Author: Justin Humphreys

Director-co-screenwriter J.A. Bayona’s Society of the Snow is a well-made, engrossing story of survival told straightforwardly and conventionally. The film deftly depicts a horrifying, real-life tragedy and, although it is vivid, it avoids being sordid.

In October 1972, Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571 to Chile, carrying a rugby team of young men and some of their family members crashed in the frozen Andes mountains. With the plane slashed into two widely separated pieces, the survivors set about gathering what supplies they can and tending to the wounded.

Trapped in brutally cold conditions with minimal, claustrophobic shelter, their circumstances go from bad, to worse, to downright hellish. Faced with imminent starvation, they are forced to eat their friends’ and families’ corpses. Driven by an indomitable will to escape, they battle for survival within this merciless landscape.

This infamous incident is so captivating and shocking that it gets retold every so often. In the 1970s, the cannibalism angle made it prime fodder for exploitation in trashy movies like Survive! and luridly titled paperbacks like They Survived on Human Flesh! In 1993, the story inspired Alive!, an Irwin Allen-like disaster melodrama based on Piers Paul Read’s 1974 book of the same name.

In Society of the Snow, the survivors’ last resort of cannibalism is depicted very tastefully—no pun intended. This critical aspect of the story is effectively conveyed visually without morbid lingering. But be warned that the characters’ physical torments throughout are shown in graphic detail.

The story behind Society of the Snow may be familiar to many viewers, and while its innate power makes it gripping, the film isn’t nearly as affecting as it could have been. Bayona is faced with the difficult task of developing roughly two dozen characters, and he doesn’t entirely succeed—a challenge for any director within a standard movie’s running time—but as the survivors’ ranks diminish they get easier to follow.

The script is generally decent, with some outstanding sequences of the castaways distracting themselves from their plight by composing doggerel verse and practicing bird calls. But the opening scenes feature a ham-handed bit of foreshadowing as several characters attend mass and the part about eating flesh gets excessive emphasis.

The first act and the last act are solid, but the second act drags, which is arguably because Bayona wanted to convey the interminable quality of this situation. If that’s the case, there are more visually economical and engaging ways of getting that across.

The makeup, art direction, and costume design work is first-rate, contributing significantly to an overall sense of gruesome verisimilitude. To further heighten the realism, the actors nearly starved themselves to look properly gaunt and malnourished, and the plane wreck was recreated in the actual area where Flight 571 went down.

The cinematography is fine, particularly considering how much of Society of the Snow was shot on location. Michael Giacchino’s score is excellent overall, proving once again that he’s one of the best film composers alive.

While not exceptional, Society of the Snow is a very respectable production, but not recommended for those with weak stomachs. If, however, you don’t mind taking this harsh journey, the film is ultimately satisfying and uplifting.

Society of the Snow

R, 158 minutes | Netflix

Writer and director Takashi Yamazaki’s Godzilla Minus One is easily among 2023’s most engaging, exciting, and poignant films. This isn’t some pulp monster movie to be casually dismissed by snobs—it’s a compelling post-World War II drama that periodically features a monster rearing its huge head, and it gives its big, scaly, radioactive leading man his best—and most ferocious—part in years.

Near the end of World War II, kamikaze pilot Koichi (Ryunosuke Kamiki) freezes in terror behind his gun as Godzilla attacks a small island, resulting in heavy casualties. Returning in disgrace to shattered postwar Tokyo, he gradually rebuilds his life in the rubble and forms a surrogate family with young thief Noriko (Minami Hamabe) and Akiko, her adopted infant.

As Japan revives itself, Koichi supports his dependents with a risky job aboard a ship that destroys the war’s leftover mines dotting coastal waters. Meanwhile, atomic testing has rendered Godzilla infinitely more powerful, and the creature starts swimming—as always—toward Tokyo to lay waste to the city and its people. Koichi and his fellow veterans band together in an attempt to destroy the seemingly unstoppable beast.

Godzilla Minus One is essentially a broad reimagining of the original 1954 Godzilla, and it draws somewhat on that film’s adult tone. Unlike the light-hearted juvenilia that Godzilla movies became over subsequent decades, the first film was meant to be genuinely scary and disturbing. The monster represented the horrible aftermath of the atomic bombings and the specter of the nuclear age.

It’s a reminder of how rich monster movies—including Japan’s kaiju (giant monster) films—can be. Sometimes with Godzilla, the audience cheers the big gray guy on as he battles Ghidorah, or some other monster, and wrecks Tokyo. Here, the horrible cost of his mayhem is always evident, and viewers wince at the devastation he wreaks, which is the filmmaker’s intention. Yamazaki presents arguably the most vicious, merciless Godzilla in the entire series’ history.

But it’s the human element that makes Godzilla Minus One so successful. The cast is exceptionally likable and sympathetic, from its leads to supporting characters like neighbor Sumiko (Sakura Ando) to Koichi’s captain, Yoji (Kuranosuke Sasaki). These competent actors keep the story potent while successfully seasoning it with comedy.

It’s astounding that Godzilla Minus One cost a reported $15 million when its production values are so lavish. The visual effects are remarkably convincing, while still paying tribute to the classic Godzilla. Although he is largely a CG effect here, the monster is designed to stay true to its traditional bottom-heavy, man-in-a-suit physicality. Among other touches, Godzilla’s trademark roar carries over from his previous cinematic incarnations, and composer Akira Ifukube’s theme music intensifies the action in several key scenes.  

To go into greater detail would likely lead to spoilers. Suffice it to say that Godzilla Minus One excels most current films by a wide margin on all fronts. At a time when foreign releases seldom get American distribution, a subtitled movie about a gargantuan lizard that has captivated audiences this widely is a testament to its overall quality. Hollywood could learn a lot about storytelling from this giant, animated dinosaur that is stomping most of its Oscar bait flat.

Ridley Scott’s historical epic Napoleon covers the well-worn territory of the titular French emperor’s monumental military conquests and eventual downfall. Scott’s battle sequences are undeniably extraordinary, and it’s gorgeous overall, but mediocre dialogue and Joaquin Phoenix’s dull title performance noticeably weaken the film.

Scott opens Napoleon with a climax: a bold sequence depicting the beheading of Marie Antoinette, with Napoleon in attendance—one of the film’s many historical inaccuracies. From there, the story alternates between Napoleon’s rise to power from one bloody battlefield to another and his tumultuous marriage to Josephine (Vanessa Kirby). In this interpretation of history, the conqueror is depicted as mannerless, childish, and deeply insecure, all of which Josephine is well aware of and uses to control him.

At 85, Scott is still fully capable of creating intricate, sweeping battles, heavy on extras and mayhem, and his visions of combat are Napoleon’s real stars. He has lost none of the visual acumen that went into his earlier masterpieces like Alien and Blade Runner, particularly in his lighting and compositions. Likewise, the enthusiasm he showed for restaging the Napoleonic Wars in The Duellists is still vividly apparent.

These exceptional battles overstay their welcome, and the viewer eventually starts to feel buried under all the mortar fire and severed limbs. But the film goes deeply astray with its central human story of Napoleon’s overwhelming passion for Josephine. What made The Duellists so engaging was the central performances by Keith Carradine and Harvey Keitel. Scott’s Napoleon is most significantly undercut by Phoenix as the “Little Colonel.”

Not since Phoenix’s Johnny Cash in Walk the Line has he been so hopelessly miscast. Delivering much of his dialogue in a flavorless monotone, he creates, possibly, cinema’s dullest Napoleon. Were it not for his wardrobe and makeup, it would seem like he was playing an entirely different historical figure. To make matters worse, he keeps adding self-indulgent touches in the worst method acting tradition. Phoenix significantly drains the suspension of disbelief in all of his scenes by constantly reminding the viewer he’s acting.

Despite Phoenix’s lame work here, Kirby gives a fine performance as Josephine, and easily outshines her co-star. The rest of the cast is good, even when saddled with mediocre dialogue—the film’s other big flaw. The cinematography, editing, musical score, production design, and costumes are all excellent. Within Napoleon’s gargantuan scope, the richly detailed wardrobe and sets are up to Scott’s usual exacting standards.

There have been rumors that the theatrical version of Napoleon is significantly shorter than Scott’s full director’s cut, and that the streaming version will be longer. This is a mixed blessing: It will likely flesh-out Napoleon’s character in ways the film doesn’t, but it also means there will be more of Phoenix’s histrionics to deal with. It would be a significantly better film if all of his dialogue was cut.

Napoleon is worth seeing on the big screen almost solely for its battles and visual splendor. Lower your expectations of a stirring or believable lead performance, and the film delivers a halfway extraordinary cinematic experience. But battlefield porn can only carry a movie so far, and its star shouldn’t be its own Waterloo.

Director Alexander Payne’s The Holdovers is a love letter to 1970s cinema. An avowed cinephile, Payne affectionately evokes the era’s character-driven and frequently dark films with this wry comedy-drama. Payne’s Sideways’ star Paul Giamatti delivers a rich, funny performance in the lead, helping The Holdovers stand out as one of 2023’s best American movies.

Set in 1970 in an isolated Massachusetts boarding school, the film focuses on curmudgeonly teacher Paul Hunham (Giamatti), who must spend the duration of the Christmas holidays minding five students who are unable to return home. Hunham, a former student himself, has spent most of his life sourly entrenched on the school’s campus. Four of the kids manage to get out, leaving Hunham alone with his witty, troubled student Angus Tully (Dominic Sessa) and cafeteria chief Mary Lamb (Da’Vine Joy Randolph). Each of these three disparate people carries their own burden of grief and confusion, and over the holiday season, they gradually bond and enliven their peculiar circumstances.

Screenwriter David Hemingson has created a highly literate script that is by turns funny, touching, nasty, and sweet, without getting treacly. Its humor is akin to Michael Ritchie’s comedies like Smile and The Bad News Bears. The sharp dialogue is peppered with far-ranging cultural references—from the Punic Wars to Artie Shaw—and the filmmakers trust the audience to catch them all. This respect for the viewer’s intelligence makes the movie a welcome change from Hollywood’s tendency to aim for the lowest common denominator.

