I managed to see more new releases this year than I saw in any prior year writing for Swampflix (at least as far as I can tell, having started noting every movie that I see with the date I watched it just a few years ago). The issue is that sometimes I see movies that have some individual elements that are fantastic but aren’t enough to push that movie into the “best” of the year for me. For instance, I didn’t care for Infinity Pool very much—it was excellently made, perfectly sound edited, expertly cast—but still want to highlight that it deserves consideration in some field, even if I can’t consider it one of my favorites for the year. Cobweb was a fun movie that fell apart toward the end, but its lead child actor deserves special accolades for the performance that he turned in. There are also times when some of the most beautiful parts of a movie only become clearer later on, sometime after I wrote my review, and I want to make sure that I highlight a performance that had a bigger impact on me after I had more time to ruminate on the piece.
So, in order to make sure that I give out all the laurels that my limited internet presence allows, here are some of the standouts in every category. It’s based largely on the Academy ballot, but without the categories I’m not qualified (either because I didn’t see enough of them, like documentaries, or because I don’t have access to some relevant material, like best original screenplays, etc.) to judge. I also didn’t include Best Original Song because there’s really only one contender in my mind: ”Dear Alien (Who Art In Heaven)” from Asteroid City. I also fiddled with the Supporting Actor section to split it up between age groups rather than genders, both to ensure that nonbinary actor Quintessa Swindell had a seat at the table for their stellar performance in Master Gardener (another film that didn’t make my Top 20) and to highlight that this was an amazing year for children and young adult performers. Whether as uncannily unchildlike creeps in There’s Something Wrong with the Children, or the victims of terror as in Cobweb and M3GAN, a lot of young actors brought a lot to the table this year. Please enjoy these recommendations, and happy holidays!
20. A potent fable about the cost of notoriety and fame, Dream Scenario is a strong showing from Norwegian writer-director Kristoffer Borgli, who also edited the film. The movie charts the sudden memetic popularity of a sad sack professor at a lower tier university who is always on the verge of self-actualizing but never has the wherewithal to stop procrastinating and apply himself; when he begins appearing in people’s dreams, through no action of his own, he becomes an instant internet star, only to see that fame come crashing down when his dream avatar becomes a more frightening figure. Read my review here.
19. A coming-of-age story that incorporates many of the best parts of children’s fantasy that came before it, from The Chronicles of Narnia to The Wonderful Wizard of Oz to Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and more, The Boy and the Heron sees these familiar narrative devices through the lens of a childhood haunted by grief and as imagined by the most talented living animation director, Hayao Miyazaki. A movie that can be frustrating to an audience that is unwilling to float along with its dream logic or to those viewers who are uncomfortable with ambiguity, it’s hard to imagine that something this stuffed with the fantastic could be said to leave a lot to the imagination, but it does. Most recommended movie of the year for bird people. Read my review here.
18. Not just for fans of Haruki Murakami’s literature, but perhaps poised to be most appreciated by them, Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman was adapted from disparate pieces from Murakami’s canon to create a (mostly) singular narrative by composer Pierre Földes, who also produced, directed, and scored it. The animation style is not as beautiful to the eye as the previous entry on this list, and can take a moment to adjust to, but it has a DIY magic all of its own. Read my review here.
17. Like The Boy and the Heron, Moon Garden draws a great deal of inspiration from the children’s fantasies of yesteryear, but instead of pulling from literature, it takes its direction from the darker kid’s fantasy films of the 1980s, like Return to Oz, The NeverEnding Story, Paperhouse, Labyrinth, and later works that evoke that same feeling like MirrorMask and Pan’s Labyrinth. A throwback to more creatively articulated dark fantasy through the use of older film techniques and (apparent) rejection of computer effects, this is one that I predict will have a lot of staying power in years to come. Listen to the Lagniappe Podcast Crew talk about it here.
16. Is there a way to describe something that’s almost the platonic ideal of an indie darling? Like, something that could accurately be said to be simply a rebundling of cliches but which is also somehow entirely new? That’s what Christmas sleeper hit The Holdovers is—to be honest, there may not be an entirely original idea anywhere in here, but that doesn’t make it any less affecting, emotional, or funny. Alexander Payne masterfully molds together a film that made me ache for every person on screen, a story I’d seen before but nonetheless brand new. Read my review here.
15. I absolutely adored Greta Gerwig’s adaptation of Little Women and wept openly at Lady Bird, but I must admit that I didn’t exactly have high hopes for this corporate synergy vehicle. Even as the date of Barbie’s arrival drew near and the entire internet burst out into endless grassroots marketing via Barbenheimer memes, I still mostly considered it more of a curiosity that was likely to make a dump truck full of cash than a potentially moving addition to Gerwig’s canon. It didn’t move me as much as her previous movies; America Ferrera is very close to my heart and I absolutely love every speech that she gives in this movie, but Jo’s declaration of independence to Laurie in Little Women wasn’t interrupted by a Chevy commercial like one of Gloria’s monologues here, which cheapens things a bit. But I did laugh more than in the others, and that was a lovely experience. It’s been six months and I still giggle when I think about Barbie’s frustration at being called a fascist — “I don’t control the railways or the flow of commerce!” Read my review here.
