A Love Song, and Andrew Haigh’s Lean on Pete.

What distinguishes East of Wall from those other films are its stars, amateur actors who are also a mother/daughter pair, Tabatha and Porshia Zimiga, whom Beecroft met incidentally while traveling through South Dakota on the 3,000-acre horse ranch that Tabatha oversees. Tabatha has a rebellious, upstart personality and a mane of blond hair with a buzzcut on one side of her head, as well a quiet, intuitive understanding of her horses and their needs. She possesses an entrepreneurial insight about her horses’ strengths and marketability, using TikTok videos of Porshia and her friends riding the horses at local rodeos, in order to sell the horses at auctions. During that pursuit, she meets Roy (Scoot McNairy), who offers to purchase her ranch and make her life easier in the wake of her husband’s sudden death. Tabatha takes care not only of the horses on the ranch but also her children and a gang of teenagers who’ve landed there over time, which increasingly made ends somewhat harder to meet. Roy has a personal investment in continuing to train Porshia as a horse rider, too, having lost his own daughter to suicide. Tabatha will ultimately safeguard her own interests, naturally, from being overridden by those of the wealthy intruder.

Porshia narrates portions of the film in a voiceover style that’s reminiscent of Linda Manz’s classic child’s-eye-view narration in Terrence Malick’s Days of Heaven. Those spells of Porshia’s reflective thoughts about her family and the geological origins of the dramatic landscape on which she was raised have a cumulative power that forms the emotional framework of the film. We also watch her galloping briskly on her horse at speeds that can almost keep pace with cars on a highway, in visuals that are a direct homage to the very first motion picture: the sequential images of a galloping horse by Eadweard Muybridge from 1878. Is that kind of referential connection lost on an audience at the multiplex these days? Probably, but I also sense that the historical bridge to it remains implicit. We are treading on territory that has primitive value and meaning, especially regarding the inherent and inherited violence of both the American landscape and the American enterprise. It’s a particular brand of violence that persists just as it always has, yet continues to shapeshift and take on new forms in the present day.

Perhaps the main reason to watch East of Wall on the big screen at a cinema is to see how finely it showcases the Badlands of South Dakota via breathtaking aerial drone footage. We hear in Porshia’s narration about how the Badlands’ canyon-like structure was carved by an ocean that used to flow right on top of it and the intense speed with which the water drained away millennia ago. That ancient natural force is just one of many ghosts that haunt the movie. Another is memorably depicted by the always excellent English actress Jennifer Ehle, who portrays Tabatha’s ne’er-do-well mother Tracey as a livewire of compressed yet jaded energy, serving as a sort of humorous release valve and ballast to Tabatha’s forthright attitude and stoic seriousness about her own responsibilities to protect her family. Tabatha rarely ever smiles or laughs in the film, in part because she realizes how much everybody who surrounds her at all hours of the day and night, including her mother, is relying on her to keep all of them going, though she takes it all in stride with a measured sense of ordered chaos, from her eldest son Skylar (Wyatt Mansfield) to her semi-adopted son Jesse (Jesse Thorson), right down to her little blond three-year-old son Stetson (Stetson Neumann), who’s inherited the horse ranch from Tabatha’s late husband John.

And John, of course, is the main ghost who haunts the film. We see the family at his gravesite early in the movie, and then we finally hear the full story of his suicide in graphic detail from Tabatha later in the film, at a fireside gathering of the community’s women in celebration of her mother’s birthday. After the women bond over some drinks in a circle around the amber glow of the campfire, the conversation turns quieter as each woman recalls point-blank a harrowing memory of trauma or heartbreak that they’ve endured. I’m certain that Tabatha Zimiga’s unadorned delivery of her monologue during that scene will be the most riveting moment by any actor in a film this year, and she should absolutely receive recognition for her performance during next year’s awards season. East of Wall and Tabatha Zimiga’s subdued powerhouse performance are unique cinematic rarities.

