Movies about parenting are a dime a dozen. Good movies about parenting…less so. The bulk of that disconnect is likely driven by market forces: like pet ownership, faith, or military service (talking coming-home stories, not war flicks, here), there’s a built-in audience just begging to be catered to. It isn’t that nuance can’t exist — plenty of wonderful films tackle said subjects, at least peripherally — it’s just that it’s rarely profitable. People want to see themselves reflected on the big screen, and it’s far more safe to reflect something overtly flattering. Think broad zany comedies about the chaos of child rearing, capped with some what-a-blessing-this-is melodramatic finale. Think Josh Duhamel drowning in a ball pit full of diapers; think Katherine Heigl in, well, pretty much anything.

What surprises me about Tully (4.5/5), written by Diablo Cody and directed by Jason Reitman, isn’t that it avoids those cliches. Their past collaborations (Juno, Young Adult) set clear expectations on that front (to say nothing of Reitman’s recent, more standoffish work). It isn’t that they’re willing to alienate an audience with an unflattering reflection. It’s that, even while showing such a complex / difficult portrait, they manage to be truly generous to that same demographic. This is a gentle film; a tender, welcoming one. And it is, by my estimation, the most mature work (which isn’t to say the “best”) of all key players to date — not just of Cody and Reitman, but of the actress who carries it. Charlize Theron is, typically, outstanding here, and that has almost nothing to do with “bravery” or “physical transformations.” It’s her pitch-perfect ability to, somehow, emote cynicism and vulnerability in the same breath. While the trailer comes off as “Young Adult 2: Mo Baby Mo Problems”, her portrayal couldn’t be more different. She’s witty, as usual, and tends to be a megaphone for Diablo Cody’s barbs, but they’re never delivered with a wink to an audience. She’s hurting, frequently, but it’s a wound she opens for our inspection. She’s the embodiment of exactly the tightrope walk the script is pulling off: between cleverness and sincerity, between jadedness and feeling.

Marlo has two school-aged children and a newborn in tow. She’s overworked, stressed, and constantly tired. She’s primarily tired of working alone. Her husband, Drew (Ron Livingston), isn’t a bad guy per se. He wants to help in the same sense that your puppy wants to help you through your impending divorce — earnest in feeling, but lacking the emotional IQ. Enter Tully, the 20something night nurse her brother hired as a present. “Night nurse” means, from the hours of ~10pm till ~7am, she takes care of everything: watching the baby, cleaning the house, waking Marlo up to feed in the comfort of her bed. She’s quirky, self-assured, and almost infuriatingly perfect. She’s also a godsend. I won’t give away the third act (and don’t suggest you try and predict it), so I can’t say much more about the plot. All I’ll say is watching Marlo’s transformation, even after just a few hours of comfort and rest, was so heartwarming — so powerful — that the film could have ended virtually anywhere and left me satisfied. It’s one of those movies that manages to be just about everything: laugh-out-loud funny, quietly moving, audacious in bursts, reserved in others. It’s a kind, human portrait, and I honestly can’t imagine a single person being disappointed in it. You should see this when it hits theatres in a few weeks, and read as little about it before as humanly possible.

Listening to our spoiler-free review doesn’t count, though! Chris and I talk Up In The Air, emotional arcs, and dropping iPhones on babies’ faces in our first of many Tribeca Film Festival episodes.

Thirteen is a year of disproportion. Too old to be oblivious but too young to be savvy, nothing quite fits the way it looked in the store; it’s that age when you know what confident sounds like /just enough/ to be aware that your cheap impression isn’t fooling anyone. I remember it all too well: the endless self-doubt, the terror of speaking out of turn, the idolization of “older kids” and the certainty that I’d never be counted among their ranks. Everything felt so fragile, so on the verge of toppling — a misplaced nod, a laugh too hearty, or a splashy cannonball when all the cool kids were doing pencil dives might bring the whole facade of “normal” crumbling down. Every conversation was a competitive sport; parties were marathons, wars of attrition. And I remember this distinct, bizarre impression: that if I let my guard down just once, I risked missing out on The Big Thing. If I logged off AIM to spend an hour with the family, if I said “no” to the most banal mall invitation, the world might pick up and relocate without me. My two simultaneous crushes might find new shoulders to cry on, or a (Lord, may it never be!) inside joke might develop of which I’d be forever outside. All that energy just to tread water.