14. Another knockout bizarro comedy feature from Quentin Dupieux (Rubber), Fumer fait tousser (Smoking Causes Coughing) is a delightfully bloody flick that features a framing device that reminded me a lot of one of my favorite TV comedies, Danger 5, and this movie is similarly deconstructive. When a team of tobacco-based superheroes in the vein of Power Rangers is sent on a retreat by their leader, their telling of stories to one another stitches together vignettes of horror set against peace: an unbothered young man is reduced to a pulp by an industrial machine, a welder’s mask grants its wearer serenity but turns them into a murderer, etc. Delightfully funny and worth the attention. Read Brandon’s review here.
13. A slow burn thriller, Brandon initially pitched The Royal Hotel to me as a more grounded version of Alex Garland’s Men, and in his review, he also mentions Dead Calm, which is a personal favorite of my mother’s that became a favorite of mine. Both are good points of comparison, especially in regard to this film’s sense of omnipresent danger from a dangerous man (or men) in a completely isolated place, but the movie that I couldn’t stop thinking about while watching this one was Queen of Earth, which was my favorite film of 2015. I’ll echo the sentiments he expressed in his review completely, and add that I loved the slow burn of the relationship between the two women here, and loved that so much was left up to implication.
12. Some time after I initially reviewed it, Brandon texted me to let me know that he had enjoyed There’s Something Wrong with the Children more than expected, citing that it had “tapped into ‘I don’t really like being around kids’ energy in a relatable way,” which was also one of my favorite things about this anxiety-riddled second feature from director Roxanne Benjamin. There’s a little bit of fumbling at the finish line, but it’s not enough to wash away the bitter, unsettling aftertaste of the first three quarters. Read my review here.
11. I love a movie that pushes the boundaries and isn’t afraid to try something novel. As a film with virtually no dialogue, No One Will Save You is a triumphant example of how to make a story that’s 100% show and 0% tell without ever losing any of the tension of the main threat. Kaitlyn Dever is phenomenal here, and every emotion that crosses her face is palpable, one of the best single performances in anything I saw all year. Read my review here.
10. I was surprised by how much I still liked what will likely be the finale of my favorite horror series—and if it isn’t, the series is dead to me at least absent some major reparations for its cast. There might not be another one after Scream VI, but this was a pretty decent way to go out. I didn’t think that this series could continue without Neve Campbell, and the only way that it does manage to work is through the return of the previously presumed dead Kirby, played by Hayden Panettiere. The twists are less twisty here than they were in the immediately previous installment, and the connection to horror tropes are the most tenuous they’ve been since Scream 3, but the newer cast that was introduced in 5cream have gelled into a more interesting group this time around, with Melissa Barrios as the standout for improved performance since last time. It’s the best it could be without Sidney, and Gale Weathers’ inclusion in the plot from the start makes sure that the film hits the ground running. It’s rare for a horror franchise to hit this milestone without having such severe diminishing returns that it becomes a shell of itself, but this one finishes strong. Read my review here.
9. It’s been so, so long since I saw M3gan, but I made a vow to myself that I would not let the fact that I saw it allllll the way back during the first week of the year prevent it from being considered for its rightful place here on this list. To be honest, despite all the intervening time, I don’t think I’ve managed to go more than a week or two without thinking about it, even after its memetic success was completely obliterated by the Barbenheimer blitz. Discourse about both “iPad kids” and artificial “intelligence” has only gotten bigger since January, with the film having presaged that conversation with all of its discussions about screen exposure time and the fact that interaction with a machine is no substitute for real human contact and genuine love. And all wrapped up in a perfect killer doll movie. What more could you ask for, really? Read my review here.
8. It’s kind of hard to talk about Enys Men. More like a cinematic tone poem about loneliness and isolation than a “movie.” I want to say that it does have the semblance of a narrative, but even that isn’t really true, as while there are events, their relation to one another is an exercise in imagination rather than observation, requiring a patching together that will never fully reconcile into a legible text. There’s a woman, an island, and a mineshaft, and there’s too much silence and not quite enough tea. Listen to the Lagniappe Podcast Crew talk about it here, and check out Brandon’s review here.
7. The truth is, we take Wes Anderson for granted. Asteroid City is an instant contender with The Life Aquatic and The Grand Budapest Hotel as the most triumphant example of his imitable style made ever, ever so vast. It’s all encompassing, with more layers of reality upon fiction upon more fiction upon reality than The Matrix, with an utterly gorgeous set design and a cast of actors who are giving what may be career best performances. Just marvelous. Read my review here.