Wednesday, August 13, 2025

Weapons (dir. Zach Cregger, 2025)

I watch around 200 or so movies per year in cinemas, and I’m bummed to report (now that we’re in mid-August) that 2025 has been the worst year for movies in a couple of decades, maybe even in my lifetime. Others have already written about the various industry factors that have caused a dearth of worthwhile films this year, so I won’t waste any time on that. But I will take the opportunity to use one new mainstream movie, Zach Cregger’s Weapons, to point out some unfortunate trends that are behind this problem, from a creative perspective rather than an industry point-of-view. Some critics have mentioned how Weapons and Cregger’s previous film, Barbarian, demonstrate the director’s familiarity with reliable tropes in the horror genre, though I’m afraid that I get less a sense of allusion or reference than derivative symbols and overused material, not just in Cregger’s movies but in nearly all contemporary horror films, a genre that’s historically been known for its daring and ingenuity, when it’s not just functioning in “sequels and rip-offs” mode.

I really wanted to trust the lead male actor Josh Brolin’s enthusiastic praise for this movie on social media, until I realized during the closing credits that he was also a producer for the film. Yes, there are elements to be praised from a cinematic standpoint. The actors (especially Alden Ehrenreich and Amy Madigan) are game, and their performances up the ante for the kind of portrayals that will reliably engage an audience. Josh Brolin and Julia Garner are well-cast in their central roles, if only as vehicles of expression since the film’s plot pivots around them and their reactions to outlandish situations. The film’s opening premise is that all of the students but one in an elementary school class, for which Garner’s character Justine Gandy is the teacher, ran out of their homes unnoticed at 2:17am on one quiet suburban night and remain missing. (The name of the school, Maybrook, might push the boundaries of good taste since it's a bit too intentionally close to Sandy Hook for comfort.)

While Cregger mounts the mystery and builds the tension admirably (and at times absurdly), the outcomes in the movie’s second half make the successes of its first half kind of pointless, except from a box office profit standpoint. The only remaining student in Miss Gandy’s class, Alex, has a sick aunt visiting who’s thrown his home life into demented chaos, carefully controlled by the film’s parameters though ultimately too silly (and again, derivative) to matter very much, aesthetically or otherwise. Amy Madigan turns in the film’s best performance as Aunt Gladys, a terminally ill witch with no background story and very memorable fashion sense. Even just watching how Madigan’s countenance changes from scene to scene is a lesson in how to inhabit this kind of whacked out, unpredictable character properly (she’s fully revealed after a series of clown-like jump scares in which only her makeup-caked face suddenly fills the screen).

As I was watching the film, I remembered seeing Amy Madigan in an off-Broadway production of Sam Shepard’s play Buried Child, in which she co-starred with her husband Ed Harris. The memory threw into contrast the movie’s intellectual shortcomings with the artistic strengths of a stage drama that’s no less horrifying than Weapons on certain similar metaphorical levels. That comparison doesn’t undercut Madigan’s notable performance as Aunt Gladys since Zach Cregger’s film and Sam Shepard’s play are clearly very different enterprises overall. But it does beg the question: what exactly are you making for your audience and why? Also, if it’s a film or a play, what’s the dramatic provenance of your material since a dramatic representation is the particular medium that you’ve chosen as a writer/director?

And it's exactly at the intersection of these questions that a movie like Weapons, along with its totally obvious corollaries in the contemporary horror genre, begins to fall apart and unravel as art, losing both the audience and (serious) critics who’d have otherwise ensured its prosperity. Gladys brings with her into Alex’s home a little black thorny tree to use for her dark magic, and an ancient-looking golden bell with the number 6 engraved on its side. It’s more than a bit embarrassing when the horror movie Together starring Dave Franco and Alison Brie, which is also currently screening in cinemas right now, has a nearly identical if larger emblematic golden bell overseeing its witchcraft and curses, not to mention that each film also features a gay male couple who suffer truly brutal and gruesome fates. These are not mere coincidences but a lack of imagination that lets down the paying viewer. Lurking behind the tired usage of the sinister golden bell is that idiotically hypnotic teacup in Jordan Peele’s abysmal Get Out (they gave him an Oscar for Best Screenplay for writing that?), an image which then became the logo for Peele’s film company, of course. These kinds of derivative tricks and blatant signposts aren’t scary, and they aren’t clever. They carry no greater depth or meaning whatsoever, and to put it bluntly, they’re just lazy.