I didn’t realize how much I remembered, till Eighth Grade (5/5) came and dug it up. A sort of archeological excavation into memories of preteen anxiety, Bo Burnham’s debut is so uncannily accurate it borders on documentary. It’s also, easily, my favorite film of the year (so far). Documenting a few weeks in the life of a lonely eighth grade girl, Burnham’s is a humanistic portrait of life at a crossroads. Like Ladybird without the audibly-penned cleverness, or Edge of Seventeen without an edgy bone in its body, or Boyhood without a whiff of Linklater’s self-indulgence. It’s so effortlessly truthful, so keenly observed, so heartfelt and vulnerable and perfectly concise, it almost makes me angry — what right does a standup comic and former Vine star have to make a film this good on his very first try? It feels inherently unfair. Like accidentally stumbling into a goldmine.

But gold is gold, all “fairness” aside, and Eighth Grade has it by the wheelbarrow. Kayla (played by a truly wonderful Elsie Fisher) is the rare protagonist that is both authentically specific and universally relatable. Specifically, she’s a bighearted kid preparing for high school, who doesn’t have quite as many friends as she’d like. What she does have is a supportive single dad who constantly embarrasses her, a self-help Youtube channel nobody watches (try a podcast, Kayla, it hurts less), and a good-humored personality that nods along before it even gets the joke — that brand of infectious okay-ness which might not play in high school but will absolutely kill in college. She’s exactly the sort of person who would gift a card game at a rich girl’s pool party when everyone else is giving outfits. She is also, somehow, all of us. She’s a kind person, honest and optimistic to the core. She craves the acceptance she sees on social media, and is constantly straining to make her calculated “normalcy” look unforced. She can visualize the person she wants to be — sees her every time she practices a “hey everybody” in the mirror — but she somehow always falls a little bit short. She hasn’t yet learned that we all do, always, or that falling short can be the most beautiful thing. In the words of her dad, she has no idea how great she is.

I loved this movie, and I felt for Kayla with every bone in my body. I cried at her defeats, so tiny with perspective but so enormous in the thick of it. I cried at her victories, too, often harder than the defeats — I felt how badly she needed them, how much they mattered. I cried at the (mercifully frequent) moments of everyday joy, the gentle acts of connection that lit her up inside: singing karaoke, a smile from a boy, a phone call so exciting it sends her pacing nervous laps around the room like a tweaked out Roomba. This is a movie that wears its pathos on its sleeve, and it encourages me to do the same. I want to tell Kayla the same thing I’d tell the kid in 2002 with the bowl cut and braces and slight lisp who’s petrified of ordering a “slice of pizza” or even saying his own name for fear of losing what nobody actually had: relax. You’re going to be fine. You’ll grow into yourself and the world will make room.

I rarely use this word, but here it goes. For what it set out to do, Eighth Grade is about as close to perfect as a movie can get. I’ll be batting hard for it during awards season. Chris and I gush over the movie, and dish on our own awkward childhood experiences, in a special, spoiler-free, SF Film Festival edition of the podcast:

[Post-2019-Cannes note: I recently went to Cannes on a Cinephile badge, and managed to catch all 21 films in Official Competition! You can read about my experience here.]

[04/08/19 note: Many people have been reaching out asking me whether or not they should have heard back about this year’s 3 Days pass. As of this morning, it seems some official confirmations have begun rolling out; so keep your eye on that inbox! If you were lucky enough to be accepted, hop on over here for specific advice on surviving Cannes.]