6. Sandra Hüller is captivating in Anatomie d’une chute (Anatomy of a Fall) as a woman who must stand trial for the murder of her husband, all while we in the audience never learn whether his death was an accident, suicide, or murder. That absence of information is a shadowy void in the center of this film, a known unknown whose invisibility means that, just as in life, all we have to go on are people’s imperfect memories, their self-serving rationalizations, and the presumption of honesty. One of the most mature movies for adults of recent years and the one with the most enduring appeal of 2023. Read my review here.
5. A genre-bending mash-up of blaxploitation crime thrillers, social commentary comedies, and body snatching sci-fi pulp, They Cloned Tyrone was the funniest movie of the year. Incorporating that feeling of mind-numbing, endless monotony that was part of the quarantine experience, the film breaks new ground when it comes to conspiracy thrillers, taking its characters on a wild ride and us along with them. John Boyega is a knockout in this one. Read my review here.
4. I still can’t believe that the premiere screening for Beau is Afraid was followed by an outburst from an attendee stating that he “better not hear any fucking clapping.” This movie is undoubtedly bizarre, and I’m not the least bit surprised that it was so divisive, but it’s also hard to believe that there wasn’t something here for everyone to laugh at, at least once. Beau is a man in the midst of an endless waking nightmare in which every one of his paranoid delusions proves to be true, but what lies beneath the surface is even more frightening (and hilarious, and disgusting) than one would initially anticipate. I don’t think that this one will be recalled as fondly in the coming years as Hereditaryand Midsommar have been, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t fantastic. Read my review here.
3. It’s been five months since I saw Past Lives, and I still think about it once a week, at least. There was only one other person in the theater with my viewing companion and I when we saw this one, and she was bawling by the end. There’s just something so palpable about the feeling of the life you could have had slipping away from you, the way that the number of doors that are open to you start closing exponentially faster as you get older, and the way that the love that could have been lingers on the tongue and on the heart. Sometimes the doors do close, and there’s nothing you can do but hope to catch the same bus as your soulmate the next time around. Read my review here.
2. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a movie quite like Ang Pagbabalik ng Kwago (aka Leonor Will Never Die) before. There are easy comparisons to other “character enters a fantasy land” narratives, but none of them have such a thin membrane between the fantasy inside of a character’s mind and the “real” world in which they are comatose. Sometimes, the narrative within the fictional world that Leonor scripts and then enters gets completely stuck until Leonor herself decides to focus on another part of the action. Blending in supposed behind the scenes photographs and footage from the filming of this actual film only further shreds the curtain between reality and fiction, and it’s sublime. Read my review here.
1. I knew from the moment that I saw it that La vaca que cantó una canción hacia el futuro (The Cow Who Sang a Song into the Future) would be my number one film of the year. A haunting, beautiful meditation on that which pollutes—undermines our love for our families, poisons our air and water, leaches toxins into our soil and our relationships. The narrative moves like the river that forms the backbone of the film, dreamy and languid at some points and deep and rushing at others, but never at the wrong pace, solemn when needed and joyful when called for. Read my review here.
Every year, I get into a discussion with at least one person about the fact that I don’t much care for Christmas music. There are a lot of reasons for this. For one thing, I grew up in a household in which we were only allowed to listen to one radio station, one that was Contemporary Christian music 10.5 months of the year and nothing but the same 30-40 Christmas songs in the six weeks leading up to Christmas. It wasn’t as if you were going to hear anything tongue-in-cheek on 92.7 “The Bridge,” which means no “Santa Baby,” no Chipmunks, no mothers kissing Santa Claus or grandmothers getting run over by reindeer; you might get something haunting and ethereal that you wouldn’t get on a mainstream station like Amy Grant’s “Breath of Heaven” to almost make up for the dearth of otherwise worthwhile material, but that was about it. Add in that they didn’t even have more than one version of the standards that they did have, and it was a monotonous time. Secondly, I often find that people who have positive associations with Christmas have never had a job working retail, which means that they’ve never heard the same unimaginative version of “Little Drummer Boy” six times while manning an eight-hour shift at the cash register at Urban Outfitters (or worse, the Nook nook at Barnes & Noble, where you attempt to convince people who just came in to get a copy of Green Eggs and Ham for their niece to buy a less-functional iPad at the same price point), which will kill any fondness you might have had for a song. Still, every year, my best friend and I watch The Muppet Christmas Carol, and it’s part of our tradition that sometime during “It Feels Like Christmas” I turn to her and say “Y’know, I think this is my favorite Christmas carol. Not my favorite Christmas Carol adaptation, but like my favorite Christmas song,” and she says “Y’know, you say that every year.” That film came out allllll the way back in 1992, and although there have been a few other Christmas movies that have come out since whose appeal was universal (Elf), blandly inoffensive in a corporate way (The Santa Clause), or bizarre (Krampus) enough to be considered part of the Christmas Movie Canon (at least to some), they are few and far between. We may have a new one with The Holdovers, though.