So everything comes down to another blunt yet pointed fact: there are different forms of creative intelligence. Some are in service of commerce, while others are in service of art. The intelligence of Weapons, behind a fairly flimsy smoke-screen of so-called “elevated” horror, is an intelligence of technicality. The film succeeds visually and sonically, it’s well-performed, and its structure (arranged in chapters subtitled for individual characters, to allow for a variety of perspectives on the story) at least shows some ambitions toward audience engagement. When the intent is money-making, the technical aspects will get people to the cinema with the right kinds of promotion, as the very lucrative opening weekend box office tallies of Weapons attest. But the movie does not aspire to a higher and more important form of creative intelligence, one that brings technical prowess together with genuine ideas, ideas that have relevant long-term human resonance as well as aesthetic longevity. (Those who think that their own subjective interpretation of a film matters most would be wise to read Susan Sontag’s landmark 1964 essay “Against Interpretation.”)

When the missing children come crashing through the windows and doorways of random suburban houses at the end of the movie, there’s a hint of a deeper idea that remains almost completely unexplored: the separateness and isolation of those individual homes on each suburban block, and the death of true community that they represent, which is a far more chilling, bizarre, and even truthfully surreal actuality of the sort that’s “too close to our reality,” as Sontag potently observed in her 1965 essay “The Imagination of Disaster.” The film does descend into some darker corners and the always-obligatory horror movie basement, but rather than giving its audience real connected and developed themes to ponder by the film’s end, we get to watch the children devour Aunt Gladys and rip her body apart in fountains of fake blood instead. One guy online tried to argue that the ending is an image of intergenerational revenge, an overdetermined notion which he’s planting there himself as a kind of wishful thinking that the movie isn’t strongly constructed enough to support. Sure, the fate of Aunt Gladys harkens back to the violent endings supplied to us by classic fairy tales like those by the Brothers Grimm, but it’s a fairly flat finale that viewers will hardly care about at all once they’ve left the theater.

Ironically, I watched Weapons at the cinema immediately after I’d watched a Fathom Events screening for Ghibli Fest of the 1988 animated masterpiece Grave of the Fireflies, yet another story of seriously imperiled children whom the audience is anxiously hoping will survive. As a powerful recollection of the filmmaker Isao Takahata’s personal memories of the widespread fire-bombings in Japan at the end of World War II and the struggles of people there to remain alive in its aftermath (adapted from Akiyuka Nosaka’s celebrated, heartbreaking memoir), the movie is a frame-by-frame model of how a story’s execution can fuse technical and aesthetic (and even historical) intelligences in ways that the movie’s audience will long remember. Does Weapons need to be Grave of the Fireflies? Obviously not. And yet it still needs to be more and go deeper than what it’s able to evoke in its current derivative form, in order for all of the films like it to mean something greater than the revenue that they return to those who crafted them.

Monday, June 16, 2025

27th Annual Provincetown International Film Festival (June 11th - 15th, 2025)

As always in mid-June, I was very much looking forward to attending the annual film festival in Provincetown, just in time to balance out the kinds of movies that take over all of the cinemas elsewhere for the summer season. This year I had mostly documentaries on my schedule of films to see at the festival, all of which I enjoyed; those that I’ll be writing about in depth this time all focus on individual artists of various sorts, from a musician to actors to a Provincetown painter. I’d also been anticipating the gay drama Plainclothes, which got me thinking in a variety of different directions, even while I wanted it to probe its subject a little more deeply and extensively than it’s able to do. Part of the pleasure of seeing about fifteen movies in five days is simply thinking about the movies together in between watching them, as this post continued to take shape in my mind from movie to movie: how they converge and differ, what they say about cultures past and present, and how they contribute to the wider fabric of film history.