[02/19/19 note: I’ve added an updated post for the 2019 edition of the festival]

I’ve been writing / talking about movies for a long time, but — barring the stray preview at Drafthouse — I’ve never really done anything to join the early conversation. Earlier this year, I decided to change that. This week I’m at the SF Film Festival, and for the next two I’ll be working from NYC to take part in Tribeca. But both of these are spread across multiple cinemas with general admissions, more a mass of pre-screenings in a metropolitan area than a “festival” festival. The holy grail, the one that money and plane tickets alone can’t buy — and the one someone very close to me urged me to push for this year — is Cannes. One “Official Competition” track, invitation only, a crowd of film lovers on the French Riviera.

Here’s the problem: unlike Sundance or Tribeca or Toronto, money can’t buy you Cannes. It’s only open for members of the industry, members of the press, and “cinephiles” — a designation that appears to require either film school or membership in an accredited film club. Press credentials seemed like my best bet, and (given a podcast, journalist friends, and a fancy position in a Silicon Valley tech company) possible to argue for…someday. It’d take time, but I’d hopefully get there.

Yesterday I saw a headline about a new route: for the first time, Cannes would be awarding free, limited festival passes to “Young Cinephiles”, aged 18-to-28. As luck would have it, I turn 29 four days after the festival. So I submitted an application, wrote a freeform “letter of motivation” (no more details were given), and hoped for the best. This morning, I awoke to an acceptance letter.

I am beyond excited to experience Cannes for the first time, even if it does entail a ~36 hour race from the French Riviera to French Polynesia (long story: amazing vacation photos forthcoming). And although I have no idea how much stock they actually put in such things with such a quick turnaround time, I thought it’d be fun to post my letter here. See you in France!

To Whom It May Concern,

When you designed the “Three Days In Cannes” opportunity, I am likely not the candidate you envisioned. I have never been to film school, and do not work in the arts or humanities. I’m a software engineer, a former Artificial Intelligence PhD at Stanford University, and the co-founder of a mid-sized technology startup in San Francisco. Exactly four days after Cannes 2018, I will turn 29 and become permanently ineligible for your program.

And yet, early this year I made a single resolution — one that had nothing to do with the success of my company, my personal finances, or technical performance. It was to somehow, despite having no press credentials or viable reason to be admitted, attend the Cannes film festival. This is not an exaggeration or rhetorical device; it is my dream.

For the entirety of my adult life, film has been my lifeline. It has calmed me in times of stress and comforted me in times of sadness; it has brought cathartic tears, laughter, meditation, release. Film widens me: it’s a shortcut to empathy, a vessel for communicating lived-in experiences to those who might never, themselves, have lived them. I am an American male, but for two hours Persepolis gives me a window into the life of an Iranian girl, yearning; Una mujer fantástica a Chilean trans woman, fighting; The Florida Project a child living in a run-down hotel, overflowing with hope. I love film because it is somehow both universal and unyieldingly specific — it bridges high and low, abstract and concrete. When Jesse and Celine meet on that train to Vienna, I feel the universal yearning of youth, the thrill of a lifetime of wistful hypotheticals collapsing into one specific, blonde and insisting. But I also remember being 24 and riding, alone, on that same train to Vienna. I remember the way the trees blurred in the periphery as the impossibly-ornate city tumbled into view; the creak of the dining cart, the whispered conversations in languages I couldn’t parse; and I remember how, in that moment, I could have fallen in love with anyone who looked me in the eye. So with Lost In Translation and Tokyo and longing, Mustang and Istanbul and escape, etc. Film not only recalls memories, it heightens and sanctifies them. Ordinary places become hallowed, conversations sacred, precious things. It makes my own specifics feel like universal truths; like a part of a conversation the world is having with itself.