It’s almost Christmas, 1970, at the New England boarding school Barton Academy. Junior Angus Tully (Dominic Sessa) is excited to spend his winter break in Saint Kitts with his family, even packing up a pair of beach briefs that he describes as the most masculine thing that he could wear, as they’re the same as the ones James Bond wore in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. On the last (half) day of the term, the strict and authoritarian ancient civilizations professor Paul Hunham (Paul Giamatti) “generously” offers to let one of his classes, comprised mostly of boys who have failed the midyear exam, to take a retest upon their return, although there will be new material on that test, which means more studying during their vacation. Both of their Christmas plans are derailed, however. When one of his peers fakes a relative’s illness to get out of chaperoning the “holdovers” (boys who will be staying at the school rather than returning to their parents for the holidays), Hunham is enlisted to perform these duties, and he is all but told outright by the school’s headmaster Dr. Woodrip (Andrew Garman) that this is in retaliation for his refusal to give a passing grade to the son of a senator, costing Barton one of its largest donors. While waiting for his pickup, Tully receives a phone call from his mother, canceling their family trip at the last minute so that she can spend this time as a late honeymoon with the boy’s new stepfather, thus leaving him as one of the aforementioned holdovers, all of whom will be bunking in the infirmary as the dorms and school building will be without heat for the duration, for cost-saving reasons. The only other person who will be around consistently is Mary Lamb (Da’Vine Joy Randolph), the cafeteria manager, who is hesitant to leave the last place that she spent time with her late son Curtis, who was recently killed in action in Vietnam.
Although there are initially five students at Barton for Christmas, that number is whittled down to just Angus when one of the other boys’ father, a mogul of some kind, comes to collect his son for a ski trip and takes the other boys along, with Angus’s mother being unreachable on her vacation in order to give permission for him to go. When Angus injures himself while leading Paul on a chase around the school building, he is taken to the hospital, where he lies to cover for Paul and prevent the older man from losing his job, although he says he will call on the return of an equivalent favor one day. While eating in town on the way back, they encounter Lydia (Carrie Preston), Dr. Woodrip’s assistant, who tells them that she picks up a few shifts waiting tables over the holidays every year, and invites them to her Christmas party. They take her up on her offer and attend the party along with Mary, and while Angus hits it off with Lydia’s niece, Paul falls into the trap of being optimistic about Lydia’s potential to be attracted to him only to discover she has a boyfriend, and Mary drinks too much and has a breakdown about the loss of her son in the house’s kitchen. She’s not too drunk to tell Paul off about how he’s treating Angus. This eventually leads to the two taking a field trip into Boston after Christmas, but one of the stops they make along the way ends up having consequences that neither of them could have predicted.
Paul Hunham is a fascinating character. We’re not meant to like him very much at first, and I think that he’s off-putting in that he represents the version of ourselves that we fear others see: unattractive, smelly, clumsy, incapable of telling a story. Our sympathy for him grows, however, as the pieces of his life fall into place as he and Angus get to know one another and open up to each other more: abusive father, scholarship to Barton Academy at age fifteen, went on to an Ivy League school where his more privileged roommate deflected his own plagiarism by framing Paul and Paul’s subsequent retaliation costing him his education. He returned to Barton, where he was given a position by a kindly former headmaster who saw his potential, only to now be serving at the leisure of a man who was once his own pupil. His backstory also intertwines with Mary’s, as she reveals that although Curtis likewise was able to attend Barton on scholarship, but upon graduation, he wasn’t able to go straight into university like his rich classmates and enlisted in the service in order to attend school on the G.I. Bill when he returned — but he didn’t come back. Along with Angus, who didn’t grow up in wealth and is only in attendance at Barton because his mother’s new husband is wealthy, they are the outsiders amongst the elite. In contrast, school’s effortlessly charming quarterback is initially left at the school by his father because the boy refuses to cut his long blond 1970s hair, but when he hears the helicopter approaching the school, he exclaims that he knew his father would break first, and he returns to school after break with a shorn head. Unlike the tragedies of the lives of our three leads, his troubles are shallow and silly, as his father’s feud was over nothing more than vanity and was resolved with no real loss since the boy was being stubborn about his hair because, in a world where you really have no other problems, what else are you going to fight about?
If you’re reading this and thinking to yourself, “Wait, didn’t I hear that this movie was a comedy?” you are correct, it is; it’s just my nature to get hung up on the melancholy parts of these kinds of dramedies. Now that it’s addressed, it’s worth noting that this movie is, in fact, hilarious. Sessa is fantastic, a breakout freshman performance from an unknown actor who just happened to audition for the movie because he attended the school at which it was being filmed. There’s a scene late in the film when Paul is sitting at a bowling alley bar and he attempts to talk to two of the Bostonians there, a bartender and a regular dressed as Santa. He attempts to ingratiate himself with them by delivering a rambling monologue about how Santa should be dressed according to Grecian tradition, and although it’s exactly the kind of thing that would be very annoying behavior from a stranger at the bar, Giamatti plays it with the perfect intermix of attempted frivolity and joviality with witless, unobservant boorishness that it’s impossible not to be charmed by it in spite of oneself. Sessa manages to do the same with Angus, making him a triumphant example of a kid who’s too smart for his own good but is also struggling with rejection from his peers and his lack of friends in spite of his good nature underneath. It’s a very charming form of humor, and it works just as well as all of the great physical comedy that is going on around it (special mention to Paul Hunham’s absolutely pathetic attempt to throw a football).