The movie that I was most excited to see in the festival this year indeed turned out to be the one that I’ve been thinking about the most since watching it, Amy Berg’s insightful and carefully assembled documentary It’s Never Over, Jeff Buckley, which is the first major documentary treatment of the late singer-songwriter’s career in over two decades since the 2002 BBC documentary Jeff Buckley: Everybody Here Wants You. That Buckley’s birth, life, and tragic early death at age 30 should feel like such a readymade story, yet one that’s still challenging to tell, speaks to why he’s remained an enigmatic ghost since his accidental drowning in 1997. The film works to unravel his enigma through many traces of archival footage and audio recordings that he left in his wake, accentuated with live performances and animation, as well as personal memories and commentary from other artists such as Ben Harper and Aimee Mann.

Jeff Buckley was born in 1966 to a single mother and is the son of famed folk musician Tim Buckley, who didn’t want a child to hinder him from touring at that point in his career. The presence of his absence and the overall sense of abandonment can be keenly felt throughout the early parts of the documentary that explore Jeff Buckley’s childhood, in spite of his obvious affection for and attachment to his mother. Jeff spent only one four-day period with his father during his youth, which ended with Tim putting Jeff on a bus home to his mom with a matchbook that he’d written “Love you” inside of, along with his phone number. All calls went unanswered, and Tim Buckley died within a year thereafter of a heroin overdose at age 28. The darkness of that loss haunts the film and clearly haunted Buckley even if he tried to escape or downplay it, remarking that it felt strange to have outlived his father when he turned 29. At that point, his career had already taken off, based on the popularity of his transfixing live performances and the strengths of his only studio album, his 1994 debut Grace. David Bowie praised it as the greatest album he’d heard.

Aimee Mann’s recollection of her conversation with Jeff Buckley at a noisy jazz bar has lingered with me the most since watching the film. Because of the loud volume of the music in the bar, the two wrote notes back and forth on a large white paper placemat throughout the night. His comment that he really likes sex gave Mann pause since he was the kind of guy who clearly needed love and rescuing. Her description of him as a very “liquid” person and his need to be rescued as a “tidal wave” that she had to protect herself from being drawn under by, despite the intrigue of his seductive, “self-medicating” sexual advances, reveals a lot and works on multiple levels, given his tragic death by drowning in Memphis. The sadness of that loss still brings her to tears as she recalls it nearly three decades later in this film. Ben Harper similarly recounts watching Buckley dangling dangerously from the rigging far above the stage at a Led Zepplin concert, in order to let the music totally surround him, so an animated image of Buckley falling through open space recurs throughout the documentary. In the end, curiously, it's a cultural aesthetic product about someone who was himself being turned into a product of commerce and deeply skeptical and distrustful of that process at that point in his young lifetime, but it works in the film because the documentary intelligently examines that exact same friction.

My Mom Jayne, the actress Mariska Hargitay’s moving, cleverly layered documentary about her legendary mother Jayne Mansfield, is just as sharply determined to investigate the harsh glare of fame’s limelight and how it caused various and often surprising distortions in her knowledge and understanding of her own family. Her father, the late Mickey Hargitay, who had immigrated from Hungary at a young age, found notoriety as a bodybuilder while his all-American wife Jayne Mansfield rode the pin-up wave to become a legitimate actress along the lines of Marilyn Monroe. Mariska’s older sister and two older brothers were somewhat perplexed by their mother’s vampy blonde Hollywood persona, contrasting with her smart and accomplished demeanor at home; she spoke several languages fluently and was an adept classical musician.