And so, I’ve chased film with every ounce of my (diminishing) spare time. For about ten years, I’ve co-hosted a weekly film review podcast called The Spoiler Warning: a friend and I watch one or more new releases in a given weekend, and spend roughly an hour unpacking them. We are nearing 500 episodes, which means I’ve recorded nearly a month of unbroken audio discussing film. I’ve also dabbled in film criticism, writing weekly reviews and posting hundreds to my personal website. Some of my favorite, recent write-ups include:

• Call Me By Your Name
• The Shape Of Water
• Personal Shopper
• Manchester By The Sea
• Anomalisa

Balancing a 60-80 hour work week with creative pursuits isn’t easy; but I believe art, like exercise or sleep, is a vital part of a life well-lived. It informs every aspect of my identity. It rejuvenates me. And I can think of nothing more rejuvenating than attending Cannes, at the epicentre of it all, surrounded by those who make cinema and those who adore it as much as I do.

I would be honored to be given this opportunity.

Sincerely, Stephen Miller

Some people can read War and Peace and come away thinking it’s a simple adventure story. Others can read the ingredients on a chewing gum wrapper and unlock the secrets of the universe. Still others can watch a virtually plot- and character-arc- free romp through childhood awe and pop culture nostalgia, and walk away filled with some emotional truth.

In spite of my snobbier instincts — and aided, I’m sure, by a lack of familiarity with the source material — Ready Player One (3.5/5) can slot my name in on that third leaderboard. I thought it was fun, soulful, and exactly as satisfying as its premise demands. Sure, I could harp on all reasons this shouldn’t work (for nit-picks about story beats, contemporary themes, and other things the movie clearly isn’t concerned with, feel free to consult the episode). Parzival’s is a journey with all the depth of an 80’s side-scroller — fast-paced and simple, prone less to grand strategy than urgent button-mashing, propelled toward an inevitable conclusion by mechanics that don’t matter. What does matter is exactly what Spielberg thrives at: dazzling, full-hearted spectacle. Ready Player One is about the feeling of being barreled over by much-ness; of being wide-eyed and alive. Much-ness means an impossibly detailed, towering production design — in the periphery of any given frame you’re likely to spot a dozen Easter eggs, each a painstakingly realized relic of how-did-they-get-the-rights-to-that film/game history. The Oasis instilled the same thrill in me as Judy Hopp’s winding train to Zootopia: a promise of infinite possibility that hums in the background even as the foreground narrows in scope. Wide-eyed means thinly-sketched characters shouting for universal concepts like “freedom” and “adventure”; it means falling in love over a 2-minute dance sequence and giving it more weight than an exploding city block. Wide-eyed also means optimism and naiveté and glossing over all relevant details; it means feeling what it felt to be a teenager, when everything threatened to engulf you. Our protagonists may have set out to save the world, but the heart of their story is about growing up and finding balance. Watts wades into self-determination, learning freedom without ever letting it intoxicate him. Art3mis, having already established her voice, learns to ease herself back into Samantha. And Spielberg learns that putting away childish things doesn’t have to mean keeping them totally out of reach; that giddy escapism and nostalgic fluff have a place on the “adult” shelf alongside dead presidents and newspaper execs.

I can’t perfectly defend it on rational grounds. But this week, “fluff” was filling enough — I was glad to watch a movie whose director was clearly having as much fun as his characters. Chris and I talk Inception, Willy Wonka, and the mechanics of zeroing out in this week’s episode.

Tomb Raider (3.5/5) is more or less everything a Tomb Raider flick is supposed to be: a handful of silly, overextended Indiana Jones-cribbing set pieces interspersed with exposition nobody asked for and a lead lightyears better than the material demands. It’s campy, prequel fluff — but, given Alicia Vikander’s charisma, it’s extremely watchable fluff. I honestly had a blast with this one: it’s playfully self-aware, and does a fantastic job of giving agency (and fallibility) to a Lara Croft a lesser film would simply oogle. Like Shailene Woodley in the Divergent Series, Vikander emotes her heroism not by being preternaturally badass, but by being believably human: every feat of video game athleticism (whether leaping over a waterfalls or kicking baddies in the face) is accompanied by tennis-style grunts and sharp, wheezing gasps. We feel the weight of each hit; and while no movie can quite convey the interactivity of a video game, that vicarious exhaustion comes pretty damn close. Her tireless commitment is the sole reason to see this movie and, thankfully, there’s more than enough.