We throw the phrase “instant classic” around a lot these days. I’ve said it myself about things that didn’t stand the test of time and which have faded into obscurity. I don’t know if we’ll be able to look back on this one in ten years and say that it’s part of the canon, but I do know that I’ll be watching it one year from now, and that’s good enough for me.
Kokomo City is one of the most visually stunning documentaries I’ve seen in a long while, composed entirely of black & white images so stark in contrast they recall old-world nitrate celluloid; it’s practically filmed in black & silver. It’s also one of the most awkwardly edited docs I’ve seen in a long while, to the point where it’s difficult to believe it was shot & edited by the same person. First-time filmmaker D. Smith started the project largely as a one-woman show, interviewing a small cast of transgender sex workers about their lives & labor while she was on the verge of choosing between the trade and homelessness herself. Her total control over the project as a director, cinematographer, and editor speaks to its qualities as an intimate, personal work that makes space for its subjects to speak candidly about their lives without hesitation or filter. It also speaks to Smith’s comedic sensibilities, often undercutting those confessional interviews’ darker turns with the boi-oi-oing sound effects & slide whistles of a vaudevillian cartoon. Maybe that choice was necessary to prevent the film from becoming one-dimensional miserabilist poverty porn about Black trans women’s lives, but its flippant soundtrack choices and shot-to-shot rhythms still distract from how gorgeous its individual images are in isolation. It’s continually frustrating that these same raw materials could easily be re-edited into something timelessly cool instead of something needlessly frantic.
This is likely a silly complaint to make about a project that’s entire point is to just listen to four women tell their own stories in their own environments. In conversation, the subjects redefine sex work as “survival work”, making it clear that even in the best circumstances their lives are in the hands of their (often closeted, often married) clients. There’s a morbid humor to their interviews even without the Looney Tunes sound cues; the movie opens with a near-death experience involving a john with a handgun that’s recited as if it were a cocktail party anecdote instead of a traumatic memory. Smith is determined to communicate that the women’s lives are not joyless, which comes through clearly enough in its fish-eye lens music video skits and stylistic callbacks to classic She’s Gotta Have It-era NYC indie filmmaking. There’s just something about those anecdotes’ sequencing that feels over-fussed in the edit. It’s jazzy in a 30 Rock kind of way instead of jazzy in a Tribe Called Quest kind of way, which distracts from the individual stories being recorded. The four women interviewed—Daniella Carter, Koko Da Doll, Liyah Mitchell, Dominique Silver—get much-deserved “Starring …” title cards in the opening credits, which is a testament to how much the movie hangs off their every word. It’s very much worth rolling your eyes at a couple corny needle drops and morning-radio shock jock sound effects to hear what they have to say, especially since they all look so incredible saying it.
I’m being a little overly critical here, especially for a movie made with so few resources. Kokomo City is clearly a cut above the kinds of poverty-line trans life documentaries I’m used to seeing at film festivals – titles like Pier Kids,Kiki, and Check It!. It’s only frustrating because a few small tweaks in the editing style could’ve elevated it to something much more substantial, landing it among all-time queer classics like Paris is Burning, The Queen, and Dressed in Blue. I’m likely being shortsighted on this point; time will likely be kind to Kokomo City both as an aesthetic object and as a cultural time capsule. Its Instagram-inspired art direction, rap skit comedic antics, and gaudy onscreen text might cheapen its more immediately satisfying choices to my old-man eyes & ears right now, but in time might make it indispensable as a document of a specific moment in outsider queer culture. Maybe this was what watching the video-art experimentation of Marlon Riggs’s Tongues Untied felt like thirty years ago. It certainly carries the same sense of communal grief, political fury, and defiant humor. I might just need a little time & distance to fully appreciate how those impulses are warped by the tools of modern digital filmmaking.
It would be impossible to discuss the British whodunnit Medusa Deluxe without comparing it against the recent Irish crime comedy Deadly Cuts. That is, if you’re one of the few people who’ve happened to see both pictures, which feels statistically improbable for anyone living outside the UK. Still, I’m not sure how many dark comedies there are about murders behind the scenes at hairstyling competitions; I’ve personally seen exactly two, and they were released just a year apart in the US. Sticking to the phoropter binary device I’ve set up for myself here, I’ll say that Medusa Deluxe is a lot more stylish than Deadly Cuts, spending most of its 100 minutes on a single, seemingly unbroken shot that investigates an off-screen murder in real time. On the other hand, it’s also a lot less funny than Deadly Cuts, so as a head-to-head contest it’s kind of a wash (and rise). To continue my mixed metaphor, it’s like the fine-tuning portion of an optometrist visit where you’re no longer sure which image is sharper, and you’re mostly just impatient to get the trivial comparisons over with.