Mariska has no childhood memories of her mother, however, because she was only 3-years-old when Jayne Mansfield died in a car accident in New Orleans at age 34 with her children riding in the backseat, the devastating emotional climax that the film expertly and respectfully builds up to, and which elicited a collective gasp from the audience with whom I watched it, although the incident itself is fairly familiar from Hollywood history. The well-told narrative of Mariska’s personal trajectory beyond that point in the story is very finely paced, and its secrets and revelations (some of which must be kept spoiler-free in this review, in order to maximize the film’s cumulative power) are also deployed to riveting effect, with the appropriate balance of attention and purpose throughout the documentary. The result is an earnest homage to Jayne Mansfield’s unique individual memory, one that’s by now become somewhat faint, to be honest, in our own cultural memory. No Hollywood tale’s details would be easier to sensationalize, but Mariska Hargitay’s command over her subject matter navigates around those potentially lurid obstacles with authenticity and grace.

It's also heartening to watch her family’s mission come to fruition as the adult children gather together not only to share their painful memories, but more importantly to enjoy together the vault of archival materials that Mariska collected during her making of the documentary, a feat that serves in many generous ways to resurrect her mother’s spirit. Watching the family bond over these artifacts through their laughter and tears is a testament to the strength of a familial unit to endure some of the deepest forms of private and public tragedy, yet ultimately remain able to find redemption over time and with patience to heal. As Mariska Hargitay comments at age 60 in looking back on her mother’s life, Jayne Mansfield was so young as a successful Hollywood actress and a mother of four children, that time and understanding have now entirely shifted the perspective on what she survived and how her life should be viewed, as well as celebrated.

I truly enjoyed learning about a couple of Provincetown icons from Michael Cestaro’s documentary Everything Moves, two names that I’ve heard often over the past thirty years that I’ve been a regular visitor to the town: Salvatore and Josephine Del Deo. Sal, as he’s known in Provincetown, is one of the town’s many local star painters, whose work has documented the lives of Ptown’s fishermen and its extraordinary landscape. His wife Josephine was instrumental in helping to protect the land itself through spearheading the movement to have the tip of Cape Cod preserved as part of the National Seashore. It’s a very eerie feeling to be sitting in a movie in Ptown and realize that I might not have been sitting there at all had this woman’s work not prevented developers from gaining access to the very lands on which Town Hall stands.

Josephine’s efforts, as her New York Times obituary noted, helped to ensure that Provincetown wouldn’t be transformed into the typical kind of touristy resort beachfront ruined by endless strips of skyrise buildings, strictly for commercial and economic reasons. It makes sense then that Salvatore, who immigrated from Ischia, Italy, to Provincetown as a young man, was intent on forming community from the beginning of his time here. Not only did his paintings set out to capture that and preserve the images through his art, but he and Josephine also founded Sal’s Place in the west end of town, the wonderfully homey and genuine oceanside Italian restaurant that still operates in that same location under different ownership today. Sal memorably recalls how they barely ever made a profit in the restaurant’s early days since many fellow artists would come by late into the night to eat dinner cheap or even for free.

I’ll always remember a scene from much later in his life when Sal is gathered at a long outdoors dinner table with about twenty or more guests and cheerfully raises a toast: “To friendship!” I’ve been to similar gatherings here in town, so it’s a familiarly reliable scene. He speaks just as eloquently about his artistic process throughout the film, how it’s tied to both the history and presence of movement and light in the town’s landscape itself. His line about knowing that a painting is finished because “if I add one more thing to this picture, it will lose the balance” is also the perfect last line for the documentary. Although Sal’s legs weren’t feeling quite strong enough to stand up and address the audience at the packed Town Hall screening, everyone agreed that it was especially meaningful and memorable that he was able to attend and see his life play out retrospectively up on the big screen.