Chris and I talk Tikka Masala, meeting Tonya Harding, and Jehova starting with an I in this week’s quick, boozy Episode of The Spoiler Warning Podcast:

Love, Simon (4/5) isn’t exactly subtle, but neither is being seventeen. A YA dramedy about coming out of the closet, it’s charming, big-hearted, and predictable in the warmest way possible — I love it to pieces, even as I recognize its myriad tropes (hip soundtrack cues, precocious younger siblings, “teenagers” that quip like Liberal Arts grad students with a campus as eclectic and sprawling). Greg Berlanti’s movie has its sights on a specific target audience (teenagers, parents of teenagers) and it speaks to them with infectious, empathetic verve. While the trailers made me fear something tone-deaf and message-heavy (read: a big, broad “It’s Okay To Be Gay” PSA about ten years behind the cultural Zeitgeist), what I got was sharply pointed and nothing like Glee. Set in a world where most (not all) students are generally savvy / progressive / accepting, Simon’s journey is less about coming out in the abstract, and more about the particular shape a coming-out might take. It’s a ferris wheel of awkwardness, hurt, exhaustion, relief, soaring melodrama and understated support. One such conversation with his father (Josh Duhamel) flared up my allergies more than I’d care to admit. And yet, for all its specificity, Simon evokes feelings I recognized in my own adolescence — albeit forced, with no outlet, to some higher concentration. The clunky misshapenness, the asymmetry between towering prologue and underwhelming conclusion; the unyielding desire to be fully, finally seen. The way a hint of reciprocity might sanctify a stranger into The One; the way everything is somehow both lame and not lame, is laced with irony and impossibly, earth-shatteringly important. In Magnolia, William H Macy’s character bemoans “I have so much love to give, I just don’t know where to put it.” Simon projects his so-much love onto a thousand hypothetical canvases, and they reshuffle as fluidly as highschool emotion. When all those hypotheticals finally converge in one grand, Hollywood setpiece, should we care if it’s a hokey or overdone? Does it matter if the romance lasts an hour after the credits roll? That cosmic unclenching, the freedom to project all of your selves onto one, tangible specific — the profound release of growing up is the bit that lasts. And it’s communicated beautifully.

Chris and I talk Tumblr, crushes, and Josh Gads all the way down in Episode 494:

Thoroughbreds (4.5/5) might just be the best thing I’ve seen in 2018, and I don’t have a clue what it means. Amanda and Lily are teenage friends isolated in ritzy Connecticut suburbia. Lily (Anya Taylor-Joy, somehow creepier here than in The Witch) lives in a mansion with a distant mother and a juice-cleansing, bike-short-wearing, emotionally abusive stepfather — whom she, obviously, hates. Amanda (Olivia Cooke, cranking her Me And Earl And The Dying Girl deadpan to an incredible 11) doesn’t hate or love anyone; in fact, she doesn’t feel anything at all. She simply does, with calculated proficience, whatever the situation demands; whether accenting a funeral with a few forced tears, or euthanizing a wounded horse with a knife. “The only thing worse than being incompetent, or being unkind, or being evil, is being indecisive.” Confronted with Lily’s familial situation, the choice is decisively clear: they need to murder the stepfather. Did I mention it’s funny? A pitch black, brutal satire of something — suburban living a la American Beauty? teenaged angst a la Heathers? the untapped selfish cruelty of wealthy white America waiting to be unleashed by a socially-uninhibited provocateur a la Literally Every Political Headline Of The Last Two Years? — Thoroughbreds is a movie in total tonal control, impeccably cast (RIP Anton Yelchin) and wonderfully directed. This is Cory Finley’s first feature, but it’s constructed with the brashness of a seasoned auteur. Barring prologue and epilogue, the saga is bookended by two long shots in the same house, tracking the movements of a single character. The first is Birdman levels of maximalist, using darting camerawork and a jarring, percussive score to manufacture dread from scratch. The last is minimal and absolutely chilling, prolonging actual dread by almost entirely muting it; we see nothing, and hear a much…quieter…percussion, but we feel every beat in our bones. The techniques couldn’t be more different, and yet — like Amanda and Lily — they combine into something cunning and dangerous. What an excellent, bizarre debut.