The Holdovers has been criticized for not delving deeper into its period’s volatile cultural landscape. That the film doesn’t fall into the worn-out clichés usually trotted out in such films—protests, hippies vs. cops, etc.—is a relief. Payne’s focus is on his characters, although there are specific jabs at the Vietnam War’s destructive misguidedness. Also to the film’s credit, Payne deftly manages to simultaneously convey the warmest and the most depressing sides of Christmas.

Without revealing some of The Holdovers’ many intriguing surprises, it’s a story told on a small but intensely detailed canvas that explores the tribulations of teenage life, middle age, the spoiled rich, and the struggling working class. But it’s also about the continuity of life and surviving and thriving in the face of tragedy.

From Giamatti down to the smallest walk-on parts, the cast is well chosen and in excellent form. Giamatti clearly savors playing another of the fussy, fusty oddball roles he excels at, and he’s a joy to watch. First-timer Sessa registers very well as the anxious, wound-up Tully. Randolph’s deadpan reactions to her nerve-wracking companions are wonderful, as are her dynamic moments in emotionally charged scenes.

Working on a modest budget, The Holdovers’ exceptional creative team convincingly recreates vintage New England without belaboring the period details. It looks, feels, and practically smells like 1970, from the ugly furniture, to pipe-smoking in a movie theater, to the W. C. Fields poster on a dorm room wall. Production designer Ryan Warren Smith and costume designer Wendy Chuck have done especially remarkable work.

The Holdovers excels as an ode to ’70s films in countless ways, and perhaps most strongly in its merciful lack of pat, easy answers. It offers the kind of rewarding and emotionally jagged story that has all but vanished from the movies, and it comes highly recommended.

The Holdovers

R, 206 minutes | Alamo Drafthouse Cinema, Regal Stonefield Cinema, Violet Crown Cinema

Martin Scorsese’s Killers of the Flower Moon is nearly three and a half hours long, but its length just means the great filmmaker did justice to this sweeping, fascinating story. Flower Moon moves like a long fuse tensely burning down to an inevitable explosion. It’s a hypnotic, gorgeous, grand work and Scorsese’s best in years.

Based on David Grann’s non-fiction book, the movie documents a series of murders and other crimes committed against the Osage Nation a century ago. Fresh from World War I, the dull-witted Ernest Burkhart (Leonardo DiCaprio) goes to work for his powerful uncle, William King Hale (Robert De Niro), in Oklahoma’s Osage Territory. The Osage Tribe is wealthy from the oil-rich land, but the locals—especially the glad-handing sociopath Hale—swindle them at every opportunity. 

Hale’s vile schemes extend to coaxing his nephew into marrying an Osage woman, Mollie (Lily Gladstone), with the intention of inheriting a claim on her family’s wealth. As mysterious deaths build up, Mollie complains to the federal government, who make this the first major case for their budding Bureau of Investigation.

Flower Moon pursues elements that run throughout Scorsese’s oeuvre: a self-destructive, criminal protagonist; religion; terminally fractured romances; and organized crime. At 80, Scorsese is as cinematically gifted as ever, but he’s more contemplative now. This is an intense and enormously visually inventive film, but not as feverishly so as his youthful works like Taxi Driver or Raging Bull.

Part of Flower Moon’s overall effectiveness derives from how subtly Scorsese documents insidious, cold-hearted evil. He lets hellish events unfold without bludgeoning the audience with self-righteous lectures. For instance, the period’s casual, ingrained racism is just another facet of the terrifying landscape, like when the Ku Klux Klan march behind the Osage Nation in a local parade. Underlying the vicious crimes being perpetrated onscreen is a profound sympathy for the tribe’s violated humanity.

The great production designer Jack Fisk does a stellar job of recreating this bygone world, packing every shot densely with rich period details. Cinematographer Rodrigo Prieto’s vast canvas practically demands that Flower Moon be seen on the big screen. Costume designer Jacqueline West’s contributions are also superb.

As with all Scorsese pictures, music is integral. This was the final film score by his longtime friend and collaborator Robbie Robertson, who created a tense, insistent, often low-key score that adds immeasurably to the film’s unsettling tone.

DiCaprio resorts to a lot of brow-knitting and jaw-clenching. De Niro is decent, but is most effective in his silent moments, and both he and DiCaprio handle their regional accents unsurely. Gladstone’s fine, restrained performance as Molly seems doubly strong alongside DiCaprio’s excesses. Jesse Plemons is first-rate and natural as Federal Agent Tom White. The supporting cast is fantastic overall, including venerable actors like Barry Corbin and John Lithgow. Scorsese loves distinctive faces and Flower Moon is full of them, devoid of slick, Hollywood prettiness. 

There is much more that could be said about Flower Moon, but in a nutshell, it is likely the best American film of 2023—far superior to the overrated Oppenheimer. It’s a disturbing, artistically rewarding journey through an ugly chapter in American history that’s worth seeing multiple times.

Killers of the Flower Moon

R, 206 minutes | Alamo Drafthouse Cinema, Regal Stonefield Cinema, Violet Crown Cinema