Carmen Emmi’s Plainclothes, set in 1997, focuses on the plight of a young gay closeted undercover policeman named Lucas, and his covert pursuit of Andrew, a slightly older closeted guy who’s also in a surprising occupation as we find out later in the film (again, that’s best left spoiler-free for those who plan to watch the movie). Lucas is stationed undercover near the restrooms in a local shopping mall as part of a sting operation to lure and entrap men who are cruising for sex there (think George Michael) and then get arrested for indecent exposure. Tom Blyth’s portrayal of Lucas is excellent and nuanced throughout, and one of the main reasons to see the film. He's keyed into his character’s downlow anxiety, one that spikes to a higher pitch in his moments alone, and yet he’s also aware of his own attractiveness and seductive energy to pull unsuspecting men at the mall into his orbit.

Russell Tovey is equally well-cast in his role, and he clearly knows these kinds of guys well and probably has even had some past personal experiences with them, given how precisely he modulates his character’s forwardness, indulgences, retreats, double-backs, and betrayals. Lucas imagines (or desires) that there’s much more to Andrew’s interest than Andrew would ever allow to enter into his own life, though Andrew is clearly drawn to Lucas in ways that he hadn’t anticipated when setting out to the mall. (“Where did you come from?” he asks with a bewildered smile as he gazes up at Lucas’ face during their intimate scene in a quiet greenhouse midway through the movie.) The movie’s time setting in 1997 is significant because it was still an era mostly before cell phones, and certainly well before gay instant hookup culture via apps like Grindr. Pagers go off often throughout the film, usually at inopportune times, a taste of things yet to come. But since cruising still happened mostly in person at that point in time, especially in a location just outside of Syracuse, New York, it gives the film and the actors’ performances a charge of energy that they would lack otherwise.

Nevertheless, not everything has changed about these sorts of men’s interactions since that time, nor even since the much earlier 1963 setting of Brokeback Mountain. The real underlying theme whenever a movie is dealing with the topic of sex between closeted guys, and a subject that remains intentionally undiscussable in relation to these issues, is men’s emotional unavailability, particularly their emotional unavailability to each other. So much in our culture is still dependent upon the smokescreen of that reality never being fully addressed. The big confrontation scene between the two men later in the film is blunt enough and well-scripted (Russell Tovey is great at conveying this, just as he was in the underseen movie The Pass), but it bends too soon to the idea of heteronormative family. Note how much more played up the marriages in the film of Brokeback Mountain are, for instance, when compared to Annie Proulx’s original short story. I would have liked to see the two central characters in Plainclothes have a chance to go deeper into that dialogue one-on-one, which they come a bit closer to doing in a hushed scene at an old movie-house, although I wonder whether that will ever really happen in another film someday or not, given the reasons that I’ve mentioned above. Andrew Haigh’s Weekend provides the kind of model that could work, if it’s even possible for closeted guys to talk about it at that intimate kind of level. Perhaps it isn’t.

Finally, on the festival’s opening night I was glad to see Little Shrew, Kate Bush’s animated music video for her song “Snowflake,” included in a program of short films. Surely, she’s the most globally famous director of a short film ever to have appeared in the lineup for the festival in Provincetown (unless there’s someone else who’s more widely known that I’m forgetting?), even if her inclusion in this year’s festival seemed to provoke little fanfare, maybe because the video has been available online since last fall. It’s a beautifully conceived and executed short, on the heavy topic of war and its effect on small children. The approach is delicate and harrowing at once, as the little shrew of the title traverses war-torn forests and cityscapes, including the body of a dead soldier, followed and seemingly safeguarded by a light-like snowflake. Kate Bush has mentioned that the idea for the film was sparked by the start of the war in Ukraine in 2022. The audience’s complete and total silence as we watched and listened (the gorgeous song was sung by Bush’s son Bertie) said everything.

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Jason

Boston, United States

Pop culture aficionado.

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