Chris and I talk Anton Yelchin and rowing machines in Episode 493:

It’s tempting to compare Red Sparrow (3/5) to the better things it recalls: the chilly-slick protagonist of Bond, the pulp sensuality of Verhoeven, the trying-too-hard Soviet intrigue of Bridge of Spies, the guy-who-looks-like-Putin-ness of whatever else Matthias Schoenaerts was in, the quantum superposition of Slavic accents of Kate Winslet in Danny Boyle’s Jobs. But the one I can’t shake is The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. Like Dragon, Sparrow is a competently-constructed, gloomy, blood-spattered mood piece; a largely forgettable script elevated by a talented cast and risk-taking director, packed with riveting scenes that feel substantive even as they build to nowhere. Francis Lawrence is absolutely no David Fincher, and Jennifer Lawrence is (come at me, haters) no Rooney Mara, but grading on the Mockingjay curve they now feel awfully close — it’s the most captivating either have been in some time. It’s also, unfortunately, the most exploitative; this is yet another grisly film about the mingling of violence and sexuality, directed by men, based on books by men, enacted by unsmiling women in leering focus. And while that may well be an intentional choice, even a genre unto itself (see my own “pulp sensuality” descriptor), there’s some unshakable grossness to the dynamic. One that stuck with me longer than any double-crossing twist. This isn’t a bad movie by any means: Red Sparrow is well-paced, stylish, and a solid showcase of Jennifer Lawrence’s acting chops (if not dialect coach). Its hazy, unnerving tone is perfect for espionage thrillers. Its unnerving subtext, less so.

Chris and I talk Oscars, shape-shifting accents, and deviations from the book in Episode 492:

Sometimes, sci fi is about telling a story. Sometimes it’s about deepening a character. Sometimes it’s about scaling a broad philosophy down to human specificity; others magnifying tiny emotions into earth-shattering cataclysms. But sometimes it’s not directly about anything, so much as artfully adjacent; more symphony than narrative. Tarkovsky comes to mind. So does Shane Carruth. There’s a craft to their construction and ideas at their core — whispers of philosophy, recurring symbols — but they refuse to be obviously didactic. Nail them to a concrete something (a parable, a mystery, a metaphor for X) and they’ll inevitably wriggle free. How do you dissect something so slippery?

Annihilation (4/5) is no Stalker, but it shares that infuriating slipperiness; the sort that makes head-on writing feel an awful lot like missing the point. So I’ll keep this one short and cryptic. If Ex Machine was a hushed morality play, Alex Garland’s follow-up is an orchestral scream; signifying who-cares-what with deafening aplomb. It’s visually jaw-dropping, with swirling pastels and jarring swells of nature conjuring a sort of hazy, Fauvist dreamscape. It’s disorienting, and hypnotic, and refuses to give you a foothold. It builds a particular mixture of dread and curiosity that I’m not sure I’ve seen before: Lewis Carroll-esque, you’re always a little bit disturbed and a little bit enchanted. Like Arrival, it’s taking human emotions to literal extremes; but unlike grief, this one is almost impossible to define. Something about the tendency to self destruct; the feeling that things which ought to complement (lovers, goals) might collide and negate. Also, the quantum flipside: that opposing forces (gnawing urges, competing impulses) might arise from a vacuum. No cause, no reason, just entropy in an unplanned world. It’s about not mattering to the universe, and reveling in the smallness.

This isn’t a perfect film. The third act, in particular, makes the classic mistake of staring a bit too directly at a mystery it has no intention of revealing; it felt too well-lit, too obvious. But on a whole, I found this to be an incredible, singular movie-going experience. See it in theatres on the biggest screen you can.