Medusa Deluxe sets up unfair expectations of greatness by opening with its best scene, in which actor Clare Perkins runs circles around her costars talking shit about a rival hairdresser who’s just been killed & scalped hours before their regional competition. Perkins continues to steal every scene she’s in as a rawly genuine, scrappy artist who’s ready to throw punches at anyone who challenges or disrespects her work. It’s almost a shame that the movie isn’t a Rye Lane style walk-and-talk about her character’s daily routine running a salon instead of a real-time investigation of her rival’s murder, since no one else ever lives up to her performance. As someone who doesn’t know their “poofs” from their “fontages”, I can’t report exactly what’s going on with her colleagues’ outrageous hairstyles as they wait around backstage to be interviewed by the cops, but I do know they’re beautiful works of art. I also admire the way that the hairdressers’ usual salon gossip adapts so well to speculation of who amongst them might be The Killer, just as a lot of recent real-world salon gossip has devolved to speculation over true-crime tabloid stories of abductions & murders. Only Perkins stands out as a memorable player in the stage-play drama of their predicament, though; everyone else is just chattering in gorgeous weaves, wigs, and hair sculptures.
First-time director Thomas Hardiman is showy here in the way first-time directors often are, following his small cast of characters around a labyrinth of tiny dressing rooms with the same handheld virtuosity that Friedkin used to shoot his early stage play adaptations. If it were released in the 90s, it would likely be lumped in with the wave of Tarantino knockoffs that flooded video stores, detailing the stylists’ lives outside of competition instead of focusing on the crime that holds them captive, the same way that Reservoir Dogs is about the events around a botched bank heist instead of the heist itself. Only, the competitive hairstyling world it depicts is more of a recent Instagram-era phenomenon, so it couldn’t have been made at all back then, leaving the much sillier Deadly Cuts as its only useful comparison point. Both films are smart for choosing this specific subcultural setting, because of the opportunity for eye candy & sight gags (at one point, Perkins is “maced” with Tresemmé by a competitor) and because it’s the kind of insular community that fosters years of long-simmering resentments, which can turn violent. Both also choose to conclude on a Bollywood-inspired dance video, which only intensifies the urge to compare them. Medusa Deluxe is the more ambitious film of the two, but that also means it’s the one that asks you to take it more seriously, which both dulls its humor and opens it to more critical scrutiny. Deadly Cuts gets away being with being the low-key charmer that’s good to have around for a laugh, like a pair of novelty sunglasses you don’t actually need vs. the regular prescription glasses you wear every day.
Welcome to Episode #202 of The Swampflix Podcast. For this episode, Brandon is joined by Pete Moran of the We Love to Watch podcast to discuss Christmas horror films about miniature killers, starting with the Yuletide Nazisploitation novelty Elves (1989).
Full disclosure: I’ve been struggling with what to write about The Boy and the Heron for over a week now. It’s obviously a beautiful movie, made with loving care, attention to detail, and bizarre imagination that one has come to expect from Hayao Miyazaki, and has all of his hallmarks of adorable and anti-adorable creatures, but also has a narrative that feels more incomplete than normal. I should also disclose that, although I am a forever proponent of watching these films with subtitles rather than with dubbing, my viewing experience was of the dubbed version of the film, and I’m not certain if there are differences between the two versions that could explain some of what I’m missing.
Mahito Maki is a twelve-year-old boy who awakens one night to learn that there is a fire raging through Tokyo, and that the hospital where his mother is located is in the center of the conflagration. He runs toward the fire’s destruction, but his mother is lost. Some time later, his father, a manufacturer of air munitions, evacuates his family to his wife’s ancestral estate, currently occupied by his late wife’s sister, whom he has married in the interim since the opening scene. Mahito has trouble bonding with Natsuko, whom everyone remarks upon as being nearly identical to his late mother, and he further isolates himself by intentionally gouging a nasty wound in his head that is then presumed to have been the result of violence from bullies, and he is allowed to remain at the estate rather than having to go to school. Exploring the area, he finds a run-down structure and enters it through a doorway that is not completely sealed; later, he learns from one of his stepmother’s seven attendants, Kiriko, that this was the library of his great-granduncle, who was obsessed with magic and who disappeared in his youth, prompting the tower to be sealed. Mahito also finds himself the subject of the attention of a large grey heron, which speaks to him in a language he understands and tempts the boy to follow him into the tower. Fashioning himself a bow and an accompanying arrow (fletched with a recovered feather from the heron), Mahito enters the tower with Kiriko when searching for Natsuko, who has disappeared; deep within a hall, they encounter the heron again, who tempts Mahito with an image of this mother. Mahito manages to injure the heron in its beak because of the transitive magical properties of the heron’s feather, turning him into a grotesque bird man, who is ordered by a wizard to assist Mahito in his journey, and the heron, Kiriko, and Mahito find themselves transported to another world.
This isn’t a new story, not really. Children going to fantasy worlds is one of the oldest tropes of children’s literature, whether that world be Narnia or Oz or Neverland or Wonderland or Fantasia or the Labyrinth (etc.), and, from what I can tell, the novel from which The Boy and the Heron takes most of its narrative inspiration, 2006’s The Book of Lost Things, is also one of these narratives. In that novel, the main character’s stepmother has already given birth to his half-sibling (rather than being pregnant still, as in the film), and so there are even more parallels to fantasy media of this kind; I haven’t read the book, but a review of several summaries implies that the presence of a new baby is part of the incitement of the protagonist’s journey, as in Labyrinth. The tropes here are from all over. Just like the Pevensies in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Mahito has been evacuated from a city center during WWII (although we’re not supposed to think too hard about the fact that Majito’s father is making military equipment for the Axis); the recent death of the boy’s mother is even more strongly felt here than in The NeverEnding Story; and this film manages to ride the line that divides the Oz books from their most famous adaptation with The Wizard of Oz, as Mahito’s journey is clearly real, as Dorothy (et al)’s travels into Oz were in L. Frank Baum’s novels, but said world contains images that are derived from things that he has seen in the real world, as in the 1939 picture.
What is new here also seems to have come largely from Miyazaki. There’s nothing in any of the summaries of The Book of Lost Things that indicate recurring bird images and motifs as part of that novel’s narrative (the book seems to largely feature canines and lycanthropes), but we all know that this man loves flight; it’s all over his work. Here, this is seen in the “real” world via Mahito’s father’s work as an air munitions manufacturer but which translates into several different species of birds in the “fantasy” world, all of whom have different natures that present to Mahito as things which at first seem cruel or wicked to him but which ultimately prove that the apparent violence of nature exists not because of malice in the world, but simply because existence does not conform to us as individuals. There is the heron first, whose motivations are unclear and who exists more as a trickster, whose behavior is inscrutable. Second are the pelicans, who first attack Mahito and are later seen descending upon and devouring this film’s cutesy sprite creatures, the Warawara. Although they seem to be malicious in this attack at first, a dying gull tells Mahito that their people are starving as a result of having been brought to this place, where they have no other natural food source. Finally, we meet the parakeets, who are largely anthropomorphic and willing to eat human flesh. The last of these do have some malicious intent, just as Mahito’s emotional climax of the film requires that he recognize that he has malice within himself as well, which saves him from the same fate as his great-granduncle. It’s this same realization that he has come to an age where he has to force himself to grow and mature as a person by recognizing that he can feel negative emotions and not act upon them that leads him to finally accept Natsuko and go home. After he has a fun adventure with the time-traveling child version of his mother, of course.
I’m not sure that this one is destined to become an indisputable classic like some of Miyazaki’s other work, but that’s what we always say about late additions to the canon of an auteur with a career that has already proven that it will have a lasting legacy. It’s clearly a deeply personal film, and when making something that is created with an intentionally idiosyncratic worldview (rather than aiming for something more like universal appeal), there’s always the danger of making it insular and inscrutable. I certainly expect this one to have a smaller audience of devotees than something like Princess Mononoke or even Howl’s Moving Castle (which was greeted with a similarly lukewarm/confused audience reception as The Boy and the Heron upon initial release, to my recollection), but if there’s one thing that I’ve learned over the years, it’s that there’s no Miyazaki film that isn’t someone’s favorite, and that will apply here, too. It could even happen to you.
Unsurprisingly, a lot of this year’s major Awards Frontrunners are solemn biopics of men who committed some of the worst sins in human history: the invention of the atom bomb, the daily operation of concentration camps, the genocide of an Indigenous nation. As much as The Academy has attempted to reconfigure what qualifies as an Oscar-Worthy movie, it’s clear that the Oscar-friendly template of Important Men directing history lessons about Important Men is still an effective one; all that’s really changed is that those portraits of Important Men have become more critical than celebratory. Further down the power rankings of this FYC season’s major players, there’s also a curious pair of historical biopics about Important Men who operated in a much smaller arena than the frontrunners’ global politics stomping grounds: the regional pro wrestling circuit of 1980s Texas. The men depicted in these pro wrasslin’ biopics are of much smaller historical importance than a J. Robert Oppenheimer or a Rudolf Höss; the tearjerking melodrama of their lives is less about the moral sins of their own actions than it is about how cruelly unfair the world was to them, and whether they survived the trauma. However, in a big picture sense, they echo the same criticism of the rigid machismo and the hypocrisy in Family Values conservatism that drove the Important Men of Oppenheimer, Killers of the Flowers Moon, and The Zone of Interest to commit humanity’s greatest. They just work through that cultural tragedy within the walls of their small family homes and within the rubber-padded ropes of the wrestling ring. It’s more contained.
If this season’s pro wrestling dramas are being contextualized as awards-hopefuls, they’re most overtly engineering FYC attention for their male stars. In that way, pro wrestling is the perfect cinematic subject, since it offers such a familiar, convenient storytelling template to help get male performers over with the crowd. Even when a wrasslin’ pictures’s in-movie drama feels minor in comparison to more historically important works, their in-ring drama carries the audience through, highlighting an actors’ talents with the emotional histrionics of a soap opera or a Greek tragedy. Nobody benefits from that dramatic bolstering this year more than Gabriel García Bernal, who stars as the titular lead in the lucha libre history lesson Cassandro. This by-the-numbers biopic isn’t half as stylistically daring as the Cassandro, el Exótico! documentary on the same subject, nor as fabulously glamorous as the luchador himself, but it’s an inherently cinematic story and García Bernal shines in the central role. The real-life Cassandro is credited for changing the artform of lucha libre by subverting the homophobic trope of the “exótico.” When he entered the business wrestling on both sides of the Texas-Mexico border, exóticos were a purely homophobic stereotype: heels who would earn cheap heat by flirting with their more traditionally macho opponents, then get immediately crushed in the ring to the crowd’s enthusiastic cheers. It was gaybashing as ceremonial pageantry. Cassandro flipped the script by genuinely getting over with the crowd through the artistry of his wrestling, to the point where promoters saw potential profits in letting an exótico win for a change; or, that’s at least how the story goes, according to kayfabe. The beyond-the-mat drama of his struggles with a loving but homophobic mother and with sex-partner colleagues who are willing to fuck him in private but renounce him in public can feel a little phony & cliche to anyone who’s seen their share of queer indie dramas in the past few decades. The nonstop montage of Cassandro’s career in the ring is still emotionally compelling in a succinct, celebratory, wrasslin’-specific way that makes up for those broad cliches, though, and by the time the credits roll it’s hard to tell whether you’re rooting for Cassandro or rooting for García Bernal – an FYC publicist’s dream.
The Von Erich family drama The Iron Claw spreads the FYC wealth to many more potential nominees than Cassandro‘s fixed spotlight on Gabriel García Bernal. The improbable true story of the supposedly “cursed” family of professional wrestlers has plenty of star-making tragedy to spread around its four central brothers: Zac Efron as Kevin Von Erich, Jeremy Allen White as Kerry Von Erich, Harris Dickinson as David Von Erich, and Stanley Simons as David Von Erich. Efron is the most obvious awards play of the group, transforming himself into a human He-Man action figure for the role in a grotesque way that awards bodies love to celebrate. Each of the Von Erich brothers get their moment to bring the audience to tears, though, as they’re each pushed to the brink of what their hearts and bodies can handle by their toxically macho father Fritz Von Erich, played with monstrous villainy by Holt McCallany. The first half of the movie recalls the laidback nostalgic cool of Dazed and Confused as the four central brothers lean on each other for warmth & validation in the happiest times of their lives, working together as up & coming wrestlers who have yet to be fully poisoned by their father’s insistence they compete amongst themselves for his scraps of praise. The second half disrupts that momentary bliss with the heightened violence of a Greek tragedy, with each brother meeting improbably horrific ends in a rapid, relentless procession. The Iron Claw‘s reliance on the in-ring drama of pro wrestling is heaviest in the early stretch, as the Von Erichs’ prominence in pre-WWF regional wrasslin’ circuits is mapped out in montage & dramatic recreations of select, pivotal matches. The back half is a much more straightforward drama that could have befallen any sports-family household, since cataloging the parade of traumas that crushed the Von Erichs leaves very little time to show them actually doing the work. Besides, the movie isn’t really about their wrestling careers anyway; it’s more about the love they shared as brothers, and how important that bond was in a home run by a man incapable of expressing affection. If it were any less successful as a sincere family drama, the men’s frequent repetition of the word “Brother” would play as a joke, the same way audiences now laugh every time Vin Diesel says “Family” in the Fast & Furious movies.
If this were a one-on-one, three-count fight, it would be a squash match. Cassandro is dramatically and stylistically outperformed by The Iron Claw by practically every metric – except, maybe, in the vintage-glam detail of Cassandro’s gemstoned ring gear. Neither film is an exceptional work of great artistic importance, though; they’re both just FYC acting showcases for their above-the-line talents, who utilize pro-wrestling’s played-to-the-cheap-seats pageantry to add some emotional heft to otherwise traditional sports dramas. If they have any standing in discussion with the Oscar-hopefuls who’ve risen to the top of the Vegas-odds rankings over the course of this FYC season, it’s in their shared skepticism over the effects of stoic masculinity and conservative Family Values in recent generational history. Cassandro finds a way to offer a triumphant rejection of those traditional values, while The Iron Claw drags our battered hearts through their most miserable consequences. In either case, their performers are never more powerful nor more beautiful than they are on the wrestling mat, and both films are excellent examples of acting as full-body physical artistry. If I have to watch straightforward, mediocre melodramas to keep up with the buzziest titles in the Oscars Cycle every year, I’d be more than happy if they’d continually return to the wrestling ring for easy crowd work and promotion. It gives us something easy to root for, which is honestly something I’d rather put myself through than yet another war atrocity drama about the worst things that have ever happened in the history of the human species.
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