Chris and I argue about Annihilation in separate, lengthy spoiler-free and spoilery sections. We also revisit last week’s Black Panther review, discussing representation and the knee-jerk, white-lens impulse to trivialize / nitpick. Episode 491 is live at:

When it comes to representation, mainstream cinema follows a fairly predictable script: start with abysmal caricature, overcompensate with condescending, surface-level melodrama, and—slowly, rarely—build up to nuance. Perhaps nowhere has this change been more glacier than in the depiction of trans characters. If the blatant transphobia of nineties- and aughts- comedies was like Amos n’ Andy, this decade’s prestige films have been closer to Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner: benevolent depictions so sparkly they feel fetishizing, losing sight of the real experiences of real people. Eddie Redmayne in a dress isn’t just problematic casting (though it is that, too); it’s weak storytelling. A compelling story reveals something new about its characters, and you can’t reveal what you have no authority to know. Bullet-point virtues and timidly telegraphed “bravery” may impart temporary weight, but they’re taken off as easily as Jared Leto’s wig.

If 2015’s Tangerine was a vivid exception to the rule, its guerrilla style and naturalistic ethos hardly squared with mainstream sensibilities. What makes A Fantastic Woman (4.5/5) truly stunning is its ability to be authentic, challenging, and accessible in the same breath.

Chile’s official selection for the Foreign Language Oscar, Una mujer fantástica tells the story of Marina, a 30-ish-year-old trans woman living in Santiago. By day, she waits tables. By night, she sings—or, more accurately, she captivates. Whether steamy bossanova in a flickering club or soaring opera on a concert hall stage, she has the audience wrapped around her finger. Tonight is her birthday and Orlando is among the captives, waiting for the final number to end so they can hail a cab, catch a dinner reservation, and share a romantic evening in their high rise apartment. A recent divorcée some 30 years her senior, Orlando sees in Marina an energy he hadn’t known before. They trade gifts. They make love. They talk with the shimmering ease of long term stability. The night goes off without a hitch…until he dies.

Unexpected tragedy may seem like a melodramatic conceit, but the story it builds to is all too real. This is a film about grief and the sudden loss of normalcy; a zooming out from Marina’s tiny sanctum of love to a world that holds her at cruel arm’s length. In the aftermath of her partner’s death, she is confronted by all manner of prejudice—be it the toxic abuse of Orlando’s monstrous son, the pursed lip moralizing of his wounded ex-wife, the infantilizing mistrust of a local detective, or (perhaps worst of all) the spineless “sympathy” of a conflict-averse brother, who wishes she could come to the funeral (really he does!) but now isn’t the time to “intrude” on “family matters”. If each serves as a fairly obvious social stand-in, our protagonist is nothing if not complex. I generally avoid this word in describing a performance, but Daniela Vega’s turn as Marina is utterly fearless—simultaneously vulnerable and first-pumpingly defiant, she insists upon a reckoning no eggshell-dancing cis actor could approach.

I love this movie for the same reason I loved Casey Plett’s “A Safe Girl To Love”—it has lived-in veracity and the courage of its convictions. Sebastián Lelio’s film doesn’t delicately brush against trans issues; it collides with them at full, romantic force. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a work of art so baldly provocative on the subject, so willing to confront the audience not just with the abstract notion of dysphoria, but with its painful specificity—emotional and physical. The way a cold, clinical gaze can humiliate and diminish; the courage of authenticity against those who would negate it; the quiet relief of truly being seen. Despite heavy themes, though, A Fantastic Woman never tips into dourness. Like Marina, the film is attentive to ugliness and beauty in equal measure, with stylistic flourishes and escapist fantasies sprinkled generously throughout. This balancing act is best captured in its two final scenes: one in a sauna, the other an opera hall. In the first, Daniela/Marina prods at preconceived notions of identity and “passing” in a way that I found absolutely mesmerizing; provoking feelings that I’m still wrestling with as I write. We then cut to her on stage, belting out a glorious aria; staring directly into the camera as if to say “I’m real, I’m surviving, and I don’t give a damn what you wrestle with.”

I’ll be pulling hard for this at the Academy Awards. I hope, regardless, it gets the attention it deserves. Chris and I had a good chat about the film in Episode 488: